Chapter 3
Three
MIKAELA
The residence of Sir Ambersley, at St. John’s Wood near Regent’s Park, was an impressive Georgian red-brick manor, with ornate window bays set above a portico entrance.
I paid the coachman, then climbed the half dozen steps to the main entrance, where I was met by a footman in the usual livery of a servant in such an impressive residence.
What? Not dressed in vivid purple, I thought, somewhat sarcastically. I then heard the high-pitched yapping of an animal that could only be Bitsy as the alarm of my arrival was sounded.
“This way, Lady Forsythe,” the footman indicated with what could only be described as a mixed expression of propriety for the position he held and what could only be described as forced tolerance.
I thought of the hound and silently sympathized.
“Good afternoon, Lady Forsythe,” a servant who could only be the head butler greeted me as Bitsy finally made an appearance, charging across the entrance hall like a bad hairpiece that had suddenly come to life. “I am Mr. Ives.”
The introduction was interrupted by Bitsy as she made directly for me, obviously determined to guard the manor against intruders. She seized the hem of my coat and began to furiously chew on it.
I had a great fondness for animals, case in point the hound. Unruly behavior was undoubtedly not this poor creature’s fault. However, I was not one to stand idly by while an overgrown rat proceeded to ruin my coat.
“Stop!” I firmly admonished.
It was undoubtedly the first time, the word—spoken somewhat firmly—had ever been uttered.
Quite startled, Bitsy ceased her gnawing, sprang back in a mass of quivering incredulity, and stared at me through a curtain of perfectly groomed bangs.
Mr. Ives promptly coughed, no doubt to disguise his surprise as well, a bemused expression at his face.
“If you will come this way, Lady Forsythe. Lady Ambersley will join you in the drawing room forthwith.”
And forthwith, Bitsy followed, at a curious but cautious distance.
It was perhaps best that Brodie had not accompanied me. He might have been tempted to shoot the poor thing.
Afternoon tea was provided as Kitty Ambersley made her appearance, dressed in fuchsia, turban included. It did seem that she had a penchant for vivid color, including the bright shade on her cheeks. She smiled in greeting as I reminded myself of the most serious reason I was there.
“I do hope that Bitsy has been entertaining you.”
Entertaining was such an interesting word.
“Most entertaining,” I replied as she scooped the destructive little creature into her arms and proceeded to kiss her.
“She is most protective…” she explained.
Of course, I thought. Any intruder or attacker would be absolutely terrified.
“And can be very forceful when needed”
As in, destroying the hem of one’s coat? I smiled.
“Shall we begin?” I replied.
I had several questions for Lady Ambersley:
When did she last have the necklace?
Did she keep it in a particular place when not wearing it? A wall safe perhaps?
Had she returned it that night after the supper party? Or perhaps mislaid it?
“I wore it the night of the supper party.”
“It’s usually kept in a box in my wardrobe.” A place where anyone might have access to it.
“I remember laying it atop my dressing table before I dressed for bed.” Not helpful there.
“And you will want to speak with the servants,” she had added then.
“Yes, if you will be kind enough to let me see your private rooms,” I added.
“I have explained that I laid it on my dressing table. It’s not there now. It has disappeared.”
My smile was painful. I explained that it could be useful to see the place she spoke of and perhaps find a clue what might have happened to the necklace.
“Oh, I do see. This is so exciting. To think there might have been a thief here.”
I was not inclined to think that it was exciting that a thief was there. I smiled again.
“If you would be so kind as to show me your private rooms?” I reminded her for a place to begin.
“Of course.”
She set dear Bitsy on the floor. The animal assumed a safe distance as Kitty Ambersley escorted me to her private rooms.
I had developed a throbbing headache.
There was nothing unusual discovered in the search of Lady Ambersley’s private rooms.
Other than the fact that she was in the habit of leaving a trail of clothes about the rooms, all either in a shade of purple or fuchsia, including a purple wig on a wood head stand in her private dressing chamber. And there were those who thought my great-aunt was eccentric!
I wondered if Sir Ambersley was similarly kitted out. That conjured up amusing images and would most certainly make the meetings at Parliament most interesting.
We had then returned to the formal drawing room where late afternoon tea was served, including scones filled with dried fruit and nuts. Rupert would have been ecstatic, as scones were a favorite treat.
Not that I was above slipping a bit of the crumbly delight to the current animal who had followed my every move, at a safe distance, when Kitty Ambersley went to request the guest list from the night of the supper party.
Bitsy tentatively took the bit of scone, then stepped back a safe distance once more. It appeared we had an understanding.
With the list in hand, I thanked Kitty Ambersley and explained that I would be calling on the guests from that night if she would be so good as to contact them in the matter.
It was after five o’clock when I left the Ambersley manor, darkness settling over St. John’s Wood, with the lights of Regent’s Park glowing through the misty rain.
Lady Ambersley had Mr. Ives summon their driver for the short ride to Mayfair.
I fully expected the coach to be decorated in purple wool, stained purple leather, and window shades, and was surprised that it was not.
Surprisingly, my headache had all but disappeared by the time I arrived at the townhouse.
My housekeeper, Mrs. Ryan, had prepared supper. A warm fire burned on the hearth in the front parlor.
After removing my coat, I went into the parlor and poured myself a dram of Old Lodge whisky.
It was all quite cozy—that was the word for it. The whisky was most excellent.
I went to my writing desk and retrieved my notebook from my travel bag to set down my notes from the afternoon meeting with Lady Kitty Ambersley.
Yet there was something missing…
brODIE
The shopkeeper at Mellins Food shop shook his head.
“I heard about it. Sad bit of news. Didn’t notice anything unusual. Constable Martin was well thought of around here, with a new partner that was learning the ways of the street. Seemed like a nice young chap.
“We felt safe with Constable Martin about. When he was on early patrol, he would purchase food from me shop to take home to the missus.
“It won’t be the same. They’ll send some other bloke out, but he won’t have the same way with those about the Circus.”
“Aye, no one saw anything unusual,” Conner muttered as they met later at the end of Regent Street.
“I also checked with city transportation dispatch the next street over. There’s no record of any driver that pulled a late-night fare around the time Dooley claims that Joe’s partner found him on Regent Street. ”
Brodie nodded. It was a familiar answer for both men.
“I’ll have a word with old Mick and Rafferty. They may be done with the MET as well, but they hear things. Mick will be at a pub by this time, and Rafferty…” His voice trailed off.
“He can usually be found with a certain woman.” There was a grin. “Not that I would be interruptin’ anything. He’s been complainin’ about ‘things’ not wot they once were, if ye get my meanin’.”
He did. There had been a conversation or two about that in the past.
“Not that I suppose ye have any difficulty of that nature,” Conner added.
Brodie let that pass.
The congestion at the thoroughfare gradually eased, and the lights along Piccadilly Circus lit up the darkening sky.
Conner rubbed his hands together against the cold that came with the misty rain that had begun.
Brodie noticed the gesture as well as the stiffness in the man’s gait as they met once more on the street, remnants from too many years spent walking the patrol as they had the past hours.
“See wot Mick and Rafferty might know. Leave word with Mr. Cavendish if ye learn something,” Brodie replied. “I’ll see wot others may have heard on the street. There’s usually something to be learned when a man with the MET goes down.”
“Mr. Brown?” Conner inquired.
Brodie nodded.
“Watch yer back, lad. Ye might no longer be with the MET, but ye are well known among those who wear the uniform. Have a care for some yob out to make a name for himself.”
Brodie nodded. There was a time in the past when he had been called that, among other things, in his time on the street.
They parted, Conner for the pub where he could find a pint and a conversation with old Mick. Rafferty had retired out with an injury just after Brodie joined the service, and he had not known him well.
There had been talk…there was always talk.
It seemed that the old Irishman might have been on the take with one of the street gangs.
He did seem to live far more comfortably than others in the uniform.
Making a bit of money on the side. It was not unusual with a man’s usual pay of twenty-five shillings sixpence weekly.
Half usually went for rent of a small flat, that left little over for food or other necessities.
Brodie had shared a flat with Munro for a time, though he was rarely there but working some enterprise on the streets. He didn’t inquire wot those enterprises might have been, though he heard rumors on the street.
His pay increased to three pounds fourteen shillings when he made inspector, then four pounds and eight weekly by the time he left.
Brodie turned up his collar as he waved down a cab and set off for his meeting with Algernon Brown at Bethnal Green, where he operated out of a tavern near the brewery.
Not that the man used his given name, as Brodie had learned in his time with the MET. On the street he was simply known as Mr. Brown, along with a dangerous reputation.
“And I’ll thank you not to use the name,” Brown had once told him. “It’s not good for business.”
Brodie understood, considering the man’s business—graft, extortion, smuggling among those who would cut a man’s throat just for lookin’ at him wrong. The name didn’t command fear or respect.
It was well into the night when the cabman delivered him to the edge of Bethnal Green. From there, he walked the familiar slums, doss houses, and poor tenements, with a watchful eye to the shadows.
He knew the area well, although the MET rarely patrolled this part of London because of the crime and high murder rate, where a man could easily disappear in a quarrel over a coin and never be seen again.
And the women were often as bad, or worse, than the men. It was nothing for a man to be found in a room in a tenement house with his throat cut or floating in the river when he refused to pay for his time with one of the prostitutes that worked the area.
A sudden movement caught his attention as a man came at him out of those shadows.
His attacker was equally tall and stout, the fumes from a local pub thick in the air as he attacked and caught Brodie on the near side. Quick and experienced, the man brought up a blade.
He caught his attacker by the arm, twisted it and brought it up at a sharp angle at the man’s back.
“Ye dinna want to do this,” he snarled at him. “Drop the blade.”
The man continued to struggle. “There are others,” his attacker growled. “Ye’ll not get away!”
“I dinna want to get away. Now, drop the blade and tell me who the devil are ye, before I snap yer arm from yer shoulder?”
The man refused to answer, and Brodie yanked his arm higher. He let out a howl, then spit out a string of oaths.
“The blade!” Brodie reminded him. It clattered to the stones beside the building.
“Wot are ye called?” he demanded again.
“Me arm!” the man screamed.
“I’ll break it off and beat ye with it. Yer name!” Brodie again demanded as he kicked the man’s feet and knocked him off balance, then spun him around and slammed him against the side of a tenement house.
“Murphy!” the man cried out, a garbled, muffled sound against the crumbling stones on the wall of the house.
“Jasper Murphy?”
There was a grudging nod as the man continued to buck against his hold.
Brodie shoved him hard against that wall, the stone darkening with blood in the flickering light from a lantern in the window above the street.
He wrestled the man around and slammed him once more against the side of the building as he brought up the revolver and pressed the tip of the barrel to the side of the man’s head.
He knew the name.
“If ye move wrong, if ye so much as twitch, there will be a bullet in yer head. Now, come along and we will call on the man ye work for.”
It was not far. The question was, had Murphy simply made a mistake, or had he been sent.
He dragged Murphy by the neck of his coat, pulled him back to his feet when he stumbled, then dragged him the rest of the way to the tavern.
When they reached the entrance, he pulled Murphy with him through the opening into the glare of light, the stench of bodies, and the cacophony of rowdy conversation with crude curses.
He shoved Murphy before him, rolling him across the stained wood floor in a tangled heap of bruises and bloodied flesh.
“I’m here to see Mr. Brown,” he announced, the revolver held at the ready by his side.
“Ye can tell him that I am here for our meetin’.”
“It’s dangerous to go into certain places,” a gruff voice replied. “It could get a man killed.”
Brodie nodded. “Aye, it could.”