Chapter 7
Seven
MIKAELA
Mr. Cavendish was not about, and the office on the second story landing was darkened.
It seemed that Brodie had returned at some point, the bedcovers rumpled as if he had been restless. Then I discovered the note he had left for me.
I smiled. It was very much in the style of a police report, much the same as he had no doubt written countless times when he was with the MET.
It was straight forward, an update on his own efforts in the matter of Constable Martin’s death, then a brief inquiry about the Ambersley case.
I may be some time in this matter. I hope this finds you well. B.
So much for endearments.
Never let it be said that Brodie was effusive about his feelings, not even so much as a brief comment that he missed me.
Yet, as I knew only too well, there was always something behind those very business-like comments and lack of endearments if one looked closely. And I did.
“Ye are the one with the skill at words, with yer novels and the reports ye write up on your type writing machine,” he had told me more than once. “Ye are far better at it than m’self.”
I suspected it was simply his way of avoiding lengthy reports. Better at it, indeed.
What did you expect? That little voice inside my head whispered. It’s the way of the man. You have certainly known others who were long on words and lacking in all other ways.
Most certainly, I thought, as I straightened the office, then went to the chalkboard and made my final notes regarding the resolution of the Ambersley case.
I then decided to spend the next couple of hours on my next Emma novel.
I had created a character who was most fond of adventures and had taken herself off on several of them, until her path had crossed that of a mysterious dark haired, dark-eyed man who provided private inquiry services in a series of very dangerous cases.
There had been eight Emma Fortescue novels to date, regarded by the newspapers as somewhat less than literary classics in their pithy comments when the books were mentioned at all. Yet Emma’s adventures were adored by a readership across London that included not only women but men as well.
There had been a somewhat fascinating conversation with Brodie when he learned there was an obvious resemblance to our work, not to mention our relationship.
“Ye canna write about anyone in the royal family,” he had reminded me at the time. “Or ye might find yerself bundled off to Newgate prison for revealing important information.”
Of course, dear.
I understood perfectly well, and in conversation with my publisher over the matter, had simply changed the names and a few of the details in the ‘adventures’ that Emma Fortescue found herself in. Not to mention her working partnership with a particular individual who happened to be a Scot.
The books were reviewed, including a warning that they might not be appropriate for proper ladies and young women to read.
The critic’s objection: The somewhat colorful details of inquiry cases and a growing relationship between Emme Fortescue and the mysterious man she had thrown in with to solve the murder of a man she had once known.
Scandal books, they were called by those who wrote for the dailies, specifically Theodolphus Burke, writer for the Times.
And in spite of the not-subtle warning that they were not suitable for respectable ladies and young women, the sales of that first book, and the other ones that followed, had been quite incredible.
My publisher and also my brother-in-law, was ecstatic with the success of the Emma Books as he called them.
It did seem as if the women and ladies of London and beyond were not of the same opinion as the newspaper writers and critics. And more recently, there was an inquiry from a New York publisher to publish them there.
I inserted a piece of paper into the typing machine, then turned and studied my notes for the Ambersley case on the chalkboard.
The names would have to be changed, of course, along with a few of the details. With a flash of inspiration, I typed the first paragraph of my new book:
‘The little dog fit nicely into Lady Montcrief’s handbag, nipping at anyone who came near.
The hound, stalwart veteran of countless encounters with wild beasts and fowl, regarded the creature like its next meal.
Emma Fortescue would need to keep a watchful eye on the hound.
He did have a habit of doing-in bothersome pests. Not precisely murder, yet offensive to some persons, particularly those with small, irritating pets that resembled hairy rats.’
It would need some editing, I thought. Those who carried their pets around in handbags would undoubtedly take offense.
Still, my publisher had received several letters hailing the previous adventures of the stalwart hound who had participated in our inquiry cases.
“It does seem as if you have acquired an audience,” I mentioned to said hound, who lay on the floor beside my desk.
I admit that the look he gave me then bore a resemblance to another look I often received from Brodie when extolling the hound’s virtues.
‘Scepticism’ was not quite right. It was more a look as if I had taken complete leave of my senses.
“Next, ye’ll be tellin’ me that he understands everythin’ ye say.”
I simply smiled at that
It was very near midday when the hound rose from the floor beside my desk, stretched, then went to the office door. An obvious sign that his morning nap was concluded.
I followed him down the stairs with the thought that Brodie might have returned, only to discover that Mr. Cavendish had arrived quite late—unusual for him, or possibly delayed by some errand.
“Good day, miss,” he greeted me as the hound charged across the thoroughfare with particular enthusiasm that could only mean food was involved.
I glanced across the Strand. Rupert had a working arrangement with the man who sold sandwiches from his cart. In exchange for food, the hound stood guard against anyone making off without paying for their sandwich.
He was an enterprising sort.
I inquired about Miss Effie, as she and Mr. Cavendish had recently married, something that always brought a smile to his face. However, the smile was not there at present.
“Well enough, and workin’ her shift at the public house,” he replied, somewhat distracted, which made me think there might be some difficulty there.
A newsboy appeared with the usual enthusiasm for a sale, the last issues of the morning edition of the Times tucked under his arm.
He could have been no more than nine or ten, with dark hair that fell across his forehead and dark eyes that reminded me of someone else.
“Paper for you, miss?” he inquired.
“Be off with you,” Mr. Cavendish told him.
I had not read the morning paper that included the crime sheet before leaving Mayfair and thought there might be an update from the MET in the matter of Constable Martin’s death.
I took a coin from the pocket of my skirt.
The newsboy’s smile was restored as he took the coin and handed me the morning paper, then ran off after another sale.
“I noticed that Mr. Brodie returned the evening past,” I commented to Mr. Cavendish after he left.
He nodded, not quite meeting my gaze, an obvious indication that he knew more than he was sharing.
“Did he say where he was off to next in the matter of the case he’s pursuing?”
“Mr. Brodie keeps things to himself as you well know, miss.”
Hmmm, yes, I thought. Definitely something there that he was not telling me. Perhaps on Brodie’s instructions?
Brodie had been particularly reserved since Constable Martin’s death and insisted that I continue with the Ambersley case, which was now resolved, while he made his usual inquiries.
I was aware that Constable Martin had been a good friend as well as partner when Brodie first joined the MET, and then afterward when he became an inspector.
Though he rarely mentioned his time with the Metropolitan, he had spoken often of Constable Martin, usually when in the company of Mr. Dooley or Mr. Conner, who had both worked with him as well.
“You will let me know if you hear from him,” I reminded Mr. Cavendish.
He nodded, “That I will, miss.” Still without meeting my gaze.
I turned toward the lift by the alcove, then paused as I heard my name through the noise of coaches, carts, and wagons at the Strand.
“Lady Forsythe? I’ve a message from the Home Office.”
It was George Endicott, one of several dispatchers from the messenger service Brodie and I frequently used.
He was young, fair, with a warm brown gaze that bordered on flirtation, and a most engaging smile.
“That would be for me,” Mr. Cavendish attempted to intercept Mr. Endicott.
George looked at me somewhat confused.
“Lady Forsythe?”
“I’ll take it, if you please.”
He handed me the envelope, then the clipboard he carried.
I did notice that the envelope had my name on it as well as Brodie’s.
“If you’ll sign here. I was told to deliver it straightaway.”
There was that engaging smile again.
When I offered him the usual coin for the delivery, he shook his head.
“It was already taken care of by Mr. Cavendish when he sent the message earlier. Good day.”
Most interesting. That did explain his absence earlier from his usual place at the alcove.
I looked down at the envelope after George left.
“From the Home Office?”
Mr. Cavendish seemed uncomfortable.
“Beg your pardon, miss. He said there was no need for you to know, what with the other case you were working on.”
“I understand. He had you deliver the message to the courier service. And how were you to reach him when this arrived?”
“He said that he’d be round for it.”
I tucked the newspaper under my arm. With the envelope in hand, I returned to the office.
The envelope from the Home Office was apparently in response to something Brodie had requested regarding his inquiry into the death of Constable Martin.