“Or perhaps Mr. Munro might have some influence there,” she added. “She does seem to respect him. I will speak with him about it.”
I wished her well with that. Munro was a strong presence in my great-aunt’s household and had considerable experience in his youth in Edinburgh. However, I was aware that he and Lily had been at cross-purposes more than once in the past.
He considered it part of his responsibilities toward my great-aunt to know where Lily was and whom she was with at all times.
For her part, Lily chafed under the restrictions, admittedly much as I had when very near her age.
It did seem as if the boot was now very much on the other foot.
I arrived at the office on the Strand and discovered, courtesy of Mr. Cavendish, that Brodie had not yet returned from his inquiries on behalf of the Agency.
I refused to call him by his street name, the Mudger, and over the course of my involvement in that first case had discovered that his name was Cavendish, which was far more dignified than the name he seemed to have acquired from certain activities while living on the street.
He had lived an early life at sea, that ended with an accident that had taken both his legs. Afterward he navigated streets, mostly in the East End that included the Strand, with amazing skill and terrifying agility, on a wood platform with wheels.
He had been with Brodie for some time before my arrival during that first inquiry case, a sort of gatekeeper and well of knowledge as far as what happened on the street.
While his early work for Brodie was somewhat of a mystery, his more recent work for both of us included valuable information acquired from the streets on more than one of our inquiry cases.
Brodie compensated him, as well as provided lodging in the alcove at the bottom of the stairs at #204 on the Strand.
That is, of course, when Mr. Cavendish wasn’t keeping company with a particular woman who worked at the Public House across the way. And then there was the hound, Rupert as I had named him.
He was a scruffy bit of a wanderer that most usually smelled quite foul after scrounging the streets at night before returning to the alcove.
He had acquired the position of protector for me, and had an amazing instinct for finding someone, most particularly myself, in the course of a previous investigation.
Both man and hound had become much valued companions and collaborators.
At present, Mr. Cavendish rolled toward me from the entrance of the tobacconist’s shop, while Rupert was nowhere to be seen. After all, it was a magnificent afternoon, perfect for scrounging the streets.
“Good day to you, miss,” Mr. Cavendish greeted me.
His choice of clothes had improved noticeably over the past several months, forsaking the tattered and stained shirt or jacket retrieved from a rag-pickers bin, for a clean shirt with vest over, and corduroy trousers rolled under what remained of his legs at the platform.
I suspected the improvement was no doubt due to the influence of Miss Effie Martingale at the Public House.
His shirtsleeves were rolled back with the warmth of the day, and a cap sat atop his head.
Though his greeting was cordial enough, it did seem there might be something else there in the frown on his face.
I glanced at the top of the stairs to the second-floor landing and the office where Brodie and I conducted our inquiry cases.
“He has not returned.” It was obvious by the darkened windows.
“Not as yet, miss. You know as well as I do that work for the Agency often takes long hours.”
I turned toward the stairs. “Is there mail delivery?” I inquired.
“Arrived earlier. I placed it there in the message box ...”
He did seem preoccupied with something.
“Is there anything else, Mr. Cavendish?”
“If you have a moment, miss ...”
“Of course.”
I noticed his glance across the street and suspected the reason.
Over the past several months he had taken to spending more time at the Public House, which included any excuse to retrieve a meal for Brodie and me.
It was no secret that he had a particular affection for Miss Effie. Perhaps that was on his mind.
As Brodie told me afterward, when he first learned of it, he had considered talking Mr. Cavendish out of it. Yet he had not, as it turned out.
“How could I speak against it?” Brodie had told me with some amusement. “With the troublesome baggage I’ve attached meself to?”
I chose to ignore that somewhat pithy comment.
Now there was most definitely something Mr. Cavendish wished to discuss.
“I’m not a man of means, as ye well know, miss. And there are no doubt others what would be better.”
“Better? How?” I inquired.
“Better for her, a man who could take care of her.”
Ah, so we were indeed speaking of Miss Effie.
“I earn a fair piece from Mr. Brodie, and some other small jobs now and then,” he pointed out but did not elaborate. “But she deserves better to my way of thinking,” he continued.
“Miss Effie,” I replied, to clarify who we were speaking of.
“She’s a bit put-off with me.”
“I see. And what might be the reason?” I inquired, since he very obviously wished to discuss it.
“I said just that, there was others she could do better by. I thought she might take a fryin’ pan to me head. The woman has a temper.”
“I see.” I did see, perfectly as a matter of fact.
In that way I had learned about men, and quite often about Brodie, they considered logical reasons that in fact had absolutely nothing to do with a woman’s considerations.
“Please continue,” I told him.
He had removed his cap and twisted it around in his hands, no doubt uncomfortable discussing such things with, of all things, a woman.
“She doesn’t see it the same way and called me a foolish bugger. I never heard such from a woman.”
I did not comment on that, considering some of my choices of words.
“She spoke of things … Asked what I felt for her. I didn’t know what to say. That’s when she got her back up and went for that pan.”
Not what might be called a romantic conversation.
“Perhaps she was hoping for something … more,” I suggested, though hardly the one to make suggestions.
“What more, miss?”
Oh dear.
“Did you speak of your feelings for her?”
He nodded. “I told her that she was a good hard worker, the best the Public House ever had. Not like some of the girls in the pubs, there for other reasons as well.”
Not exactly what a woman would like to hear, I thought.
“What about other feelings? That a man has for a special woman.”
“She knows well enough. I go there regular and like speaking with her.”
“There are times that a woman might want to hear more.” By the expression on his face, I saw that he understood but was obviously not comfortable with the idea.
“You are a good man, Mr. Cavendish. If you care about her, you should be honest and tell her so. It is for her to decide what she wants, not you.”
He winced, as if I had struck him. “I should tell her?”
I nodded. “Not that other part about other girls in pubs.”
“A bit off-puttin’, is it?”
“Somewhat.”
“Aye, you’re right. I don’t suppose she liked that part.”
He rubbed his chin. “There is another matter. I would have spoken to Mr. Brodie about it, but as he hasn’t returned yet …”
“Yes?”
“It’s for a chap who has a shop over near Piccadilly. His daughter has gone missing now for several days, and he’s worried about her.”
A missing young woman? Far too common in this part of London, and as I knew only too well, not always with an outcome that one might hope for.
“How may I help?”
“Reggie Tavers is the man’s name. He sells brushes to folks about the city and other business customers, the sort you might see with the street sweepers. He’s not a wealthy man, but he has been able to provide for the girl after her mother passed. Gwen is her name, seventeen years.”
There was a faint shrug of the shoulders.
“She’s a bit headstrong, according to Reggie, fancies she’d like to leave London and travel. He knows about your work with Mr. Brodie,” he added. “And he’s hoping that ye might make some inquiries in Mr. Brodie’s absence.”
“How long has she been gone?”
“Over two weeks now,” he replied. “Like I said, he’s not a wealthy man, but he’s willing to pay the fee to find her.”
“Has he contacted the Metropolitan Police?”
That was usually the place to start, although I had found them to be less than effective in the past. In all fairness, it could be argued, and had been, that they had a good many crimes to pursue.
Yet the truth was they had given little attention to the disappearance of my sister in that first case, when I acquired Brodie’s investigative services.
“A report was taken,” Mr. Cavendish replied. “But there’s been no word since.”
As I had learned, in a place where crime flourished, particularly against women, it might be longer before inquiries were made, if they bothered to examine the situation at all.
And as I knew all too well, the more time that passed after a disappearance, the less likely the missing person was to be found.
Mr. Cavendish waited, twisting his cap in his hands.
“I know what he can pay might not be enough, considerin’ some of the cases you’ve taken for others, and with what the Agency pays Mr. Brodie. I’ll add coin of me own if you would be willing to make inquiries about the girl.”
“Of course,” I replied. Then when he would have taken coins from his pocket, “We can discuss the fee later, Mr. Cavendish.”
If there was to be a fee at all.
Two weeks since the girl had gone missing. That made it difficult to learn anything. Still, I thought of my sister and those agonizing days she was gone. I was willing to try.
Brodie appeared at the townhouse late that evening after I left a message for him with Mr. Cavendish.
We exchanged conversation as usual when he was off on some matter for the Agency, with the usual omission of any details about what he was working on other than he would tell me later.
“And yer visit with yer sister and Lady Montgomery?” he inquired over a dram of Old Lodge of which he was most fond, deftly moving the conversation away from what he was doing for the Agency. I went along with that.
“Linnie is getting on quite well with the whole thing and it appears that James is the doting father.”
“And her ladyship?”
“If she has her way, she will adopt little Catherine and teach her all sorts of interesting things.”
“The world would not be safe,” he commented.
“She is quite a charming baby,” I added in response to that.
“Ye no doubt made that observation due to your vast experience with the wee things.”
I let that bit of sarcasm pass.
“And the most interesting thing, aside from the occasional drooling—it seems as if all that blonde hair that she was born with is turning the most interesting shade of red.”
“A redhead?” Brodie exclaimed and sat back. He shook his head. “I’ll have a conversation with her father about that,” he added, “so that he knows precisely what he is in store for. Now, what of this conversation you had with the Mudger—Mr. Cavendish?” he then inquired.
“A missing girl?” he commented. “Among dozens, most which have taken themselves off with a man the family doesna approve of.”
“That does not appear to the be case,” I replied. “And it’s been more than two weeks since her father contacted the MET,” I added.
“And Mr. Cavendish asked ye to make inquiries.”
“He offered to help pay our usual fee. And it isn’t as if I have anything else to keep me occupied,” I added pointedly.
That dark gaze narrowed. “I know wot yer doin’, and ye know that I canna discuss my work for the Agency with ye. And dinna look at me that way.”
“What way would that be?” I replied with feigned innocence.
“Ye know my meanin’, Mikaela Forsythe.”
He quickly downed the dram of whisky, always an indication of something more to be said. I was not disappointed.
“I s’pose ye agreed.”
“It couldn’t hurt to make the usual inquiries for Mr. Cavendish’s friend. You know as well as I that it could be weeks before the Metropolitan provides any information, if at all.”
“Then ye’ve decided to take the case.”
“I’ve agreed to meet with Mr. Cavendish’s friend and ask a few questions,” I replied, then poured him another dram, to soothe the savage beast, as it were.
That saying usually referred to music as a means of soothing the savage beast. However, I have discovered that a dram of Old Lodge could be quite effective as well.