Deadly Sin (Angus Brodie and Mikaela Forsythe Murder Mystery #16)

Prologue

I stepped down from the coach, Aunt Antonia’s driver having delivered me back to the office after our latest afternoon adventure viewing a potential residence after the loss of the townhouse to fire some months earlier.

I say adventure, as these forays about London had begun to resemble some of my more interesting adventures during my travels.

There was Covington House some weeks earlier, a monument to the late Lord Arthur Covington, with his penchant for collecting Middle Eastern artifacts from his own travels before his untimely death at the age of ninety-four.

There had been a very interesting sword that had once belonged to Genghis Khan, according to the estate manager. Lily, who shared my appreciation for swords, would have loved it.

However, she was presently in Edinburgh after receiving a rather ominous letter from an old acquaintance of her former life before I brought her to London after a previous inquiry case.

While I had not approved of her taking herself off, Brodie had reminded me that she was of an age where she could make decisions for herself. And she was now in the company of his friend Munro, who had appointed himself guardian.

That was some consolation, as she could be quite impetuous and headstrong, and while she might be of an age at almost twenty years, a young woman on her own...

Brodie had also reminded me that I had also taken myself off on my travel adventures at an early age. The shoe very much now on the other foot.

I had also visited the former residence of Sir William McMannis, a once highly regarded merchant with international trade connections.

There was a bit of a scandal several years before when it was rumored his company encountered some financial difficulties discovered by his associate, who disappeared and was eventually found buried in the gardens of McMannis Manor.

Sir William was arrested when evidence was discovered about his involvement, eventually sent to trial, and was presently serving time in prison.

Brodie had accompanied me on that inspection of McMannis Manor and commented afterward regarding other bodies that might be buried there. I had declined further interest in the residence.

He refused to accompany me further in our search for a residence after pointing out that he could live anywhere. Case in point, the small flat that adjoined the office on the Strand.

There also remained my great aunt’s invitation that we might take up residence with her at Sussex Square. I suspected Brodie would not be in favor of that.

He was fond of Aunt Antonia. They had quite a lot in common. There was a smuggler or two in the family, along with a highwayman who was quite notorious. Brodie had his own past exploits surviving on the streets of Edinburgh before arriving in London with Munro. Still...

I thanked her as her driver, Mr. Hastings, guided the coach onto the street. I was rapidly coming to the conclusion that we might be making the office our permanent residence.

Mr. Cavendish, who had become a trusted associate, wheeled out from the adjacent tobacco shop on his platform, Rupert the hound trotting along behind. The owner of the shop often had a cookie or biscuit for the hound, a reward for guarding the shop at night, as well as the office.

“Afternoon, Miss,” Mr. Cavendish greeted me.

“Mr. Brodie has not returned?” I inquired as I knelt on the sidewalk and scratched the hound’s ears.

Brodie had departed quite early, informing me that he had an appointment after learning that Aunt Antonia had another residence we might want to see today. At the time, I had my suspicions about that sudden ‘appointment.’

“Not as yet. That appointment did seem important. He said it would take some time.”

“Yes, of course.”

“There was a lad, one of those newspaper runners, wot brought round a message for you earlier. I put it in the letterbox for you, up at the office.”

I thanked him and entered the lift, Rupert at my side. He was an excellent protection dog; however, I was not fooled that he was protecting me now from some unseen menace.

The hound was an excellent forager and no doubt was hoping for one of the biscuits left from breakfast earlier. Upon reaching the second-floor landing, I retrieved the envelope from the letterbox.

The envelope was plain, with my name in a hasty scrawl that was familiar. It appeared to have been sent by Theodolphus Burke, reporter for the Times newspaper.

He had acquired a reputation for the daily articles that appeared in the scandal sheet that had exposed some of the most sensational gossip and criminal activities across the city.

We had crossed paths in the past when I had inquired about information from the newspaper archives and previous articles he had written, while making inquiries for a client. He had taken to attempting to pry information from me as well. Not that I trusted him.

He was unscrupulous and untrustworthy for the most part, interested only in furthering his status and career, along with the ambition of one day writing his own novel about his time in the newspaper business.

He was not particularly liked by those in Parliament or the Royal family, with articles that exposed secrets and scandals.

The Prince of Wales had once described him as ‘a pox upon decent people’ after a particularly scathing article about the Prince’s ‘private activities,’ that had included my good friend Templeton.

“Marvelous,” she had declared at the time. “That article will undoubtedly bring more patrons to the theatre.”

As for my own experience with the man, he had been scathingly condescending of my Emma Fortescue novels, which he described as ‘drivel for frustrated women,’ as well as my inquiries in the cases Brodie and I pursued. I had particular thoughts about the man.

Brodie had reminded me, somewhat amused, that such action was referred to as ‘murder,’ and would no doubt see me thrown into prison. I had informed him that I might very well be awarded a medal by the Prince of Wales for it.

And here I was now, staring suspiciously at an envelope that he had obviously sent, as I sat at my desk with the hound sprawled at my feet as he devoured the remnants of that earlier breakfast that Mr. Cavendish had brought over from the Public House.

I was tempted to simply toss the letter into the rubbish bin beside Brodie’s desk after other notes Burke had sent in the past:

“How are your inquiries progressing regarding Lady Ainsworth and her affair with that young military officer her daughter is betrothed to?”

And another:

“What of the missing bank funds after the disappearance of the bank president? New material for your next novel?”

What new insult was contained in Burke’s latest note?

I stared at the envelope for the longest time. I should throw it away as I had the others—however, there was that saying about curiosity and the cat.

I seized the envelope, opened it, and pulled out the note.

“I have a proposition for you, Emma Fortescue. Meet me at the Old Bell this evening. And do not be late.”

There was also a time noted. Arrogant, miserable... As if his time were so very valuable. I stared at the note.

Most curiously, he had used my pen name for my novels. Was it merely nothing more than one of his insults in his search for information for an article he was writing regarding a recent inquiry case?

I paced the office. That note was much like a banner being waved before a bull in the arena I had seen on my travels through Spain. I vividly remembered how that had ended, thoroughly disgusted by the ‘sporting event,’ as it was called.

I glanced at it once more. A ruse, no doubt, to further his own ambitions. Still, the way he had worded it...

The Old Bell tavern was on Fleet Street, very near the Times offices. It was a favorite of Burke’s, where he could be seen indulging in the adulation of those of his profession. Over pints of ale, amid stories he told of his own adventures reporting the daily news.

It was very near the time Burke had said to meet him at the Old Bell.

I gathered my travel bag, tucked the note into it, and locked the office door behind me. On the street below, I had Mr. Cavendish wave down a cab.

“What shall I tell Mr. Brodie?” he inquired.

What indeed? After previous incidents, he would no doubt find it interesting that I had gone to meet Burke. And equally, would not approve, particularly because I had done so alone, and at that time in the evening.

“A quick errand,” I replied. No doubt I would return shortly, very likely before Brodie.

The hound waited expectantly as the driver arrived, and I opened the door of the coach.

“Not this time,” I told him with a hand to prevent him jumping inside.

Although it was quite tempting to take him along. He had a particular dislike for Burke. However, I was most curious what the ‘proposition’ he had mentioned in the note might be, and the hound rarely hesitated when he disliked someone.

Rupert sat on the sidewalk with what could only be interpreted as a grumpy expression at being left behind as I gave the driver the destination of the Old Bell on Fleet Street.

It was not far, however the street in front of the tavern was quite congested.

“There seems to be a bit of commotion, miss,” my driver commented as he pulled to a stop down the street. “I might say, not a place for a lady this time o’ the night.”

Commotion indeed, as a crowd had gathered on the sidewalk, what appeared to be customers of the Old Bell spilling out of the tavern, more than one man with a tankard in hand.

Along with those who had gathered from the street, as shouts came amid the commotion.

I stepped down from the coach and overheard several comments as I approached.

“Never saw the like...”

“He must have insulted the wrong person...again.”

Where was Burke? Had he already arrived? Was he somewhere inside the tavern, or among those who had pushed their way onto the street?

I was jostled about as I elbowed through those who had gathered to the center of the crowd, amid other comments and the smell of stale ale and cigarette smoke. As I reached a slight parting of those gathered there, I glimpsed someone slumped on the sidewalk and stared down at the bloodied body.

It was Burke!

Was it a brawl? Some insult that someone else had taken offense to?

“What happened?” a man nearby asked.

“It’s about time to my way of thinkin’...” Someone else replied. “Less competition for the rest of us.”

“Someone cut him! Anyone see who it was?”

Not a brawl. Burke had been attacked, and the blood I saw was from a knife wound!

He was alive, that sneering gaze meeting mine through the chaos of bystanders and gawkers.

“Emma Fortescue,” he whispered, a guttural sound as blood appeared on his lips. He gestured for me to come closer, a surprisingly strong grip closing around my wrist as he thrust a stained note into my hand.

“Take it!” he snarled. “You’re the only one who can see it done!”

He coughed, a wretched sound filled with blood, as his head fell back to the sidewalk with a dying challenge.

“What...will you do now, Emma Fortescue?”

The shrill sound of the police whistle cut through the cold night air and the taunts and cruel jokes as he stared blankly back at me.

Theodolphus Burke, notorious reporter for the Times of London, was dead!