I heard sounds from the kitchen. Mrs. Ryan was up and about as well, as was her usual habit. Knowing me quite well, she brought steaming hot coffee and biscuits into the parlor and set the tray on the desk. Also, knowing me quite well, there were no questions about the previous evening.
I added new questions to my notebook, then sat staring at them for some time. I looked over at the nudge of a nose against my knee.
Rupert had returned, and Mrs. Ryan with him. She stood at the entrance to the parlor.
“He came round to the service entrance … with this.”
She held a parcel in her hands, somewhat the worse for wear. At least it was not something thoroughly disgusting.
“There’s an address,” she added. “Mrs. Ponsonby, at Number 20, down the way.”
The expression on the hound’s face—Brodie insisted there was no such thing as an animal having an expression—was quite innocent.
“I’ll see that it’s returned,” she added. “Will you be wantin’ breakfast, Miss Mikaela?”
“No, I’ll be leaving shortly.”
I could do nothing here, and perhaps there was some word from Brodie.
I put the notebook into my travel bag, and gave Rupert a biscuit.
“You’ll spoil the animal.”
I looked down at him, the biscuit thoroughly consumed. He grinned at me. I very much needed that. I gave him the last one and called for a cab.
There was something to be said for morning traffic through London, usually muttered with a curse or two by most who were caught in the congestion.
The City of London had announced plans for the expansion of the underground rail system in partnership with the rail companies, that would greatly relieve the congestion. However …
As with most things, progress was quite slow. At present there were only articles in the dailies about the open trenches under main thoroughfares that only added congestion to streets that were already almost impassable as we came to another stop.
I had the driver stop as we were quite near the Strand. I paid him, and Rupert and I continued afoot.
“Mornin’, miss,” Mr. Cavendish greeted me as we arrived at the office.
“I was fairly certain the lad was with you when he didn’t show at the Public House or here for supper.”
“Has Mr. Brodie returned?” I asked with a glance up to the second-floor landing and saw the still-darkened window.
“Or perhaps some word from him?”
He shook his head. “There’s been none, miss.”
I made no attempt to hide my disappointment. “You will let me know immediately if there is a message?”
“Of course, miss.”
Before he could ask if there was anything new regarding my inquiries for Gwen Tavers, I quickly continued up the stairs.
The office was as it had been the day before, as I entered, crossed to the window that looked over the alley, and raised the shade, then set my bag on Brodie’s desk.
Very well. I would add my notes to the board, then place a call to Mr. Dooley at the Yard for any word from the men with the MET who worked in the district nearest Southwark—although I was aware that there were not regular patrols by constables in most of the outlying areas.
Brodie had spoken of it, and apparently little had changed since his time with the Metropolitan Police.
Mr. Dooley was not available, nor was Brodie with my inquiry at the Agency. I asked to speak with Alex Sinclair, whom we had both worked with in the past.
He was quite young, but brilliant, and always coming up with a new invention such as his coding machine, and some sort of tracking device with a small built-in timepiece that responded to a battery-operated hand-held mechanism.
There had been some missteps there, and he had been quite busy the past six months making improvements.
I explained that I needed to speak with Brodie. However, he had not seen him the past two days. Or that was possibly what he was supposed to tell anyone who inquired.
It was as if Brodie had disappeared ... I looked again at the notes I’d made on the board. There was someone who might know where he was …
I grabbed my bag, locked the office, and had Mr. Cavendish wave down a driver.
Mr. Symons greeted me at the entrance as I arrived at Sussex Square.
“Mikaela! How very splendid, my dear,” Aunt Antonia emerged from the small parlor, wearing a bright-green dressing gown and a turban.
“You may join us for brunch. Then after, I’m instructing Lily in the finer strategies of baccarat.”
Gambling. Most definitely something she might need, I thought.
“Is Munro about?” I asked.
“Mr. Munro? I’m not certain.”
“I heard Mrs. Roberts in the kitchen say that he returned late last night.” Lily had joined us.
“If so, he is undoubtedly in the wine cellar, dear,” my great-aunt added.
The wine cellar was an expansion of the original dungeons at Sussex Square.
They had been walled off when it was determined that the smaller, cramped cells from our ancestors’ time would hardly accommodate supplies, machinery for the water system, nor the kegs of heating oil for the countless lamps that lit the estate.
The need for a larger space had only increased with my great-aunt’s venture into the whisky and wine trade, with barrels and kegs stored there. The cellar had also provided far easier access to the kitchens on the main floor.
I had been down in the cellar previously. I could have taken the lift that had been installed for ease when taking things up to the kitchens … however, the stairs were much quicker. I called out as I reached the stone floor.
The cellar was well lit by electric lights on the ceiling that illuminated rows of casks and barrels, all meticulously logged and accounted for, as well as crates of fabrics and wood boxes that contained all manner of china and silver pieces, along with furnishings that were stored there.
It had once been a hodgepodge of accumulation over the centuries. When Munro joined the household, the first thing he did was to organize all of it. Aunt Antonia claimed that he knew where each and every piece was. A slight exaggeration, I thought.
A resident cat that lived in the cellar suddenly darted from among stacked barrels, along with a long shadow as Munro stepped into the light from the overhead fixture.
He was very near as tall as Brodie, with that same leanness from years together as boys on the streets of Edinburgh.
I had heard some of the stories from Brodie, others he simply shook his head when I asked a question.
“It is not for you, lass.”
The two were very near the same age, though there was no certainty of either one. He had been the first one on the street, who took on a lanky boy as companion in their schemes, and then travelled together to London.
His hair was dark as Brodie’s, worn long much the same, but there were lines at the corners of his eyes that told more of the story of their hard youth, with a faint scar or two among them. Strikingly handsome some might say. I would say dangerous.
It was his eyes, a piercing shade of blue that had the ability to stop a person cold with a single look. If they were wise enough. That gaze fastened on me now.
The streets had hardened him, to be certain. It was there now in the set of his shoulders, the wary stance that slowly relaxed as he saw me.
“Miss Mikaela.”
Wherever he had been before returning to Sussex Square, the shadow was still there. Hard things that men didn’t speak of.
“What brings ye to Sussex Square?” That Scots accent, still there after all the years since, slipped through as it did with Brodie when he was lost in thought or there was some difficulty.
“I need to speak with you about an inquiry case I’ve taken.”
We sat at the small round table that was nothing more than an overturned oak wine barrel where he worked on his accounting log for supplies at Sussex Square, and I explained what I knew, and what had happened.
He listened in that quiet way so very much like Brodie, and I could only imagine the lives of two boys as they listened at doors, slipped down alleyways, stole from a vendor’s cart, then slipped silently away into the night.
He continued to listen when I told him about the advertisement that all three young women had apparently responded to, then the trip to Kew Mortuary with Mr. Dooley the previous evening.
“It is more than a young girl simply taking herself off for a stay-over with a friend for a bit of adventure. Two other young women responded to that advertisement and are now missing. There may be more.”
“Ye shouldn’t have gone with Mr. Dooley.”
“Nevertheless, I cannot ignore what has happened or the possible danger to others. Do you know where Brodie is? If I could speak with him …”
He shook his head. “Only that it was a matter for the Agency. Ye’d best leave it to Mr. Dooley until Brodie returns. He’ll help as he can then, goin’ to those he knows to help find the women.”
He hadn’t answered that question—where Brodie was. Another stubborn Scot. I rose from my chair.
“By then, it might be too late.”
“Wait for him to return, Miss Mikaela,” he cautioned again.
I didn’t remain for luncheon. I had no appetite, something most unusual for me.
Instead, I returned to the office on the Strand.
I spent the next few hours studying the notes I’d made at the chalkboard.
Lizzie Smith was dead. What of Gwen Tavers and Charlotte Davies?
I sat at Brodie’s desk and went back to the front page of the newspaper from the day before, with those Personals advertisements.
‘Seeking female companion for same, for travel and adventure. Age 18-25. All expenses paid. No whores or prostitutes need reply. Respond #41984.’
I took out my pen and a piece of notepaper. I kept the note simple:
‘I am a respectable girl of the age required.
I am a hard worker and wish to travel.’
I didn’t sign my name, but instead added , ‘Waiting for your reply.’ I then put it in an envelope, sealed it, and wrote that box number on the outside.
I hesitated. I went back over everything I’d learned, everything on the board. I closed my eyes in an attempt to forget what I had seen at Kew. But it was still there.
“I need this delivered to The Times newspaper advertising department,” I told Mr. Cavendish when I reached the bottom of the stairs.
“It is important and must be delivered straight away.”