Seven
“You could have wakened me,” Brodie grumbled over his second cup of very strong coffee.
“I did not want to disturb you.” He was not in the least interested in food.
“Ye have a wicked way about ye, Mikaela Forsythe.”
I placed a carton on the desk in front of him, food that Mr. Cavendish had brought from the Public House. Point made.
I then went to the chalkboard and added notes to the list I had already made. I was hoping to meet today with the parents of Charlotte Davies, and then return to The Times.
As helpful as Theodolphus Burke was, it would be even more helpful to know who placed the advertisements in the newspaper that both Gwen Tavers and Lizzie had apparently responded to. As for this evening ...
“Yer workin’ with the man now?” Brodie asked, apparently having read the notes I made.
“Not precisely working with him, but he may provide valuable information.”
“Be careful with that one. As ye well know, the man is not trustworthy. He’ll do whatever it takes to further his own career ... and other things.”
Other things?
“Whatever is your meaning?”
He was much the worse for wear from the previous night, with his hair scraped back from somewhat sharp features that might have had to do with some discomfort from the wound on his head, along with the beard that was sorely in need of a trim. That dark gaze narrowed on me with disapproval.
“Ye know well my meanin’, Mikaela. Ye are a striking woman and Burke is no’ dead. Given the opportunity, he would more than likely try to have his way with ye. And I would be forced to permanently remove him from this earth.”
Have his way with me? I almost burst out laughing at the thought. However, it was obvious that Brodie was quite serious.
“In the first place, I might have a say in that sort of situation, which would definitely not be to his liking,” I pointed out. “In the second place, I have proven myself quite capable of taking care of myself, as you well know.
“And third, he is not at all the sort of person I would allow myself to be with in a dark room, much less tolerate anything ... of an intimate nature.”
“And precisely what sort of person would ye allow yerself to be with in a dark room?”
“I do believe you already know the answer to that, Mr. Brodie.”
He was quiet, in that way I have learned to recognize when there are deep and serious thoughts going on behind that dark gaze.
“Ye should know, that I would kill anyone who tried to harm ye.”
It might have been the residual of our conversation the night before, or perhaps that head wound. Or it might have been something far deeper that undoubtedly came from that early loss and the years between, when he had fought to survive on the streets.
“Yes, well, you might as well take Mr. Burke off your list. He’s a toad. I could flatten him with a single move.”
That brought a faint smile. “A toad?”
I had to admit that our conversation gave me a moment’s pause. Actually, more than a moment.
I knew there was little that Brodie was afraid of. His background had provided an education in survival. Still, there was that moment when he said quite simply what he would do to Burke.
Not for the first time, I wondered what sort of man I had married. Someone I knew I could trust, to be certain. A man who was afraid of very near nothing, or at least nothing that I ever saw. As for that cold, perfectly calm statement ...
“I suppose that you are off again on behalf of the Agency?” I commented, as I prepared a message to be sent round to Harold Davies at the Commonwealth Office at Whitehall.
“Sir Blandford’s whereabouts, perhaps?”
“Some matters I need to attend to.”
Which told me nothing at all.
“Should I expect you for supper then, dear?” I replied with no small amount of sarcasm, even though I already knew the answer. He looked at me, no words necessary.
“And yerself?” he asked, redirecting the conversation in that maddening way.
“I will be off with Linnie to the Grosvenor Gallery this evening.”
He nodded in that faintly distracted way, his thoughts already on the day ahead.
I poured another cup of coffee for the both of us. He quickly downed his, then went down the hallway to the ‘accommodation’ room that did now have both hot and cold water.
When he returned, any remaining dried blood had been washed away, his hair wet, his stained shirt thrown over one shoulder. Dressed simply in trousers, boots, and nothing more.
Speaking of distractions …
He was quite a stirring sight, his body lean with a few marks from ‘past encounters,’ as he called them. And a reminder of that other reason I had agreed to marry him.
“Take the hound with ye,” he reminded me.
“I cannot very well take him to the gallery,” I pointed out. “I shall be quite safe. James is to collect us afterward and will see me back to Mayfair.”
When he would have returned to the adjacent room, no doubt in search of a clean shirt, he stopped. The glare was gone, replaced by another expression—soft at the edges and thoughtful.
“He may be your publisher, but he doesna know you as I do.” He touched my cheek. “And yer way of gettin’ yerself into trouble.”
I gave him an innocent look. “Whatever do you mean?”
“Aye, goin’ off on yer own where ye shouldna.”
“Only when you are not available, or otherwise occupied.”
“Ye with yer proper words and yer stubbornness. Ye mean more to me than my life, Mikaela Forsythe.”
“No one is asking that of you,” I pointed out.
I never knew what to say in these moments when he said something like that, hardly romantic. Yet the words meant far more.
“You might remain for a short while longer this morning,” I suggested.
That smile.
“It would be longer than a short while, lass.”
But not this morning.
“Then you must promise to come back in one piece, and that includes any further injury or loss of blood.”
“Are ye concerned that I might not be able to perform my responsibilities?”
Responsibilities, was it?
He brushed my lips with his fingers, a gesture that always had a way of cooling any anger between us.
When he returned from the bedroom, he was fully clothed and went to the drawer in the cabinet where he usually kept his revolver and retrieved additional bullets.
I wanted to tell him once more to be careful, yet I knew what his response would be.
“Ye as well, lass,” he said upon leaving, as if he had read my thoughts. “And I thank ye kindly for the information.”
After Brodie departed, I had Mr. Cavendish take a message for the courier service to be delivered to Charlotte Davies’s father at Whitehall.
In the event he failed to respond, I was prepared to call upon Mrs. Davies. It was important to determine if there was a similarity to the disappearances of Gwen Tavers and Lizzie Smith.
I wanted next to return to The Times office to learn who had placed that advertisement. It might very well provide a clue into the disappearances of the young women—not that I was looking forward to another meeting with Theodolphus Burke.
I dressed for the day, then closed and locked the office door. I gave the message for Mr. Davies to Mr. Cavendish.
“Will you be returning soon, miss?”
I explained that I was going to call on Mr. Burke again, and then would return to see if there was any response to the message I wanted to have the courier deliver.
I assured him that I was making progress on behalf of Gwen Tavers. Although as the days passed, I wished that I had more information.
“Burke,” he snorted. “That one. Claims to be the eyes and ears of London. To my way of thinkin’ he stirs up trouble to sell more papers. Nothin’ more than a busybody old woman. No insult intended, miss.”
“None taken, Mr. Cavendish.”
It was hardly late in the morning when I arrived at the newspaper offices; still, I was informed that Mr. Burke was not presently there. I then inquired about Mr. Charles in the advertising department, and discovered that he was indeed in the building.
“If it’s regarding advertising, I can have one of the clerks meet with you,” the desk attendant informed me.
I merely nodded and proceeded to the lift.
Upon arriving at the third floor, I encountered a woman at a desk who was obviously one of those clerks, as she rose from the typewriting machine on her desk.
I replied to her that I was there to meet with Mr. Charles.
She informed me that she could assist me with whatever I needed for advertising.
“Mr. Charles is responsible for all advertising for the newspaper, is he not?” I persisted.
“He is,” the young woman replied. “However …”
She was only doing as she was instructed. However, I have found that a somewhat creative response—Brodie would call it a lie—often goes a long way when it comes to acquiring information.
“I do have an appointment with him, if you will please inform him.”
“An appointment? Yes, of course,” she replied. “And your name, miss?”
“Lady Forsythe.”
Even though I rarely referred to my title, it was usually sufficient to achieve the purpose.
“Lady Forsythe?” Mr. Charles greeted me with a somewhat perplexed expression. “You have an appointment?”
“Not precisely. But I do need your assistance. I was told you can provide the information that I am looking for. It is regarding an advertisement which has caused a certain difficulty in the family.
“It appears as if a certain young lady has responded to it, and I wish to contact the person who placed it, to explain that it was made in error,” I added.
“I see. I do understand your concerns.” He asked me to accompany him to a nearby office.
“You must understand that once the responses are received, they are turned over to the person who placed the advertisement. They own the information, as it were.”
“That is precisely the reason that I need to meet with that person directly so that it will cause no further difficulty.”
“It is highly irregular to provide that information. Many of our advertisers choose to remain anonymous for a variety of reasons.”