Chapter 17
Seventeen
SIX WEEKS LATER...
MIKAELA
I had made the final edits to the manuscript. It was presently wrapped and bound in brown paper on the seat beside me in the coach as I rode to the offices of Warren & Co., Publishers, to meet with my brother-in-law.
He was most anxious to get it to his editors in time for the release he had planned for October, in time for the winter reading season.
There had already been articles in the newspaper on the Crime Sheet of the Times, in special editions the publisher insisted on putting out.
A sort of advertising campaign for the forthcoming book about the scandal involving the capture and exposure of the spy ring, as he called it, in our inquiry case.
Those caught included several notable persons, members of Parliament, and the military, plotting to pass on stolen plans for the submarine B-10.
Stories in the newspapers had sent London government and society into turmoil as the roles of the conspirators were exposed after their arrests.
Sir Smith-Thomas, Lord of the Admiralty, who had access to those plans was arrested the night of the reception at St. James's Palace. Not one to take the entire blame for having stolen the plans, he had willingly shared the names of the others involved in the scheme.
“A coward,” Mr. Conner declared when it was revealed that Smith-Thomas had provided the names.
“They never want to take all the blame. Spread it around. It makes them feel just a wee bit better.”
Sir Montfort, the Foreign Secretary, was stripped of his position and expelled as a member of Parliament, where he had been privy to highly secret communications with other countries across Europe, had met with foreign Ambassadors, and had initiated foreign policy for Great Britain.
Their goal in taking the plans for B-10, a highly sophisticated underwater vessel—a submarine, as I had first recognized it—was to ‘balance the scales’ of power.
Between those who were increasingly gaining more power across Europe.
With the hope of preventing a disastrous confrontation over shipping lanes, ports of call used for commerce, and a growing uneasiness among countries in the Mediterranean and the Far East.
“A harbinger of things to come,” Sir Avery had commented in meetings afterward.
Brodie was presently off, meeting with him again. I had declined, in deference to the editing I had promised James I would do. I had no need to hear it all again, while Brodie had been circumspect.
He was not one to condone the things the Agency did and certainly had not forgotten past misdeeds on the part of Sir Avery. Yet he was pragmatic about things, irritatingly so at times.
“I prefer to know what may be coming at me, rather than stumble into it later when it has become dangerous.”
As I was saying, irritatingly so, as I considered some of the things Sir Avery pursued might be issues of the Agency’s own making. But I had held my tongue, for the most part due to the fact there were times when Brodie was very much a Scot—stubborn, determined, and single-minded.
I had no idea the reason I put up with all of it...well, actually I did know the reasons.
He was the only man I fully trusted. He was honest, at times painfully so.
He understood me as no one other than perhaps my great aunt ever had.
He let me grumble and grouse about, speak my opinion.
And had prevented me from running Sir Smith-Thomas through, which could have been a bit of a sticky situation.
Although at the time, my life was in danger.
There was that other thing...Aunt Antonia had warned me about, albeit with a sly smile.
In the aftermath of the case, it did seem there were times when justice was served.
Sir Richard Montfort, Foreign Secretary, was presently being held on charges of conspiracy and awaiting trial at The Glasshouse Aldershot, under conditions described as medieval. I felt no pity.
Sir Andrew Smith-Thomas, Lord of the Admiralty, facing the same charges for the theft of the plans for B-10, had been sent to Bodmin Prison, Cornwall, to await trial.
For his part, Sir Robert Clinton, Under Secretary to Britain’s Ambassador to Germany, had been stripped of his office and recently tried and convicted for his collaboration. He had been the person who was to deliver those plans to his German counterpart.
The full extent of the conspiracy was exposed in the days that followed, as others were found who had contributed to the scheme in one way or another. Not that all were apprehended, as Brodie had explained.
“There are always the ones who live in the shadows and will sell out their mother for the right amount. But a word dropped here or there and they will eventually be found. Or taken care of by others.”
For the right amount.
Theodolphus Burke was buried with a service befitting a newspaper reporter with confetti of shredded newspapers. Four people attended, including Brodie and me. It was a trifle sad.
The tailor’s assistant, Jardine, was buried as well in a simple grave in the municipal graveyard on the outskirts of Westminster. There was no known family.
As for Adele DeMille, she had been well protected by Mr. Brown, and I was grateful.
She had provided a statement as well as the journal to Sir Avery regarding everything she knew from the time she first went to live at St. John’s Wood.
The journal was returned to her when the Agency had all the information it needed. I then promised her that I would write a book based on the journal.
I liked Adele very much, and we had spoken about what was to happen to her now. London held far too many dreadful memories for her. I had suggested a brand-new start.
With that, I had contacted my good friend Templeton, who was presently in a stage production in New York City. We spoke at great length, and she was more than happy for Adele to visit her.
She would introduce her to people she knew, with the possibility of a role in a play. Adele was thrilled at the prospect, with telegrams sent back and forth.
She had left St. John’s Wood with little more than the clothes on her back. My sister provided her clothes that she claimed she could no longer wear, ‘due to her present condition.’
I had paid for Adele’s passage to New York with the sale of that gold button and a little extra pin money. As Sir Smith-Thomas’s uniform coat was no longer needed in prison, I persuaded Alex Sinclair to see that it was confiscated, minus the other gold buttons.
Sir Laughton, my family attorney, knew someone who would buy them. The extra money would be deposited into the bank and then funds wired to Adele in New York.
She had left from Southampton the week before and would reach New York in five or six days. She had promised to send a cable when she arrived.
My brother-in-law was thrilled with the project.
But our agreement was that the author credit would go posthumously to Theodolphus A.
Burke. I suppose it was my way of helping him accomplish what he had aspired to become, a published author, in spite of his often callous and critical remarks about my Emma Fortescue novels.
I arrived in time for my appointment with James at his publishing office. That night at St. James's Palace had enlightened him as to the inquiry cases Brodie and I took on. He had since spoken openly that I should consider a series of murder mystery novels.
“There’s a growing audience for those, among the female readership, of all things.” He had been surprised. However, I was not.
More and more, the ladies of my generation were coming into their own. After all, if a woman could be Queen of England...
Next would be the vote for women. I had read that they were making enormous strides toward that in the United States. Britain was next.
“You wrote the book,” James reminded me as I handed him the manuscript. “Are you very certain that you don’t want credit for it?”
“Quite certain,” I replied. “It’s the book he would have written, even if our writing styles were very different. And I think it will most definitely help sales with his name on it.”
“He was quite well known for his reporting for The Times. And the publisher has agreed to submit a foreword for the book.”
“It should be very successful for you.”
He had then asked me again about writing a series of mystery novels.
“Sir Arthur Conan Doyle has done exceedingly well. I do believe that it is time for a woman mystery writer. And you certainly have the ability as well as the connections with your work with Mr. Brodie.”
I told him I would give it some thought. The idea was most intriguing.
I had Mr. Tavers stop by the bake shop on my return to the Strand, and purchased fresh scones and biscuits.
As I’d left earlier, I got the distinct impression that Rupert was a bit put off that there was nothing for him left from the Public House.
When I finally returned, the post had been delivered, and there was a letter from Lily sent from Edinburgh.
“Perhaps the young miss will be returning soon,” Mr. Cavendish commented.
Or not, as Brodie had reminded me more than once. She was no longer a child but an educated, extremely capable young woman. And from that first note when she left, I knew the reason she’d gone was important to her.
Still...
Brodie had returned from his meeting with Sir Avery at the Agency. For the most part, he had recovered from his encounter with Burke’s murderer, Herr Steiner.
The cut below his left eye had healed, although it had left a pale scar which I thought made him look rather dashing. When I had teased him about it, he had looked at me with that dark gaze narrowed and a frown. Broken ribs seemed to have healed as well.
Papers on the desk lay before him as he leaned an elbow on the chair’s arm, chin propped on his hand, deep in thought.
I set my umbrella in the stand, then crossed the office and laid my bag atop my desk.
“I delivered the manuscript to James. He was quite excited to receive it.”
Brodie’s response was a mumbled reply.
“He made the suggestion again that I consider writing mystery novels.” No response this time as I removed my jacket and hung it on the back of my desk chair.
“How was your meeting with Sir Avery? Is everything all well and good with the end of our case for those stolen documents?”
He finally looked over at me.
“The meeting was not about the case.” He sat back, chin resting on his hand, that dark gaze meeting mine, and that little voice inside whispered there was something more, in that look and in the way he seemed to choose his words.
I called it his ‘inspector’ demeanor, how he must have appeared when reading a case or interrogating a suspect. Each word carefully considered and measured, as now.
“Sir Avery shared that the Agency has been moving into other areas that it oversees. Our recent case became part of that with certain things that affected, not only the Crown, but had the potential to create difficulties elsewhere.”
We had spoken of it afterwards. It was true that several of our cases had included foreign aspects amid growing tensions in Europe and other places.
“He has made a proposal for a new operation within the Agency.”
I was immediately suspicious.
“What sort of proposal...?”
Next for Brodie and Mikaela...
DEADLY SACRIFICE