Chapter 10
Ten
Brodie remained only long enough in the morning to wash—what he referred to as a ‘bucket bath.’ Not usually recommended in the dead of winter.
“It can freeze a man’s bollocks.”
I did try to keep a straight face as I handed him a towel, and he quickly dried himself. I must say the view was most inviting. He then donned a fresh shirt, along with pants and his short coat that had dried overnight.
When I inquired about something to eat before he returned to Parliament House, he replied, “I need to go,” declining rather abruptly. He pulled me into his arms.
“I’ve come to a decision about working permanent with the CID.”
We had previously discussed that he would make a temporary commitment to Sir Ridley, to be decided upon after a certain amount of time.
“When this situation is resolved. We’ll talk about it.”
Which told me absolutely nothing at all.
Brodie kissed me then. “Aye, ye do smell wonderful. Ye taste even better.”
His parting comment rather than discussing the matter any further. He grabbed his long coat, with a parting promise that he would leave word with Sir Ridley regarding the meeting I wanted with Sir Anthony Ellsworth.
I frowned as I straightened the bedcovers, dressed, then returned to the outer office. Rupert stared up at me expectantly.
“What are you looking at?” Not that I expected an answer. Yet, I would swear his eyes rolled in response.
“There is nothing to eat. You will have to make your way over to the Public House. Perhaps Miss Effie has a sausage or biscuit for you.” I let him out in the interest of other things, as he had been up at the office since the night before.
I then placed a telephone call to Sussex Square to let my great-aunt know that I was still pursuing information about Thomas Ellsworth’s murder in spite of Sir Robert’s efforts to have it stopped.
And in fact, I hoped to meet with Sir Anthony Ellsworth quite soon.
I also described my meeting with Edward Baldwin.
The conversation was brief, as she was preparing for her seamstress to arrive regarding the costume she wanted made for when she might join me in my inquiries. I had visions of that cape and deer-stalker cap as the call ended.
It was very near ten o’clock when Mr. Cavendish rang the service bell on the landing and announced that Alex Sinclair had arrived and was on his way up to the office.
“Good morning, Lady Forsythe,” he greeted me as he entered the office. He was quite damp as the weather had continued into the morning. But for someone who was quite soggy, he was in fine spirits.
I was tempted to inquire about his evening, but restrained myself. However, he did appear to have a new mark on his neck, just above the collar.
“You are well?” I inquired, a common question when meeting someone.
He blushed. “Oh, yes, Lady Forsythe.”
No further questions were required.
“Mr. Brodie’s instructions were that you were to have this straight away.”
I unfolded the note.
It appeared that a meeting had been set for me at eleven o’clock this same morning at Crofts with Sir Anthony.
At last, I thought.
“It wasn’t necessary for you to bring round a note,” I told Alex. “He might have placed a telephone call.”
“Not at all, Lady Forsythe. I intended to come round very near this way this morning.” He blushed again. “I needed to bring round something for Miss Betty. And he did want you to have Sir Ridley’s calling card. The Home Secretary did provide a message there.”
The card was quite plain with an embossed crown emblem and Sir Ridley’s name and title across the bottom of the card. I turned it over.
The Home Secretary’s signature was scrawled across the back of the card.
“Mr. Brodie seemed to think that would be quite sufficient. I really must be going now,” he added.
He resembled a schoolboy who was off on an adventure when he was supposed to be at his lessons. Much as I had first imagined him when we first met through his work for the Agency.
An adventure indeed, I thought.
“You will let Brodie know that I received the message?”
“Of course. I have to return in time to meet the train to Dover.”
Dover?
Brodie said nothing the previous evening about going to Dover.
I supposed that it was possible it was something that came about just that morning. Or possibly not. It would not be the first time that he chose not to mention something that I might find interesting and question him about.
It was another example of this new arrangement with him off and about into unknown places. Dangerous places? And now a trip to Dover with Alex?
What was in Dover? Or perhaps the better question was who was in Dover?
“When will you be returning?” I casually inquired.
“Tomorrow at the earliest, if all goes well, if we’re able to obtain the information that we’ve been following. We might be able to take the last return ferry.”
I liked Alex very much. He was creative with his coding machine, intelligent to the point of genius. And still quite na?ve, the previous evening with Betty notwithstanding.
He had just revealed something that Brodie chose not to speak of. He did know me quite well.
Dover. A return ferry. Which obviously meant a trip across the channel.
“His French is quite lacking,” I casually mentioned. I assumed the destination was Calais.
“That is the reason I’ll be accompanying him,” Alex commented. “My language skills are quite substantial, and there is a mix of French and German spoken there as well.”
German and French. That could mean their destination was somewhere in the north of France, or possibly Belgium.
Most interesting I thought.
Alex made his way to the office door, obviously quite eager to be on his way.
“Do say hello to Betty for me,” I told him.
That caught him just as he reached the door.
“Yes-s-s-s, of course,” he stammered.
“You might take the lift,” I suggested. “The weather is quite dreadful this morning.”
“The stairs are much faster though...” he replied, the color spreading across his face once more at his obvious urgency to be off.
I did hope that he didn’t take a misstep on the stairs. They could be quite slick in the rain.
After he left, I went to Brodie’s desk and placed a telephone call to Crofts Bank.
A bank clerk answered the call. I was asked to wait.
He eventually returned and informed me that Sir Anthony Ellsworth had left thirty minutes prior for luncheon at his private club.
He was not expected back that afternoon.
According to what Lady Eugenia had shared when we met, Sir Anthony belonged to Brooks, that exclusive men’s club at St. James’s.
It was one of those men-only bastions for gaming, cigar smoke, meeting with one’s chums, taking a meal, and deciding the fate of the empire.
Of course, ladies were not allowed, as far as those present were aware. My great-aunt did have her adventures.
I stared down at the calling card Alex had delivered.
I quickly dressed, collected my notebook with that calling card, and slipped it into my bag.
Mr. Cavendish rolled out from the alcove by the sidewalk, kitted out in a thick coat and cap against the weather. The hound had joined him, no doubt in search of food that Miss Effie might have provided.
“It’s a right cold day out, miss. Will ye be travelin’ back to Cadogan Square?”
“Not at present,” I replied. “However, I will need a coach.”
Traffic on the street was filled with the usual chaos of traffic, vendors, coaches, draymen, and cabs.
Mr. Jarvis appeared and pulled up at the curb.
He worked for Barker and Company, a private transportation company.
His usual route included the Strand and the theatre district.
We had become well acquainted when there was a need for a driver.
And he was most congenial about the hound accompanying me.
“Will the hound be coming along with ye, miss?” Mr. Jarvis inquired.
It was tempting. However, I was fairly certain Rupert would not be looked upon favorably by the membership at Brooks.
“Not this time,” I replied and climbed aboard the coach.
“Where will it be this mornin’?” Mr. Jarvis called down.
“Number 60 St. James’s Street.”
“Are you certain this be the place, miss?” Mr. Jarvis inquired, obviously somewhat skeptical as we arrived at the entrance of the exclusive gentlemen’s club. I heard the doubt at his voice.
“Quite certain,” I replied as a man who appeared to be a member arrived, stepped down from his own coach, and was then formally greeted by a man dressed in the livery of a butler at the entrance to the club.
“I’ll wait just across the way with me rig until you’re ready to leave, no charge for the extra time.”
I caught the grin on his face as I stepped down from the coach and approached the entrance.
According to Aunt Antonia, Brooks was very nearly two hundred years old at the time she had her adventure there, and quite possibly the oldest gentlemen’s club in London. Her father had been a member.
“It was exciting to breach those hallowed walls and discover what awaited inside. I was quite rebellious then and the cigar was one of the finest I ever smoked.”
I could well imagine her adventure there. From the telling of it, it paled by comparison to my Paris adventures or a particular trip to a Greek Island.
The building that was Brooks filled the corner at St. James’s and the adjacent street at Park Place. The original building was built of Suffolk brick and Portland stone. The addition at Park Place a handful of years earlier was of more stately brick.
Stone column pilasters supported the upper three stories over the street with discreet mahogany doors, and tall windows spanned both sides at St. James’s Street.
It might have been any stately manor. It was discreet behind that polished wood door with a footman or butler who greeted members and their guests.