Chapter 5
Five
Brodie sat in the chair at his desk as he read the notes I’d made from the day before.
Mr. Conner had returned a short while earlier and sat across from him.
“I’ve seen worse,” he commented as he looked across at Brodie. “The color purple suits ye. There will be a scar from the cut, but the ladies are drawn to that,” he added, with a look over at me, amusement in his eyes.
“What is the plan for today?” he then asked.
It had been a restless night. Brodie had hardly slept, shifting from one side to the other, then back again. I had risen early with the hope he might get more sleep. He had then appeared at the adjoining door with a bruised expression and a single word as he slowly made his way to the desk.
“Coffee.”
I had set a fresh pot on the stove when I first rose that morning. I poured a cup and handed it to him.
My skills in that regard had improved admirably. Or perhaps not, as he grimaced, cursed, then struggled to swallow, and looked at me with narrowed eye.
“Ye could stand a spoon in it.”
I took it as a compliment.
Mr. Conner had not complained when he arrived.
“Aye, strong. Just the way I like it,” he said when I poured a cup for him as well.
“What about the cabman Fitch spoke of?” he asked now. “There could be something there if he remembers where he delivered the man.”
Brodie nodded. “And perhaps a visit to Germantown. The man who attacked me last night might be known at the gymnasium. The blows he threw were not the sort learned on the street.”
“So it would seem.” Mr. Conner nodded.
“The man was sent by someone. The question is, who might that be and for what reason?
"Burke made his reputation on sordid, sensational articles that he wrote for the newspaper. It didn’t seem to matter whether the subject was someone in Parliament or a member of the peerage. Any one of them might have taken exception to something he wrote.”
Brodie shook his head. “He’s insulted dozens of persons across London, and nothing has come of it before.” He frowned. “There’s more to this, and it has to do with the name on that note he gave Mikaela.”
“There is also the address in Southwark,” I pointed out. “It could be important.”
Brodie explained the receipt that I had found. Mr. Conner nodded.
“Southwark is not a place where you should go.”
If there was anything worse than one badly bruised Scot who’d had little sleep the night before, it was another overbearing Scot, in spite of the smile and the twinkle in his eyes.
“But ye have no doubt heard that before.”
“I suppose my place would be here brewing coffee and keeping my notes,” I replied.
Brodie angled a look at me that spoke clearly about my efforts at making coffee or anything else that might require skill in a kitchen. I chose to ignore him and his bruises.
“There are other things for a woman to see to,” Mr. Conner commented with a look across at Brodie.
“It would seem that ‘other things’ are now sharply curtailed due to the events of last evening,” I replied.
“Did I say something to offend?” Mr. Conner commented.
“Ye have been warned,” Brodie told him.
“I apologize if I offended, Lady Forsythe,” Mr. Conner added.
“Apology accepted. However, you may make your own coffee.”
Brodie laughed, winced, then cursed at the pain it caused.
It was decided over a second pot of coffee that Mr. Conner took it upon himself to set on the stove, that he would make inquiries about the coachman who aided the murderer’s escape the night Burke was killed.
I would call on Herr Schmidt at the sports club in Germantown to see what might be learned about the man who was seen the night Burke was murdered and had attacked Brodie the night before.
“Ye’ll not go alone,” Brodie told me after Mr. Conner left.
“I could easily go to Germantown myself so that you might rest. I do know Herr Schmidt,” I pointed out, that dark gaze watching me.
“I can take the hound with me,” I added. “Then you would be here when Mr. Conner returns with any information about the driver.”
That dark gaze narrowed as he finished buttoning his shirt. I had my answer.
“Very well,” I continued. “However, you have only yourself to blame if you injure yourself further.”
It took considerably more effort to pull on his coat.
I retrieved my coat as well as my travel bag, and we left the office. He relented as far as taking the lift down to the street, which he had refused in the past.
Contrary to something I had once read, it did seem that it was possible to teach an old dog new tricks. It was tempting to comment on that, though I did not. It was undoubtedly best not to ‘poke the bear,’ or in this case an injured bear.
I had asked Mr. Cavendish to secure a driver before leaving the office. Mr. Jarvis sat atop his coach when we arrived at the sidewalk. He swung down and opened the coach door.
“Where will it be?”
Brodie gave him the destination in Germantown, and I climbed into the coach. He followed and slowly eased down onto the seat opposite.
I felt that dark gaze watching me as Mr. Jarvis eased the coach into midmorning traffic.
“Other things?” Brodie commented, referring to that earlier conversation with Mr. Conner about a woman’s place.
“Was that a complaint?”
I knew perfectly well what he referred to and refused to dignify that with an answer.
“It does look as if the rain might hold off a while longer,” I replied instead as I stared out the coach window.
He could be such a devil.
It was late morning by the time we reached the sports club.
Germantown was a community of immigrants who had arrived in London over the past several years, along with others. The conversations on the street a blend of English, their native languages, and others from across Europe.
Some had returned to their home countries, but the majority remained and established shops, taverns, or worked for others in the growing community.
Herr Schmidt had established the sports club at the edge of Germantown. His clientele came from across London and included the titled with a growing fascination in various athletic sports, as well ladies’ exercise classes.
As for my own interests, he had been most amused at my inquiries regarding fencing.
“It is not a discipline for ladies,” he informed me at the time.
Not to be put off, I had returned several days later with a rapier from the Sword room at Sussex Square and politely informed him that I had previous instruction.
“Very well, show me what you have learned,” he said with some amusement as he led me onto the floor of the gymnasium where a wooden training target hung by a chain suspended from the ceiling.
I had learned several maneuvers at those lessons in Paris, including the technique for parry, then the moves against an opponent, deflection when attacked, and countermoves.
After several moves, then a final strike against the target, Herr Schmidt had shouted ‘halt’ to end the exercise.
“It is not fitting for a woman to use such a weapon,” he had grumbled more than once. “I would not allow it for my wife. It would be too dangerous. But I know of a man who may be able to provide lessons.”
I had attended those lessons with Monsieur Montclair for over a year and learned considerably more. In that time, I had achieved a certain respect from the stout German, and he had since assisted us with a previous inquiry case.
When we arrived, an attendant at the front counter found Herr Schmidt out on the main floor of the gymnasium.
Not merely the owner of the gymnasium but also a trainer, he had been working with one of the participants for a boxing contest that was to be held at the week’s end.
He wore trousers, bare-chested, that long moustache at either side of thick jowls, as he wiped sweat from his face and neck, and made no apology for his appearance.
“Lady Forsythe,” he said in greeting. “You are the only woman not insulted by such a sight.”
He then looked over at Brodie, his gaze narrowing at the sight of the purplish bruise and cut below his eye.
“And the other one who gave you that, Herr Brodie?” he inquired.
“It is about that we need to speak with ye,” he replied.
Herr Schmidt nodded, and we followed him to the room that served as an office. He retrieved a shirt, buttoned it across that barrel chest, the sleeves loosely rolled back. He poured a glass and offered it to Brodie.
“Schnapps,” he said. “It will ease the pain. My cousin sends it to me by the case. The English do not know how to make it.”
“Thank ye, but no,” Brodie replied.
Herr Schmidt nodded and took a long drink.
“Now, tell me, what is it that has brought you here?”
Brodie explained about the attack at the Old Bell, saying only that we were making inquiries in the matter for the police. He didn’t mention Burke’s name.
Herr Schmidt nodded over his glass. “I heard of this. It can be dangerous to go to a pub.” A grin appeared under that silver moustache. “But a bit of excitement is always good. Yes?”
“The attacker was seen that night.” Brodie gave him the description that Fitch had provided. “I had an encounter with him as well.”
Herr Schmidt nodded. “And this man walked away? That is not what I have heard about you.”
“In a manner of speaking. He has a knife wound now.”
I looked over at him with some surprise. He had not mentioned that part of the encounter.
Herr Schmidt nodded. “Perhaps he has simply gone off somewhere and bled to death.” He was thoughtful and set his glass on the top of the desk.
“I know of this man. He is not German. He is Austrian, highly skilled with his fists...as you have experienced. He is, how do you say...” He searched for the word in English.
“An assassin. He is well paid by those who can afford his time, and he takes great pleasure in causing pain.” That sharp gaze met Brodie’s across the desk.
“He is from Linz, though he calls no country home. It is said that he fought his way out of the iron ore mines there, though the story changes depending on who is telling it.