Epilogue
AND AFTERWARD...
The days became one week, two, then a month and Brodie did not return to the office nor to the town house at Cadogan Square. I was forced to accept that he would not return any time soon.
There were letters, hastily written, that told me nothing of his work in Paris.
Then holidays came and went, with little notice though my great-aunt put on her usual celebrations. I made my cursory appearance for her sake, then quickly departed.
With an occasional visit back to the office on the Strand, I learned through Mr. Cavendish that Brodie had returned once, briefly. He collected papers, informed Mr. Cavendish that he would have need of his services from time-to-time.
With encouragement from my brother-in-law James, I returned to my writing.
It was slow at first, as I had little interest in something that had once been quite fulfilling.
In the past, I had written about my travel adventures to far places with a great amount of success. I had then written the last three books, each closely resembling cases Brodie and I had pursued.
Write what you know, James once told me. So I began. Then began again until the floor at Cadogan Square was littered with possible beginnings that went nowhere. I eventually tore the last sheet of paper from the typewriter and closed the doors to the front parlor.
I had returned to Cadogan Square after...
Everything became after the Ellsworth case—after Brodie and I parted.
The construction of the townhouse at Mayfair was progressing as weather permitted, which meant not at all and could not continue until after the weather improved.
There was a post from Paris. His brief note spoke of the weather, and the long hours. He inquired about my health as if I was some distant relation. And perhaps I was.
“I hope you are well.”
I had responded back accordingly in care of a hotel!
“Quite well. I am working on my next book.” Not precisely true.
“The weather is quite dreary.”
Questions I wanted to ask but did not. Perhaps uneasy at the answers I might receive.
There was other correspondence, with no indication what he was working on or when he might return. If at all.
I spent time with my sister and her children until Linnie suggested with a bluntness that reminded me of our great-aunt, that I would undoubtedly prefer to spend my time elsewhere after she declared that I was miserable as sin and she would have no more of it.
I then took myself off to Sussex Square after that. Aunt Antonia had mentioned a concern for her business interests with Munro in Edinburgh.
“You might have a look.” She watched me with a keen eye.
I was not fooled by her less-than-subtle suggestion. And so I spent a great amount of time there, going with great care through her accounts that Munro had overseen previously, and discovered there was little for me to do there.
The new year came and went, followed by the Queen’s birthday, which she shared with Aunt Antonia.
Munro returned twice to oversee his responsibilities to my great-aunt. He had taken work in Edinburgh, although said little about what it was while Lily was pursuing work in a law office, as she continuing her search for information about her family following the tragic murder of her friend.
He shared little about Brodie, even though the two of them had been as brothers for most of their lives.
I returned to Edinburgh with Munro where it seemed that Lily had settled into her work for Sir Alastair McQuarrie. She had changed, quite mature now, with acquaintances who had become very dear to her, including a young boy named Kip.
I had assisted her with some inquiries Sir McQuarrie had asked her to make regarding a legal case that he was to present at court. However, it quickly became obvious that she was more than capable on her own with what she had learned from Brodie and myself.
“What of Mr. Brodie?” she had inquired with her usual bluntness. “How long will he be in Paris?”
It did seem as if everyone was informed about his travel there.
“You’ve had word from him?”
“Munro might have said something.”
Might have.
I was hardly needed in Edinburgh and took myself off to Old Lodge in the north and the dreadful midges who seemed committed to making life even more miserable.
Aunt Antonia joined me at Old Lodge, then departed after only a few days.
“I shall return after the bloody creatures are gone for the season,” she declared after a parting comment that she was re-considering her Viking sendoff.
“It would seem that I must remain for a while longer. It is highly inconsiderate of you and Brodie to stir things up.”
Stir things up? I did not recall that I had stirred anything up.
“You know very well my meaning,” she had continued. “Mr. Brodie has taken himself off. I have found there are usually two involved in such situations,” she pointedly pointed out.
“It is a rare thing to find a man who accepts you as you are.” She clucked under her breath.
“Such a shame. Particularly with such an interesting individual, though he obviously could be quite a challenge. He is a Scot after all. Yet challenges can be most delicious. Wouldn’t you agree?”
Delicious?
With that final bit of wisdom, she had departed. Not the first time I was taken aback by a glimpse into what she must have been like as a young woman.
The midges finally won, and I departed Old Lodge as well.
When I arrived back in London I returned to the office on the Strand.
Mr. Cavendish was not there, nor the hound. However, Mr. Presley, the tobacconist at the shop in the building next to the office where Brodie purchased his pipe tobacco, was there.
He had seen Mr. Cavendish just that morning. I was told he collected the mail and made certain all was well with the building.
“You’ve not been about lately...”
The sort of comment usually made in anticipation of a response. I did not.
As for Rupert...
Even though I had not been to the office in some time, he was there now. He was thinner, but quite excited as I knelt on the sidewalk to scratch his ears.
“He’s been a bit peevish with you away, miss. But always seems to know when you are about.”
I looked up as Mr. Cavendish rolled up on his platform on the sidewalk.
“There have been a couple persons by, but seeing the place closed, they move on.” He explained. “A young gentleman in particular has been here twice. I told explained that the two of you were away for a while after the last inquiry case...”
There was that word again—after.
I looked up at the office on the second-floor landing.
I half expected to see Brodie coming out the door as he had countless times in the past, even though it was quite obvious he was not there.
With a gust of wind stirring his dark hair, that expression on his face, his thoughts on a forthcoming visit with Mr. Dooley.
Or possibly a meeting with Mr. Browne, who might have information for him that was not to concern me.
I stood, the hound at my side as I went to the stairs as I had that first day years before, at the recommendation of my great-aunt after the disappearance of my sister.
The key was still in my bag. I climbed the stairs then opened the door.
The office was musty and quiet, a cobweb in the corner of the door frame. I brushed it aside, then turned on the electric as I always had.
Everything was as I remembered it from that last day and that last conversation as Brodie left.
I had not contacted Sir Laughton about the building. I could not. After all, Brodie owned it, not I, and it was for him to decide what was to be done with it.
There was still a sheet of paper in my typewriter, his pipe in the tray on his desk, the last notes I’d made still on the chalkboard.
I erased them, the case now long closed. I then raised the window shades and wiped the dust from my desk. I sat down before my typewriter and rolled that sheet of paper forward.
The words came slowly at first, then easier as the morning passed into the early afternoon, a light rain streaked the glass in the windows, and the hound rested at my feet. Almost as it was before.
‘He was tall with that mane of dark hair, dark eyes that had seen far too much, and the weariness in his face from the life he’d lived before.’
There was a sound on the landing, the usual creak of wood. Perhaps Mr. Cavendish with the post? I ignored it.
‘What would he find when he opened the door as he had hundreds of times?’ I continued typing.
‘Someone waiting? Someone waiting for something? Or someone?’
A sound at the door and the hound lifted his head. I turned from my desk.
A man was there, tall with that mane of dark hair, dark eyes that had seen far too much, and a weariness from the life he’d lived before...
My throat tightened.
After the past months, the silence, and that change between us. Now, the way he looked at me.
“There’s a gentleman with Mr. Cavendish. His wife has gone missing,” Brodie said, as he stood there in the doorway, hesitant, a question on those lean handsome features.
“We might help be able to assist,” he said, watching me, waiting.
There were questions, but he had already answered the only one that mattered.
“Perhaps you should invite him to come up to the office,” I replied. “So that we can begin.”