Nine
I returned to the office on the Strand early in the morning, with thoughts of my next steps in attempting to learn more about Gwen Tavers’s disappearance.
I was met at the sidewalk by Mr. Cavendish when I arrived.
“Have you spoken again with Mr. Tavers?” I inquired. “Has he received any word of his daughter?”
“I met him at the pub last night,” he replied. “There’s no word. And yerself?”
“Not as yet,” I admitted. “However, there is someone I hope to meet with today in a related matter that might tell us something.”
I was not willing to share more, as I knew all too well that it could only raise false hopes.
“And Mr. Brodie?” I then inquired.
“He did not return, and there’s been no word from him. You know how it is when he’s on a case for the Agency.”
I did indeed, and he had been forthcoming that the inquiries he was following were indeed quite serious.
I was not unaware that there were ‘distant rumblings,’ as he called them, in affairs beyond England with the potential for far-reaching consequences.
Bits and pieces of news regarding foreign difficulties were in the newspapers if one knew to look for them—the brief article regarding a cargo ship that had been seized, a foreign dignitary who had unexpectedly fallen ill, and the ever-present concerns over financial issues from the Continent.
My great-aunt, thought by some to be quite eccentric, kept a watchful eye regarding her own business interests there that included Mr. Munro. Especially regarding shipments of Old Lodge whisky and wine between Scotland and France.
I informed Mr. Cavendish that I would be working in the office and hoped to have an appointment in the afternoon.
“I will have messages that need to be sent by courier,” I added as I bent to scratch Rupert behind the ears. His eyes closed with pleasure.
I chose to ignore the faint resemblance to Brodie in his reaction.
“I’ll see to it, miss,” Mr. Cavendish assured me. “I’ll be at the Public House. Can I bring ye somethin’ to eat?” he added with a wink.
He was as bad as Brodie when it came to teasing me about food.
“I’m certain the hound would appreciate that,” I replied.
After all, I did share with him.
I unlocked the office door and paused as I stepped inside.
The office was much the same as usual—the smell of old places, of stone and wood and coal oil from the last fire in the iron stove, dust motes stirring just there in the light that came in through the window that looked out on the alleyway below.
And shadows at the walls, the chalkboard, the bedroom beyond darkened.
“Bloody hell,” I whispered to the empty office, absent Brodie at his desk pondering some note or one of my reports. No faint ring of fragrant pipe smoke encircling his head with that dark mane of hair, nor the way he looked up at me …
“Best get on with it,” I replied and turned on the electric that immediately banished the shadows.
I had my own desk with the portable typing machine he had purchased for me. I went to his desk instead. It did provide a better view of the chalkboard ...
I set my travel bag on the floor beside the desk, opened one of the drawers and took out note paper.
The first note to be delivered was to Mr. Dooley at New Scotland Yard, inquiring about any additional information in the Tavers or Davies inquiry cases. I closed, informing him that I could be reached either at the office or the townhouse.
The second message was for Mrs. Elizabeth Davies at their residence in Marylebone, since Mr. Harold Davies had been less than cooperative.
I was more than aware that she might refuse to meet with me, and informed her that I was presently making inquiries on another similar matter, and hoped to provide information for her family.
I paused before signing the note. I knew from Brodie that a polite request was easily turned down with an equally polite response, if any.
“A demand is different. It does not give the person a choice.”
I was not of a mind to give Mrs. Davies a choice with an invitation that she could, and very likely would, refuse to accept.
I tore the note and tossed the pieces into the rubbish bin, then took out another piece of paper.
I wrote that I was making inquiries on behalf of a client under similar circumstances and needed to meet with her to discuss her daughter’s disappearance. I added that I would be at Slater’s Tea Room in Piccadilly, at three o’clock that afternoon. It was not a request.
Slater’s was favored by ladies of London for afternoon tea. I had only been there a time or two and had quickly escaped. I was not one for tea or gossip. However …
It was located on the basement floor under the department store, and not at all a place where we might encounter Mr. Davies or anyone from the Foreign Office who might carry word back to him of my meeting with his wife.
I signed my name and enclosed one of the calling cards I recently had printed:
Brodie and Forsythe Private Investigations
#204 the Strand, London
There had been a conversation over that. He preferred ‘Brodie and Brodie Private Investigations,’ and had pointed out the fact that we were, after all, husband and wife.
I suspected at the time it was one of those peculiarities of men, particularly one who was a Scot, and pointed out there could be an advantage to having my own name on the card.
Most certainly when making inquiries on behalf of the royal family, whom I was acquainted with, as we had in one of our previous cases, and on behalf of female clients, who might be somewhat hesitant working with a man.
It was a small victory, but one nonetheless, as we encountered issues from time to time. I smiled as I tucked the note inside an envelope and delivered both messages to Mr. Cavendish.
“The courier is to wait for a response from Mr. Dooley once the note is delivered.”
“I’ll see to it straight away, miss,” he assured me, then was on his way.
Upon returning to the office, I spent the next hour adding notes that I’d made the night before in my notebook, including the additional note that I intended to meet with Mrs. Davies.
I then went through the bills and letters that I’d pulled from the message box on the street. One envelope was quite thick from the Public Records Office.
Perhaps information Brodie was waiting for, I thought, and added it to the stack of mail on his desk.
There was still a good amount of time before departing for my meeting with Mrs. Davies.
I returned to the sidewalk and purchased a copy of The Times morning edition from a boy on the street.
I returned to the office and laid it across Brodie’s desk, with that front page covered with personal advertisements.
The notices printed there didn’t seem to be in any particular order with simple requests for someone’s brother to contact his mother, mixed with more provocative advertisements for love, matrimony, or to meet—marital status not required.
From the information Mr. Charles in the advertising department had provided, the advertisement for #41984 was to run again today.
I eventually found it and circled it with my pen. Whoever had placed the advertisement apparently was still looking for that ‘ travel companion .’
What of those who had already responded?
The service bell rang, jarring me from my thoughts.
Mr. Cavendish had returned.
“I delivered the notes to the courier service with instruction for him to wait for Mr. Dooley’s answer.”
He had also returned with luncheon from the Public House. The hound followed me up to the office. He was most appreciative to share the meal. He had absolutely no shame.
I arrived at Slater’s before the appointed time and went downstairs to the tea room, where I asked for a table and gave the attendant my name. I informed him that I was waiting for someone to join me and requested a more private table.
I was shown to one under the arch of the stairs. It was set with white linen, the appropriate pieces for afternoon tea, and an arrangement of flowers.
As I waited, I did wonder if Mrs. Davies would arrive?
It was not unexpected under the circumstances that she might refuse. This was undoubtedly a difficult time for them, and perhaps there were others who claimed to be assisting with finding their daughter.
“Lady Forsythe?”
I looked up, the greeting quite hesitant.
“Mrs. Davies,” I replied.
She nodded. “And this is my daughter, Rose. She insisted on accompanying me.”
We sat across from one another with Rose beside her mother. She was a quiet, pensive girl who looked to be very near the same age as Lily was when she first arrived in London.
She listened to our conversation with a thoughtful expression, darting glances at her mother as Elizabeth Davies slowly removed her gloves.
She had brown hair and soft grey eyes. I saw in her the younger version in her daughter, Rose.
There was also an air of sadness along with the circles beneath her eyes that no doubt was from the past several weeks, since the disappearance of her older daughter, Charlotte.
“Your note mentioned that you might be able to assist in finding my daughter.”
Her voice quavered and I remembered the fear and the enormous control it had required for me to carry on when Linnie had disappeared two years before.
“Yes,” I replied. “From my work on behalf of another client, there appear to be similarities and I hoped there might be something you could tell me about Charlotte’s disappearance.”
I then explained my inquiry on behalf of Reggie Tavers, although I did not go into specific details.
“The police…” Again her voice faltered. “My husband has made a report with them.”
“They haven’t provided any information,” Rose added. “The answer is always the same when we inquire—they will notify us. Except they do not.”
“Rose …” her mother implored.
“I do not see any harm in telling her, if she can help.”
“Mr. Davies has insisted that the police handle the matter,” her mother went on to explain.
“I have contacted with him in the matter,” I replied.