Chapter 9
Nine
And what was important about Portsmouth? More particularly Gosport, which was very nearby?
Some sort of shipment, possibly illegal contraband?
That hardly seemed likely, as it was in the heart of the Royal Naval shipyards. It would surely take some level of insanity for someone to attempt that right under the noses of the Royal Navy.
“What is important about Portsmouth?” I asked over breakfast that Mr. Cavendish had brought for us in a carton from the Public House.
I’d had a restless night after Mr. Conner departed the previous evening with Adele DeMille to escort her to Mr. Brown’s pub, where she would be safe. Her smile in parting had struggled as she thanked me.
“You will always be my very good friend.”
Mr. Conner had returned hours later, to assure us that they had arrived without incident. Adele was provided a room above the pub, where he informed us he had remained for a while and had sampled the finest whisky. A surprise, he announced, that Mr. Brown would have a drink of such high quality!
I had looked at Brodie after Mr. Conner left for his own flat to get some sleep.
“Very fine whisky?”
“It might have been something that Munro arranged?” he had replied.
And now?
I had not added notes to the board regarding what we had learned more recently, nor about my encounter with Adele and her subsequent, most recent ‘disappearance.’
While the office was far more secure than most places, and with Mr. Cavendish’s presence on the street below, there had still been occasions when others found their way in.
With Steiner still out there somewhere, along with what we had learned from Adele, Brodie suggested that we keep what we now knew to ourselves, with nothing written down that others might want to know.
“The question now is, what is at Portsmouth that is worth killing for?” he said from where he sat at his desk, chin propped on his hand, dark brows drawn together as he looked at me.
We often had the same thoughts.
Waterloo Rail Station was the nearest that connected direct to Portsmouth.
I had quickly dressed, and we left the office, Mr. Jarvis delivering us across the river in time for the next departure.
It was a journey of between two and three hours, far more expedient than a packet or steamer to the Solent, and then a transfer for a brief rail trip, or coach to Portsmouth, and then Gosport nearby.
Before departing the office on the Strand, I had placed a telephone call to my great aunt—my daily call for any word from Lily.
There was none, but she had informed me that she had taken more photographs with her new folding camera, and was it possible that Mr. Brimley might be able to process the film?
In that conversation I had also inquired whom she was acquainted with in the Royal Navy who might be at Portsmouth.
“Your new case, dear? Portsmouth? That might possibly be Admiral Reginald Ormsby...” She had then corrected herself. “Possibly not. He’s been dead for over twenty years. The time does seem to fly past.” She had given the matter further thought.
“Sir Thomas Mountbatten might be able to assist, if he’s not off to India.”
Yes, well...I thanked her.
“You must give my camera a go,” she said in parting. “It could be useful when you and Brodie are off on one of your adventures.”
The call had ended there, the earpiece on her end obviously left dangling as it clattered on the table where it had been installed after much persuasion. And then a familiar voice, Mrs. Ryan, previously my housekeeper at the townhouse.
“Is everything all right?” I inquired, concerned that Aunt Antonia might have taken a tumble.
“Quite all right, miss. She’s taken herself off into the gardens with her camera, and then we are off to Miss Lenore’s so that she can take a photograph of Miss Charlotte.” She had then added, “Is there word about a new residence for yourself and Mr. Brodie?”
I assured her that we were investigating different possibilities and hoped to make a decision quite soon. A slight exaggeration.
“Excellent!” she announced. “I have found that your adventures are quite mild in comparison to those of her ladyship.”
She had then informed me, “She has made it known that she wants Mr. Hastings to accompany her about London for the next photographs she wants. She insists that he learn to drive the motor carriage.”
I had the deepest sympathy for Mr. Hastings, my great aunt’s head coachman, who, it appeared, was being catapulted into the new century by way of a motor carriage.
“Is there a difficulty?” Brodie inquired as the call had ended.
“None at all, unless one considers Aunt Antonia unleashed on the streets of London in the Benz motor carriage.”
I could have sworn he smiled. “Something I have to look forward to as well for yerself?”
I ignored that comment as we had set off across the river.
Waterloo station was crowded with morning travelers departing for various parts of London and beyond, Portsmouth merely one of those destinations.
We made our way through more than a dozen booking offices with numbers above for the destination. Those on holiday, others in business suits, and others gathered in lines to purchase tickets. A series of overhead boards contained arrival and departure information.
Brodie constantly scanned the faces of those around us, his hand tight about my arm, as he guided us through and we found the ticket office for Portsmouth.
He requested a compartment rather than the usual coach fare.
It was a bit costly, but I did not question his choice. I had learned there was always another thought behind everything he did.
We quickly found the boarding platform for our train. It had arrived earlier. We found our compartment. Brodie pulled the inside shades down, then took the seat across from me. He laid his revolver on the seat beside him, under his right hand.
There was a knock at the door a few minutes later as the train prepared to get underway. He took no chances that we might have been followed, or that someone involved with all of this might have boarded the train as well.
His hand closed over the revolver. He angled it behind him just out of sight to whoever was in the passageway, then slid the door open, glanced past the attendant, then handed him our tickets.
Two hours or more until we reached Portsmouth. In that way that he could sleep anywhere, Brodie returned to the bench seat across, stretched his legs before him across the aisle, the revolver once more beside him, and appeared to fall asleep. So much for conversation.
“Do ye miss taking yerself off on yer adventures?”
Some time had passed since leaving London, and I was surprised not only that he apparently had not been dozing, but by the question. I might have laughed, except that he seemed quite serious.
“I have thought about taking myself off to Australia,” I replied. “If it didn’t take quite so long to reach it.”
“Wild creatures as well as wild men?” he commented from under the brim of the hat he wore, that dark gaze just above the yellow and purple mark watching me.
“What could possibly compare to animals such as Burke or Mr. Brown?” I replied. Linnie’s former husband, or our father. The lowest of the low.
There were others, of course, over the past handful of years since I had first inquired about his inquiry services. The list was quite long.
Never one to miss a detail, “And wot of wild men?” inquired the man whom some would consider part of that same club, one of those who had lived outside the mold of what was considered a gentleman. With fine clothes, a proper education, a title, and polished manners that often hid secrets.
I would take a gentle man with fire in his eyes, education that came from the streets, and manners.
..well, there was that part, but with arms that held me until I thought my bones might break but didn’t.
Then, his way rushed with an intensity of something more that lay just beneath the surface, almost as if he was afraid that I might disappear.
And that dark gaze that made it impossible to look away, or want to.
I shared the thought that came with it.
“You are my adventure.”
And for a moment, it did occur to me that if there were a few more hours to our journey, it would be necessary for him to set the latch on the compartment door.
“Ye are a bold one, Mikaela Forsythe.”
It was barely an hour later when I felt the train slow, and the attendant announced at the passageway that we had arrived at Portsmouth. Then that faint jarring motion, and we stood to depart. Brodie paused at the entrance, as he had before, then turned.
He brushed my cheek with the back of his fingers, a gentle touch from a gentle man.
Portsmouth was quite large, spread along the coastal shore of the South Atlantic and the Solent, that large channel that linked to the Isle of Wight, where the Queen was known to stay, and east with Gosport just beyond.
The streets and roadways were filled with the usual traffic found in a busy seaport city, including those who lived there, trams, wagons laden with barrels, shopkeepers, vendors, along with crews from private merchant ships.
As well as sailors from a half-dozen ships of the line moored at the docks, taking on supplies for destinations, possibly to some of the places I had visited. Their wooden hulls gleamed in the afternoon sun, while riggers made repairs to sails.
The attendant at the station directed us to a line of cabmen and drivers for passengers who disembarked. Brodie found a coachman who made a regular run to Gosport.
“Not many such as yourself or the lady go there,” he added. “Only them who work there.”
Brodie thanked him, and we climbed aboard.
The entire southeastern point from Portsmouth, past the Solent and beyond, was a maze of piers, docks with moored Royal Naval vessels, dry docks with ships under construction, warehouses, and manufacturing buildings with smoke pouring from giant stacks.
We passed carters and wagon drivers, along with short-haul rail lines that carried larger cargoes, as well as vans and wagons with work crews.
It was a city unto itself, extending along the coastline, with signage made up of letters and numbers, a sort of street code, that directed drivers and haulers to different areas.
And included three large structures that loomed over bays that had been sealed off from the harbor.
“Dry docks,” Brodie commented. “What was that number that Adele wrote in her journal?”
“Gosport, B10,” I replied.
He signaled to the driver.
“Not allowed beyond, sir. This is a restricted area by order of the Royal Navy.”
“We need to learn what B-10 refers to,” Brodie said beyond the hearing of the driver.
“It could tell us wot the men who met at St. John’s Wood were about.”
The question was how to go about it, in an area that was restricted.
I did have a thought on that, not brilliant, and certainly not one that I would usually undertake.
Yet, if we were to learn what importance that number meant, we needed to be creative. It certainly wasn’t the first time, as I thought of that name Aunt Antonia had mentioned.
“Tell the driver that I am the daughter of Admiral Ormsby, and we’re to meet him at B-10.”
“Who the devil is...?”
I smiled. “Trust me.”
After all, what was the worst that could happen? That our driver would refuse?
I listened as Brodie gave him the information. He returned and quickly climbed into the coach.
“And wot if Admiral Ormsby learns of it?” he demanded as the coach set off toward that last covered dock.
“That would be quite remarkable,” I replied. “The man is dead.”
“Bloody hell...”
There was more, muttered in Gaelic. The coach rolled to a stop, and we stepped down.
The roadway was just as congested here with wagons and vans, workers departing and arriving, along with shipments of various pieces of machinery. The signage before one of those enormous, raised tents indicated that we had arrived at B-10.
Berth 10, I thought from my travels that had included sea travel. It was obviously a construction site by the activity that we saw, but what precisely? I thought.
What was important about B-10 that three men had been secretive about when they met at St. John’s Wood, and had ended in murder?
Brodie had asked the driver to remain, as I waited for an opportunity to enter that enormous structure. Obviously, a woman, perhaps other than the Queen, would be an unusual sight in such a place.
I stepped into the shadows behind one of those enormous sliding doors at the entrance. The opportunity arrived as a half-dozen workers emerged, talking amongst themselves as they left.
Brodie glanced my way as I gathered my skirts in one hand and quickly slipped inside, then suddenly stopped at the sight before me.
The dry dock was much like the others we had passed, except for the vessel that lay within it.
It was almost the full length of the dock, sleek, made of what appeared to be steel, fully enclosed with a tower that rose from mid-deck—far different from the masted, wood-hulled ships of the Royal Navy that we had seen upon arriving at Portsmouth.
As ridiculous as it seemed, it reminded me of a metal cigar tube, not unlike something I had read about...
“It’s a submarine!” I exclaimed. Brodie had followed me inside.
“Wot is a submarine?”
“It’s meant to navigate underwater. I’ve read about it, but had no idea that it actually existed.” Or almost, as it was obviously under construction.
A sign at the dock nearest was painted HMS-B10.
It was beautiful and at the same time terrifying, and far different than any ship of the line, or any other, for that matter, at Portsmouth.
We had discovered B-10. But what did it mean?
“We obviously were not meant to see this, but it could be important to our inquiries,” Bordie said in a low voice beside me.
“We should leave now.”
“Right, you are," a deep voiced startled me. "Now, slowly turn around with your hands raised.”
It did seem as if the ‘admiral’ I had boasted of had found us. Or, at the very least, a half-dozen uniformed men with firearms aimed at us.