Four
I told myself that it mattered not if Brodie wasn’t there.
If not, if some matter had delayed him—a new inquiry case perhaps, then I would simply carry on to Sandringham on my own.
All very well and good. I should have known better.
He was there with that usual diligence from having served with the MET, accompanied by Alex Sinclair who had brought final instructions from Sir Avery as he handed us our travel tickets.
“There is a telegraph office at the rail station at Wolferton which is very near Sandringham if you should need to make contact with the Agency.” He looked from me to Brodie, then continued.
“The staff at Sandringham have been made aware of your arrival and that you are to be given every courtesy, as well as access to all areas. If you should need to remain for an extended period of time, you will be provided accommodations.”
Remain? I had not anticipated that. It was my intention to complete our inquiries quickly.
What did you expect? That inner voice piped in.
“That should cover everything,” Alex concluded. “Again, Sir Avery has requested that you are to remain in contact with any progress,” he added as the last call went out for us to board.
“Do either of you have any questions?”
“That will do,” Brodie responded, the first words he had spoken since my arrival, as I walked to the railcar where we were to board.
We had been provided accommodations in a compartment rather than seats in the main carriage, although that would have been preferable as it would have eliminated the necessity for any conversation.
Perhaps a window seat, I thought now, where I could simply ignore him.
That hope was dashed as other passengers, an older man and woman, had already arrived and had taken window seats across from each other.
“We most certainly have a pleasant day for our trip,” the woman commented with a smile.
That depended on one’s definition of pleasant, I thought. Brodie seemed to be of the same opinion as he removed his hat, his expression appearing quite doomed. That was the only word for it. I was in agreement.
“It was dreadful when we first arrived a week ago,” our companion prattled on. “It rained the entire time. We have been to theater several times though. Most enjoyable.”
That of course required my part of the conversation. I politely inquired which play they had seen.
“As You Like It,” she replied. “And only in London for a brief engagement. We are celebrating our anniversary and were fortunate to obtain tickets.”
And that required the next obvious question as I took my seat at the other end of the compartment near the door by the outside passageway, and Brodie took the one across.
“We’ve been married thirty-five years.” She glowed in response. “Three daughters and two sons.”
Thirty-five years? Good heavens! Brodie and I hadn’t been able to manage one year and some months.
“Ye are to be congratulated,” he commented.
“May I ask, how long you have been married?” the woman inquired, making the natural assumption as we were traveling together, and I was still wearing the bronze wedding band Brodie had given me.
That dark gaze met mine. I started to reply something vague that wouldn’t bring about more questions. Under the circumstances, I had no desire to be drawn into a conversation about the merits of marriage.
“I apologize. You must forgive my wife’s curiosity.”
“We’ve been married a few months,” Brodie finally provided.
“You are quite recently married then,” our companion chirped. “How delightful.”
Delightful? I ignored the look Brodie gave me from across the compartment.
“You are just beginning your lives together, a very exciting time,” she continued. “I do hope that you will celebrate many happy years together.”
At present that seemed highly unlikely.
I didn’t reply. It wasn’t necessary, the woman was capable of carrying on a full conversation on her own.
“My dear husband, I am certain, would tell you that patience and understanding are the key to a happy marriage. And the ability to admit when one is wrong.” She aimed a look at her husband with that last remark.
Patience? Understanding? Admitting one was wrong? Oh, my.
Her husband was very definitely not a Scot.
Our companion’s husband gently reminded his wife that we might perhaps have other matters to concern us on the journey.
“That is my husband’s way of suggesting that I have spoken out of turn. I hope that I have not offended,” she chirped, much like a little bird.
With a long look at me, Brodie assured her that she had not. And it was not necessary for us to join the conversation even if we had wanted.
Our companion was most capable as she commented on the countryside once we had left London property behind, an overlong description of the play they had seen, and then about their children.
Chirp, chirp, chirp.
We arrived at Wolferton station in Norfolk just after midday and then continued on to Sandringham by coach.
The manor had originally been purchased by Prince Albert several years prior, intended for the young Prince of Wales when he had his own family.
Over the years it had been torn down, rebuilt, and the surrounding property transformed to accommodate the Prince of Wales’s growing family and his love of country sports that included hunting and other ‘games .’
It provided a respite from duties in the city, and he often departed Marlborough House for Sandringham, met there by close friends, while the Princess chose to remain in London.
It was an arrangement that seemed to suit both of them. She then joined him with their growing family for holidays and long stays in the countryside. The fact that his hunting excursions in the country were rumored to include his mistress of the moment was apparently tolerated by the Princess.
That brought us to the previous several days, when the Prince of Wales had been entertaining that close circle of friends once more, and Sir Anthony Collingwood had disappeared.
Sandringham was like a grand lady, with double wings of Jacobean architecture in red brick, with an elaborate conservatory off the main entrance, and vast gardens spread around.
It was said to have over thirty bedrooms, a formal dining hall, as well as a ballroom, a second dining room for smaller parties, and a grand hall for family holiday celebrations. There were also living quarters for over two hundred servants and staff, many who had lived in and about Sandringham village all their lives.
The ride from the rail station had been mostly a silent one. That changed as soon as the grand estate came into view. It was monstrous, with two stories and spread out amid gardens that rivaled that of Buckingham Palace. So much for a simple country home, as it had been described.
“How the bloody hell are we to search for clues to the man’s disappearance?” Brodie commented with a dark glower out the coach window. “It would take the full staff of the Metropolitan Police,”
I was of much the same opinion.
Even so, Alex Sinclair had informed us before we departed that billiards and other gaming that the prince’s guests had enjoyed during that recent stay usually took place in the conservatory. That seemed a place to begin.
“We’ll be fortunate not to get lost in the bloody place.”
The sarcasm was there. I chose to ignore it.
“I’m certain we will be escorted by one of the servants. According to Sir Avery, they have been given instructions to assist us in whatever manner we might need.”
The master of the household appeared as we arrived at the entrance and introduced himself. Mr. Compton announced that he had been in contact with the Prince of Wales and he had been instructed that we were to be provided every courtesy during our ‘ visit ,’ including accommodations for the night if our stay extended.
He was dressed in a simply cut suit of clothes rather than royal livery that would have been required in London.
Brodie assured him that we would prefer to take up our responsibilities immediately so not to inconvenience anyone.
Mr. Compton nodded. “Everything has been left as it was two days ago. I will show you to the conservatory.”
The entrance hall was connected to what was referred to as the saloon. From there, we were escorted down a hallway that contained a rich carpet over wood floors, and walls crowded with portraits of what I could only assume were long-dead ancestors or other persons of note.
As we reached the end of the hallway, Mr. Compton announced the other servants had been instructed that we were not to be disturbed.
I caught the faint sniff of disapproval as well as the curious glances of a handful of other servants at an adjacent hallway as we then followed him into the red brick conservatory with arched floor-to-ceiling windows that looked out on the gardens.
Another servant waited just inside the entrance. We were informed that Mr. Flannery, head steward, had attended the Prince of Wales and guests during their stay and when it was discovered that Sir Collingwood had gone missing.
Mr. Flannery was older, in much the same attire as Mr. Compton.
“He has been instructed to assist in whatever way you might need in the matter, and should be able to answer any questions you have about the evening in question.
“You have only to let him know if I may be of further service,” Mr. Compton added, then stiffly bowed and departed.
Brodie thanked Mr. Flannery and told him that we would let him know if we had any questions.
“Of course, sir.”
“Do they give instruction to servants in how to be difficult and condescending?” Brodie said in a lowered voice as we proceeded inside the conservatory.
More than a half dozen words? And condescending? I smiled to myself.
If he wasn’t careful, we might have a full-blown conversation, I thought, and simply answered, “Of course. However, some are born to it.”
There was another muttered comment which was obviously in Gaelic.
“Ye canna mean they have that way already about them while still in their nappies?”
I left him with that as I continued along the length of the large gaming table with chairs set about in the center of the room. Smaller tables sat along the two long sides of the conservatory.
One of those was set with a chess board and pieces, another set with a cribbage board, with yet another set with dice and a leather cup.
We each continued down the long sides of the building with those tall windows with palm trees set between.
I made a sketch of the large room, that included the entrance, a set of exit doors at the far end of the conservatory, as well as a barely noticeable side door set into wood panels that lined the wall opposite those windows.
I then sketched the gaming tables, including the large center table where cards still remained, as well as the billiards table toward the far end.
It was now quite bare of cue sticks and gaming balls that had obviously been returned to the cabinet nearby. So much for everything left as it was that last night.
Chairs about the center table were positioned as they might have been the last night, and it appeared that baccarat had been the game of choice.
The gaming shoe was there, along with cards for what might have been the final game of the night, some turned over, others not, but with a set of cards displayed before the shoe—the obvious winning hand.
“Are ye are familiar with the game?” Brodie asked.
I did know a little about it, learned on one of my travels.
“It’s a game of strategy. One bets on the bank or the player who possesses the shoe.”
“A gentleman’s game,” he commented. “Ye have played it as well?”
“I was a guest of one of the players on one of my travels abroad.”
He then moved around the table where the cards had been left just as they had been played that last game.
When he didn’t reply, I continued to explain what I thought might be useful.
“I was curious about the game, and one of the players who was in our travel party was kind enough to explain it to me.
“There could be something the cards might tell us,” I added. “It is possible that there might have been some disagreement over a winning draw that might have sent Sir Collingwood off,” I suggested.
He didn’t look up as he continued to observe the table. “A substantial bet that was lost?”
“It has happened,” I stated. “The object of the game is to bet which hand will have the greatest value with the highest score of cards up to a total of nine,” I continued, since I was the only one carrying on this conversation.
“Aye.”
“The tens and face cards are all counted as zero. The Ace is worth one, the two is worth two, and other cards accordingly with the goal of getting as close as possible to a winning draw of nine.
“Bets are placed, then made on the highest count among the players and have been known to be made with jewelry, a prize racehorse, or…”
“A woman?” he suggested.
It was a possibility, I thought, considering His Highness’s history with mistresses and other arrangements for entertainment that were quite well-known . And perhaps someone whose name was not on that list His Highness had provided.
“A lady with a penchant for cigarettes, it would seem.” He picked up the remnant of one from a silver dish on the game table.
“The dark foreign kind. And one who prefers the color red.” He handed the stained cigarette butt to me.
“So, it would seem,” I replied.
It was most certainly possible that His Highness’s guests had included the current woman he favored. Or was it someone else with the unusual but not entirely unique habit of smoking a cigarette? Entertainment for the guests?
I handed the cigarette back to him, then made a note of it in my notebook. Brodie removed an envelope from his inside jacket pocket and tucked the cigarette inside.
Conversation continued to be limited to our observations, much as it was in the beginning of our partnership.
So be it, I thought. But there was something else along with it, something in those few words we exchanged, and his comments.
I wanted very much to speak with him about it, however it was very obvious by his responses that he did not wish to speak with me other than our observations about Sir Collingwood’s disappearance.
So here we were, quite literally ordered to work together in this new inquiry. But the word together , somewhat of a misnomer.
I could have refused Sir Avery’s summons, and perhaps should have. Brodie’s coolness, almost indifference, was aggravating and painful.
However, Sir Avery had been most adamant. I had tried to explain it to Brodie before I left with Lily and my great-aunt for Africa months earlier. But he refused to listen. And now?
Men could be so obstinate, most particularly a Scot. They seemed to pride themselves on it.
I had experienced that before as well, but this was different, and I couldn’t help a twinge of uncertainty when I had always been most certain and in control of my emotions.
I continued to make my own observations, writing them in my notebook as I passed the other tables in the conservatory.
As I examined that chess game further, it was apparent that it had been well underway with several pieces captured by both players, while at another table dice had been the game of choice. At yet another table, a game of cribbage had taken place.
A silver salver sat at yet another small table with two chairs. It contained the remnants of a dark liquid that caught my attention. The contents were thick and smelled slightly sweet.
Brodie stopped me when I would have tasted it in an attempt to try to identify it. “Ye dinna want to do that. It’s opium,” he explained. “It’s been cooked down from seeds and quite potent.”
I was well aware of the presence of the drug in certain circles, particularly among the lower classes in the East End. And there were the usual rumors, of course, about it’s being found in some of those exclusive London men’s clubs.
From my experience during our inquiry cases, I knew that it was usually smoked in a pipe. Or in rare cases consumed as a pill, according to our friend Mr. Brimley, the chemist, those pills often prescribed for ladies with nervous complaints.
Opium had been banned some years before, yet that didn’t seem to end the availability or the demand. According to something Brodie had once said, smugglers simply found another way to bring it into the country out from under the eye of the authorities.
I returned the salver to the table, then made a note about the discovery.
“It seems that His Highness or at least some of his guests indulge,” I commented.
A gentleman’s gathering in the country for gambling, apparently at least one woman who was present, and other entertainments, including illegal drugs.
Most interesting, but what did that tell us about Sir Collingwood’s disappearance?
We continued our separate inspections around the conservatory. The Prince had assured that everything was left the way it was that last night before it was discovered that Sir Anthony had disappeared and the other guests had departed.
Still, it was obvious that the servants, or someone, had straightened the room and I wondered what might have been removed.
All in the interest of protecting the reputation of those present? Or perhaps one particular person—the Prince of Wales?
I might have missed the telltale gleam if the late afternoon sunlight was not slanted just so through one of those arched windows: something on the floor between two chairs at the table. I pulled back one of the chairs and knelt to retrieve the item.
“What have ye found?” Brodie asked.
It glittered in my hand, something the servants had apparently overlooked.
“Red lip-coloring, a fondness for Turkish cigarettes, and,” I held aloft the piece of jewelry. “A gold chain with a pendant.”
It seemed that the woman in question had expensive tastes. The pendant held a large stone. I handed it to Brodie.
“It does appear to be real gold,” he announced as he examined it. “Perhaps a gift from one of the gentlemen.”
“A special friend to one of the gentlemen? Or possibly payment for a night of companionship?”
“Aye, perhaps.”
The mistress of His Highness? Or did it belong to someone else? I added the question to the growing list.
“It could be useful,” he commented, and tucked the necklace into the envelope along with that cigarette.
We spent the next couple of hours retracing our steps to make certain we hadn’t missed anything in the conservatory.
Mr. Flannery had returned to inquire if we wanted to see any other rooms during our visit.
Brodie inquired about Sir Collingwood’s private rooms for his stay that weekend.
“Of course, sir.”
The door in that one wall that I had made note of when we first arrived opened onto a hallway into the main palace, with another door directly across.
“And this room?” Brodie inquired.
“That is a bathing chamber, sir.” Mr. Flannery replied.
A bathing chamber on the main floor, just outside the gaming room.
How very interesting, I thought.
“Would you care to see it, sir?”
Brodie nodded.
“Perhaps yourself and not the lady,” Mr. Flannery suggested.
I stepped past him, opened the door and entered the room.
It was elaborately decorated and included a chaise, a clawfoot tub, and a curious attached fixture mounted overhead at the end of a pipe.
Where a man, or woman, or possibly both might refresh themselves afterward? Or perhaps there was some other intended use…?
Two towels lay on the floor where they had obviously been discarded. It did appear two persons had been the last occupants. I glanced over at Brodie. He frowned as he made notice of it as well.
“I must remind the housemaids to clean the rooms once you have concluded your inspection,” Mr. Flannery commented with that same stoic expression.
Brodie looked over at me. “Make yer notes and then we’ll continue on.”
Notes were one thing, however, I did wonder how to describe the overhead fixture.
When making inquiries in a case where a crime has been committed, I had discovered over almost two years, there were often gruesome discoveries. Then, there were the ‘private habits’ of those we encountered.
In addition to the well-known rumors about His Highness’s habits, it did seem as if his guests had indulged in some additional ‘ recreation ’ during their stay last weekend.
There was that particular fixture mounted over the bathtub, along with an assortment of jars and bottles. Then there was a length of rope that appeared to be made of satin. There was also what appeared to be several rolled pieces of wool that had been discarded into a basket. I was somewhat familiar with them from the earliest part of my more private relationship with Brodie.
I made several notes as he asked, “Might we see Sir Collingwood’s private room now?”
“Of course, sir,” Mr. Flannery replied without the slightest change of expression or reaction at what we had discovered in the bathroom.
We followed Mr. Flannery to a lift at the end of the hallway beyond that bathing chamber, and discreetly hidden behind carved wood double doors.
“The rooms Sir Collingwood usually occupies, along with other guests, are some distance apart on the second floor.”
After arriving at the second floor, he accompanied us to that suite of rooms, and opened the door onto the main sitting room.
“If there is anything else, sir…?” Mr. Flannery started to say.
Brodie immediately thanked him. “That will be all.”
He nodded and left us to our observations as I slowly walked about the room. Its thick window coverings were drawn this late in the day, the chamber lit by several electric fixtures.
It was said that His Highness had the latest amenities installed for when his family visited Sandringham. And obviously for ‘guests’ as well.
Water was provided to each room through a series of pipes with running water from a water tower on the grounds of the estate. Electricity was provided by a gas-powered plant.
The formal parlor for the suite was decorated as one might expect of a hunting lodge, with the heads of a water buffalo, a lion, deer, and boar that ran along the tastes of my father, and which I always thought quite garish.
The parlor provided no additional clues and we continued into the adjoining bedchamber.
“It does seem that either Sir Collingwood is an extremely tidy person, or the rooms have been cleaned and quite thoroughly,” Brodie commented.
I was of much the same opinion as I moved about the room, looking for anything out of the ordinary that might tell us something about his stay and that last night before Sir Collingwood disappeared.
Yet, in spite of everything in its place, there did seem to be a strange fragrance in the room that had obviously been closed off the past few days. It wasn’t a woman’s fragrance but something else.
“Juniper,” I remarked as it came to me at last.
Brodie looked over at me. “I beg yer pardon? Have ye found something?”
“There is the scent of juniper in the room. I recognize it from the forest around Old Lodge.”
I caught the change of expression on his face when I mentioned Old Lodge, a place that held memories for us both. He frowned but said nothing as he continued to inspect the wardrobe and a table set with a decanter with what might have been brandy and two crystal tumblers.
I continued my own search and discovered the source of that familiar scent.
“It is here,” I announced as I found a crushed spring of juniper caught in the double doors that led out onto a balcony.
Brodie followed me out onto the balcony.
The brisk air was refreshing after the mustiness of the room, with steps that led down to the gardens below. Brodie immediately followed those steps and disappeared into the growing darkness.
I eventually caught the glow from the beam of the handheld light he always carried. He returned with a thoughtful expression.
“It appears that Sir Collingwood may have taken a late-night walk about the grounds, however there are no juniper trees nearby. There are footprints but not enough light to see beyond the garden.”
“The forest where His Highness and guests usually hunt is just beyond the gardens,” I replied.
He nodded. “And not enough light about to tell us where those prints may lead. We will need to return tomorrow.”
It was obvious by the disappointment in his voice that he had hoped we might be able to conclude our search for clues into Sir Collingwood’s disappearance and return to London the same day. I had hoped for the same. However, that was not to be.
I tucked the piece of juniper into my bag and we returned to the bedchamber to continue our search for anything else that might tell us something about that last night.
The bed linens had been changed, discovered when Brodie pulled back the brocade comforter and ran his hands over the surface of the linens, while I searched the adjoining bathroom.
Unlike the one off the conservatory, there was nothing unusual there. A linen towel had been dropped into a basket for staff to collect. If the lady in question had been in these rooms there was nothing to indicate it.
I returned to the main bedchamber and continued my inspection at the writing desk where a man of Sir Collingwood’s expertise and habit might make notes. Everything there was in order as well—parchment stationery and pen with a blotter to prevent the ink smearing. All of it apparently untouched.
Brodie had returned to the small parlor.
“The hearth is clean as well,” he commented. “It would seem that Sir Collingwood did not have a fire that last night. Or possibly it has been cleaned. We need to speak with the servants who were present.”
We had been informed by Sir Avery that the servants had all been questioned about anything unusual they might have seen or heard that last night of the gentlemen’s get-together.
Mr. Flannery reminded us of that.
“Nevertheless, sir,” Brodie told him. “We wish to speak with the servants who were on this floor that last night.”
There were four servants who had been assigned to the floor the night Sir Collingwood disappeared, to see to various duties should he or any of the other guests require anything—a late supper, perhaps additional drink, a book from the library, more coal for the fire, or a late-night tonic against some discomfort.
We met with each of the servants in the ground floor library. They appeared one-by-one, escorted by Mr. Compton who then hovered silently nearby.
We spoke first with the floor steward, who assured us there was nothing amiss that last night. Sir Collingwood had retired for the evening just after midnight and there had been no further exchange with him.
The footman confirmed that same information. He had made certain there was enough coal in the coal bin that night as the temperatures had grown quite chilly with the changing season.
Monsieur Duladier, the valet who attended Sir Collingwood that night, saw to it that his clothes were cleaned and pressed for the evening and other entertainments, then returned late in the evening to make certain that all was in readiness for Sir Collingwood to retire for the night.
There was some difficulty between the man’s obvious French accent and Brodie’s thick Scots accent.
Although whether the difficulty was merely one of language or perhaps contrived on Monsieur Duladier’s part, I repeated the questions in French much to his surprise.
Had there been any late arrivals for the weekend that were not on the list provided? I asked. He replied in surprisingly excellent English that had not been so clear earlier.
Had there been any messages or telegrams delivered or received? There had not been.
Was there any indication that Sir Collingwood might have left his chambers at any time after he retired for the evening?
“No, madame,” Duladier replied. “He did not leave his chambers.”
Yet, those footprints Brodie had found below Sir Collingwood’s chambers told something different.
“Might he have had a visitor late at night?”
His response was the same.
“Will that be all, madame?” the valet then inquired.
I was quite done with the man, with no patience for rudeness or condescending attitudes.
It was Brodie who informed him, “That will be all.”
It did seem that our inquiries were at an end, to be taken up again in the morning when there was sufficient daylight to investigate those footprints Brodie had discovered at the base of the steps.
“May we see to your accommodations now, sir?” Mr. Flannery inquired.
“Thank ye kindly, but no. We will be staying in the village and returning in the morning,” Brodie informed him.
I looked at him with some surprise, however staying over in the village for the night would give us the opportunity to discuss what we had learned, away from walls that had ears.
“You will require a coach then, sir,” Mr. Flannery replied. “I will have Mr. Compton inform the stablemaster.”
It was late in the evening when we finally arrived at the village. Brodie had the driver take us to the only inn in the small community.
“Yer in luck,” the woman at the counter told us. “I have one room left, wot with those who are here for the races.”
Brodie frowned. “That will do.”
The woman was the chatty sort and continued as people do who lived in places beyond London and were often quite friendly.
“We thought His Highness might have one of his horses entered in the races,” she continued. “But I was told he has returned early to London.” She turned the guest book around for Brodie to sign.
“He’s quite a fan as well and usually has one of his horses entered. He’s a beauty...the horse, I mean.
“Breakfast is served beginning at seven in the morning on race days,” she continued as she handed Brodie the room key. “And there is still supper available, if ye’ve a mind to. Me girl, Molly, can fix ye up with some stewed chicken fresh today.”
Neither of us had eaten since before leaving London. Brodie nodded and our hostess directed us to the common room.
I have been in taverns before and this one was much the same. They all seemed to have the same things in common, no matter the part of England—patrons at the long bar with others at several small tables, and boisterous conversation, a game or two of dice in progress.
However, instead of gossip or shouts among dock workers and other laborers as I had heard in London, the conversations here in the Norfolk countryside were about the forthcoming races, with side bets being made over conversation about the owner, the jockey, or a particular horse.
Most of the patrons were at the bar where a lively discussion was underway about a local horse as Brodie found an empty table. The discussion was soon joined by two other patrons who argued that the animal was a slow starter and not a ‘mudder,’ with the weather that was expected the following day.
“It seems that we should get an early start in the morning,” I commented, so to avoid those who were attending the races.
He nodded, then went to the bar to inquire about supper while I took out my notebook.
I had just set pen to the page when the table was suddenly jarred, creating a vivid streak of ink across the page.
“My, but ain’t you a pretty one.”
I looked into the bleary-eyed gaze of a stout older man with ruddy cheeks and somewhat patchwork gray beard. He was dressed like the patrons in a worn jacket and trousers, and leaned toward me in a haze of beer, hands braced on the edge of the table.
“We don’t see yer sort around here exceptin’ when His Highness is about and one of his guests drop by.”
“Perhaps recently with a woman?”
I thought it worth asking since we now knew there had been a woman among the guests at Sandringham.
He shook his head and I thought the exertion of that might send him toppling over, he was so wobbly. However, he recovered sufficiently and steadied himself by bracing his hands on the table.
“No women other than servants, and I would know as I keep the stables near the station. The gentlemen guests all came in together and there wasn’t a woman among ’em unless she was dressed the same as themselves.” He laughed at that.
“Yer the first in a long while and a pretty one. How about I buy you a pint?”
I politely refused.
“Too high and mighty for Darby, are you?”
“Not at all…” I started to explain to him that I was there with someone even as that person returned.
“The lady said she didna care to take a drink with ye. Move along.”
Brodie had returned and, more or less politely, asked him to leave.
“Ye will leave now, and not bother the lady again.”
“The lady might have a different answer.” Darby replied, weaving slightly as he confronted Brodie who was several inches taller and not the slightest impaired.
“What gives you the right?”
“The lady is my wife!” Brodie responded in a tone that left no doubt or room for argument.
All things considered I was as surprised as Mr. Darby. Since our that first meeting the day before after my return to London, he had been remote, almost indifferent, refusing to engage in anything more than professional conversation necessary to the case.
“Wife?” Mr. Darby replied in a somewhat drunken slur. Then he laughed.
“No bother,” he said then with hands raised. “But a lucky man, you be with such a fair one.”
He chuckled and then left, bracing himself against another table as he made his way back to the bar.
Brodie watched him leave, then took the chair opposite at the table. That dark gaze met mine, briefly.
“The girl will bring supper.”
And that was the total of our supper conversation. Afterward, we climbed the stairs to the second floor over the tavern.
We found the room and Brodie inserted the large iron key into the lock.
The room was small but clean, with what passed for an overstuffed chair, a small table, wash stand, and a narrow bed against the far wall that was hardly meant for two people.
“I’ll stay in the common room below,” he commented with a look at the bed.
“That’s not necessary…”
It certainly had never been an issue in the past when we were working together or...when not working together. The bed in the adjacent room at the office on the Strand was hardly larger.
But this was different. And I had to admit I felt a tightness deep inside that made it hard to breathe with this difficulty between us.
“You will hardly be able to get any sleep with the tavern full of customers,” I pointed out. “Heaven knows if any of them will go home for the night.”
“Mikaela…”
I heard something in his voice. He hesitated, then finally agreed.
“I’ll take the chair.”
So, there we were, in a tavern in Norfolk, with that narrow bed and an overstuffed chair, which the description defied as there appeared to be little stuffing in it.
I had not seriously considered that we might need to stay over. However, it was not the first time and I undressed down to my chemise and petticoat then crawled under the blankets.
I wakened sometime later to the sounds of Brodie shifting about in the chair, followed by silence.
I had given him a blanket from the bed earlier, however there was no coal stove and the room had grown quite cold through the night. I removed a blanket from the bed, the table and that chair dark shadows, as I crossed the room.
I was careful not to waken him if he should have gone back to sleep as I laid the second blanket over him. He had not, that dark gaze meeting mine in the half-light that spilled through the window.
I saw so many things there. Memories perhaps from the past when we had shared a room? And a bed? Or perhaps only weariness from tossing about in an attempt to get comfortable?
I wanted very much to ease whatever it was I saw there—questions, words left unspoken? Anger? Was it still there?
Then, I felt the brush of his hand on mine.
The things I thought I saw were still there in that dark gaze, along with something else. Something that might have been sadness? Or regret?
Whatever it was, I felt it as well.
“ Caileag ,” that Scots accent wrapped around the word.
I had no way of knowing what it meant, my Gaelic limited to a few words and phrases. But there was something in the way he said it, a softness what wrapped around it, far different from the anger that had sent me from him months before.
Then his hand slipped from mine.
I returned to the bed, and lay there in the darkness unable to sleep.