Chapter 13
Thirteen
Brodie entered the boxing club in Bethnal Green by way of a back entrance.
“I’ll stay here,” Munro told him. “To make certain there are no surprise visitors while ye meet with Brown.”
He nodded and took the stairs two at a time to the second floor.
The club was a place where lads with a week’s wages in their pockets tried their fists against those who called themselves ‘professional boxers,’ fighting in the two raised rings surrounded by a houseful of those who came to watch and bet.
It smelled of cigarette smoke, sweat, and the drink that cost three times the price at a local tavern, amid shouts, cheers, and curses from those who gathered round.
Not so on the second floor, the noise and smells of the floor below left behind by the man who occupied the large office. He looked like a respectable businessman, as long as one disregarded the two guards at the door.
One of the guards nodded at Brodie and opened the door. The man behind the large desk completed a meeting as he scooped bills and coin into a metal box.
A portion for the young woman who stood there was quickly scooped into a satin bag and tied off with satin cord.
“There’s a girl,” Mr. Brown commented. “A good night’s work. Be certain to pay the other girls as agreed.” Something in his voice changed, not quite threatening but a reminder.
“I’ll not have ’em cryin’ to my men that ye’ve been holding back their pay.”
“I wouldn’t cheat,” she assured him. The truth in her claim went as far as the distance of the desktop.
“Ye would do well to remember what happened to Maisy when she decided to pay herself extra coin, instead of sharing it as agreed. You steal from the girls, yer stealin’ from me.”
“You have me word.”
“There’s a good girl, Lucy. I wouldn’t want to have to send one of my men round to pay a visit.”
Prostitution was just one of Mr. Brown’s business enterprises that included extortion, protection offered businesses in the working-class area in that part of London, gambling, and drugs. Specifically, morphine brought into the country.
Brown was a man of many business interests that Brodie had once kept a watchful eye on when he was a constable with the MET.
Then, in his time as an inspector, he kept a distance from the illegal street trading, stolen goods in unregulated markets, and other activities that operated outside official regulations and taxes.
Unless it had to do with children, the poor who were sold for a few coins into lives of beggary, pan-handling, and prostitution.
He had seen too much of that on the streets of Edinburgh as a child.
Had even begged in order to survive, picked pockets, and seen what became of girls with no other trade except themselves.
Years before, he and Brown had struck a bargain of sorts. There was nothing in writing, only their word that they would keep to their own ‘side of the street.’
There were occasional favors exchanged, but Brodie made it a rule to keep one ahead of Brown.
It was a good way to stay alive. And somewhere through the years and favors, a grudging respect one for the other had grown.
Although he had no doubt Brown could turn if there was enough profit. He made certain there never was.
Now? He’d received word to meet with the man, the result of the word he and Munro had put out on the streets through Brown’s web of business associates, in doss houses, tenements, taverns, and pubs, searching for word of Blackwood.
Lucy, one of Brown’s ‘employees,’ stopped as they met in the doorway, her expression clearly an offer.
“Get on with you,” Brown told her. “That one’s taken, by a lady no less, a real lady with red hair, a temper to match, and a particular skill with a revolver. I’ve met her and she’s not one you would want to cross.”
“Sorry,” Lucy apologized with a pout, then left Brown’s office.
“You would be the ruin of me, Brodie, if ye ever decided to take advantage. The lot of them wouldn’t charge you a farthing to warm their beds.”
“You sent word that ye’d received a message.”
Brown nodded, opened the center drawer of the desk and took out a folded note.
“The cripple gave it to one of my men no more than an hour ago.” He handed it across the desk.
Brodie read it, the elegant letters written by the lady with the red hair and that temper to match.
She had found information about Blackwood that might be useful. He was dying from a cancer and had been given morphine at the hospital for the pain before he escaped.
He would, no doubt, need more…
Do remember, church mice. M., she had signed it.
He smiled to himself as he folded the note and put it in his coat pocket. He looked up.
“The man is dying and in a great deal of pain, it seems. He likely has little or no funds, but he’s in need of morphine.”
Brown’s sharp gaze narrowed. “I’ll put the word out among my people.” He gave Brodie a long look.
“When was the last time you slept?”
“A while ago,” Brodie replied.
“There’s a room at the next floor up.”
“And find a blade between my ribs in the dark of night?” Brodie knew the man well.
Brown shook his head. “I cannot spare one of my men as I’m certain he would be the worst for an encounter with you.
And take Munro with you. The man has a bad habit of leaving bodies about.
It’s bad for business. And no charge for the room,” he added.
“We will call it a ‘favor’ in exchange for your warning about the man needin’ morphine.
Ives, my man at the door, will see that ye have a cot and a blanket up at the room. ”
He shouted an order through the closed door and Ives appeared.
“Mr. Brodie and Mr. Munro will be our guests for the night. See them to their accommodation but take care. Mr. Brodie carries a firearm and Mr. Munro is particularly skilled with the blade.”
MIKAELA
“You’ve hardly eaten,” my housekeeper, Mrs. Ryan, scolded. “Hours it was, over a hot oven, and Mr. Brodie not about as well. It’s a waste of good food.”
I looked up. I would admit that I had little appetite, and I did appreciate Mrs. Ryan’s thriftiness as well as care. Much like a mother, I supposed.
We did have that sort of relationship in addition to her being in my employ, a relationship strengthened after the death of her daughter Mary, who was a maid at Sussex Square, then for my sister Lenore.
Such a sad affair. It was her disappearance, along with my sister, that I had first encountered Brodie back in London.
He was referred to me by my great-aunt, of all persons, which did raise the question of why she might have needed the services of a private inquiry agent, which, after the years since, had yet to be explained.
‘A man I could trust,’ she had insisted and provided his address at the office on the Strand.
That recommendation was received with some skepticism at the time, as I did not have a particularly high regard for most men after certain childhood circumstances, and admittedly, such high esteem did seem a bit odd when I first encountered Mr. Cavendish, who occupied the alcove at the foot of the stairs outside the office.
Along with the rather scantily dressed woman who emerged from that office.
I had considered the alternative, possibly acquiring the services of a gentleman by the name of Holmes, who was known to lend his services to clients in need.
However, his reputation included a somewhat questionable use of narcotics, not to mention a habit of disappearing in the middle of an inquiry case.
I did have very definite requirements in that regard. In addition, I was determined to assist in the search for my sister, as I knew her habits, and Mary’s as well, of course. I could be of assistance and needed someone who was amenable to that.
In spite of the odd man on his rolling platform who greeted me as I arrived, and the woman dressed in the chartreuse gown—‘dressed’ being a generous description—I kept my meeting with Brodie.
Which was the beginning of our working relationship, a somewhat unique friendship that I had never experienced.
I had once read a quote by Aristotle about friendship and thought it quite ridiculous at the time—that ‘friendship was a slow ripening fruit.’
Yes, well, there was friendship, of course, and respect, which I had never experienced from a man.
There was that other thing that my great-aunt had spoken highly of…
I suppose I should have been warned at that first meeting by my own cautions when we met.
He was quite handsome, though informal with appearance—I remembered it well.
With a workman’s shirt open at the collar, his sleeves rolled back, cotton-spun trousers, and boots sorely in need of a polish, along with overlong hair that curled over his collar.
All of it what a common worker might wear.
There was that dark gaze that fastened on me as I entered his office, his expression what could only be called…impatience. As if I had disturbed him at some important matter. And a bloody Scot of all things…
Oh, there was most definitely that other recommendation my great-aunt made.
That had come somewhat later. Friendship and then…a man I could trust who made my toes curl.
Together, somewhat reluctantly on his part, we had solved that first inquiry case. My sister was found safe. However, dear, sweet Mary was lost, brutally murdered.
I looked up at Mrs. Ryan who stood beside the table as she retrieved my plate with the now cold roast chicken she had labored over and an expression of disapproval on her face.
“I suppose I shall have to feed it to that flea-ridden beast,” she announced, her Irish accent always somewhat stronger when she was in a temper.
“You do know that I adore you,” I replied.
She made a sound that might mean anything. “And the supper was marvelous,” I complimented her. “Mr. Brodie will be disappointed that he wasn’t here to share it.
“You might put it in the icebox,” I suggested. “With a portion for Rupert, of course.”