Four
Brodie had not returned to the office. Not that I expected him to be there when he was off and about on behalf of the Agency.
As I had already learned about this new ‘assignment,’ the hours were often long and went well into the night.
The hound was content to retreat to the alcove with the bone. Mr. Cavendish had taken himself off to the Public House, according to the brief note in the message box at the bottom of the stairs.
I had notes I wanted to make, and I needed to make a telephone call to Mr. Dooley at the New Scotland Yard.
I left a message for him to return my call, then set a pot of coffee on the stove and unwrapped a stale biscuit from the previous day.
I worked on my notes in the notebook I always carried, then added them to the chalkboard regarding what I had learned so far in the disappearance of Gwen Tavers, along with the new information I had about Lizzie Smith. Then I stood back from the board.
Both young women wanted to travel, though apparently had little means to do so. Lizzie saved every extra penny she could, according to the young girl she shared that room with. Both young women disappeared without a trace, and neither one had taken personal items with them.
That seemed to eliminate the possibility that either one had gone off on a travel adventure.
I retrieved that three-week-old newspaper that I had found in Gwen Tavers’s room and returned to my desk.
The Personals column, or the ‘Lonely Hearts’ advertisements, as they were called, were located on the front page of the paper.
I had never given much attention to such advertising, yet I was aware that my ward, Lily, found them quite amusing as she practiced her reading when she first arrived in London.
“Can ye imagine,” she had exclaimed at the time. “Men and women putting up ads for marriage? I dinna plan to ever marry, but if I was to consider it, I wouldna put notice in a newspaper. There’s no way of knowin’ what ye’ll get!”
Amusing as her reaction was, I was inclined to agree.
Now, as I inspected the advertisements, I realized they were quite entertaining:
MATRIMONY—Widow 44, with financial resources, would like the hearthstone of her heart swept and the cobwebs brushed away. Prospect? Matrimony. Respond #42336
The hearthstone of her heart swept? I could only imagine what Brodie might say to that.
And then another:
WIFE WANTED. Tradesman, aged 38 years, with a long-established Trade which is most respectable; temperate, sober, steady man who is in every way qualified to render the marriage union desirable. Any agreeable lady desirous of meeting will find this advertisement worthy of notice. Respond #37642.
There were other ads for both men and women, for ‘ companionship,’ with several mentions of afternoon walks in parks, shared interests, and other ‘possibilities.’
I could only imagine what those ‘other possibilities’ might include.
Most interesting, I thought, and as with each advertisement, there was a box number to respond to.
I continued to read through them, searching for the one that Lizzie had learned about. I found it in the third column very near the top of the page:
Seeking female companion for same, for travel and adventure. Age 18-25. All expenses paid. No whores or prostitutes need reply. Respond #41984.
It was quite straight forward, with the promise of travel.
The party who had submitted it obviously wanted a young woman of a certain age and character— no whores or prostitutes . And offered all expenses paid for service as a ‘ companion for same .’
It was innocent enough as far as it went, and certainly enticing for adventuresome young women eager to escape the dreariness of their lives.
This had to be the same advertisement Lizzie had spoken of.
Had she responded to it? And what of Gwen Tavers, eager to escape a somewhat boring and limited future selling brushes in Piccadilly?
The two young women obviously knew one another, perhaps spoke of their mutual desire to escape London, and had perhaps even planned to do so? That advertisement would have been a strong enticement.
I returned to the board and added another note about that advertisement beside the list I had already started, and then drew lines that connected the two young women to that ad along with a question mark.
Had both young women responded to the advertisement? Possibly another question—who had placed it?
The telephone jangled sharply. I went to Brodie’s desk and answered it.
Mr. Dooley had received my earlier message. He had waited until he went off-duty for the day, then called from a tavern very near the Strand.
“It’s best we meet at the office,” he added. “Mr. Brodie wouldn’t want you out and about alone late in the day. And there are other reasons as well.”
Other reasons? Such as Chief Inspector Abberline?
He arrived in good time.
“He’s not about?” he asked with a glance about the office. He obviously meant Brodie.
“He’s on business for the Agency,” I replied and poured a cup of coffee for him. He gestured to the chalkboard.
“I see that you’ve been making notes. A new case?”
“I’ve been making inquiries for a friend whose daughter has gone missing.”
He nodded. “Must be difficult considering the past case with your sister.”
“I am pleased to help, if I can. It does seem to happen quite often.” I paused.
“Gwen Tavers is the young woman’s name. A report was made with the police.”
He nodded. “And you would like for me to inquire what’s been done.”
“It’s been more than three weeks, and her father has not been able to learn anything.”
“It’s not uncommon,” Mr. Dooley pointed out with a frown. “Young girls take themselves off, usually over a young man. Not exactly given priority with the lads at the Yard.”
“That is precisely the point,” I explained. “Nothing was taken in either situation. Nothing is missing—clothes, personal things, a hairbrush, combs. Nothing was taken. That does seem quite odd and no word from either girl.
As I spoke, he continued to study the chalkboard and the notes I’d made there.
“The girls are acquainted, and both hoped to travel. It’s very possible that both may have answered an advertisement in the Personals section of The Times.” I showed him The Times newspaper.
“This was found in Gwen Tavers’s room, and the second girl spoke of an advertisement her friend had been intrigued by that seems to be the same.”
Mr. Dooley took a sip of coffee then set it back on the desk. He shook his head.
“He said that you were like a dog with a bone—Mr. Brodie, that is.”
“It could be helpful to read the report that was taken and find out just what has been learned,” I pointed out.
He nodded. “Sad to say, this sort of thing—isn’t a priority as you well know, and often better handled by such as yourself and Mr. Brodie.” He stood then to leave.
“I’ll look through the reports first thing in the morning. It helps to have the name.” He glanced about the office. “What about yerself with Mr. Brodie not around? It’s well into the evenin’. I can see you home.”
I assured him that I was quite safe. After all, Rupert and his bone guarded the alcove that led to the stairs.
I had decided to remain at the office for the night. It was certainly not the first time I had when making inquiries.
The adjoining room was convenient, much like a small flat attached to the office, and quite comfortable with a bed, night table, and chest of drawers that held extra clothes for Brodie and myself when needed.
I worked on my notes until quite late, typing them on the portable typewriter he had purchased for me as a gift with the usual comment that was hardly romantic.
“Ye are an unusual woman, Mikaela Forsythe. Most women prefer jewelry or a new gown to mark the occasion of a birthday, but ye prefer a typing machine.”
And my response to that had been, “You were well aware of that when you asked me to marry you.”
“A moment of muddle-headedness to be certain,” he had replied.
There was more of course, there usually was. Something about he didn’t know what he was going to do with a woman who wouldn’t do as he asked, one who took chances, and would most certainly be the death of him.
He had survived quite well so far, I thought.
It was very near midnight when I pulled the page from the typing machine with my report regarding the inquiries I’d made.
Brodie had still not returned.
I laid the report on his desk, then put more coal on the stove and checked the lock on the office door.
Electric had recently been installed in the adjacent room. I turned on the bedside lamp, then crossed the room and pulled down the window shade.
I undressed, turned off the light, then crawled under the bedcovers, a faint scent of cinnamon there as I closed my eyes.
Nor had Brodie returned during the night.
Not that it was unexpected, particularly when he was making inquiries on a matter for the Agency.
Still ... I missed him, in ways I had never experienced before—his disheveled appearance first thing of a morning, the way he pulled me against him, the soft feel of his beard against my cheek, and other things that I had grown most fond of.
I was not at all certain when it happened, only that it had been somewhere over the past two years. And I had always been adamant that I would most likely never experience those things, least of all marriage. I did not need someone cluttering up my life.
All well and good, I thought this morning as I splashed water on my face, tied my hair back, and dressed. And a bloody Scot, no less! It was well known that most had a particularly stubborn nature.
‘The best laid schemes of mice and men, often go awry,’ according to Robert Burns.
My schemes had most certainly gone awry, yet in a most interesting way! Brodie was to blame for that, of course.
I had decided the night before that while I waited to hear from Mr. Dooley about the report that was taken regarding Gwen Tavers’s disappearance, I needed to pay a visit to the newspaper regarding the Personals advertisement. There might be something to be learned there.
How did it work? Did those responding simply direct their replies to a box number? How were the responses collected and passed to the person who placed the advertisements?
There was one person who might provide information, if I was able to encounter him before he was off and about for his next story.
Theodolphus Burke.
Just the name was enough to put one off, though I was convinced it was not his real name, but something he had invented to appear intelligent and draw attention. Much like the stage names actors and actresses adopted.
It was something I learned from my good friend Templeton, who was a very successful actress and went by that single name known by everyone who attended theater.
‘Theodolphus.’ It was quite pretentious, and the temptation was there to simply call him Teddy. Particularly after his dreadful behavior in one of our previous cases.
He was quite short in height—that perhaps explained the pretentious name. He was also quite stout, with side-whiskers, sharp, beady eyes, and a perpetually rumpled appearance as if he had just crawled out of bed, or possibly some hole in the ground, much like a weasel.
“Nasty little man,” Lily had commented after a brief encounter.
And there was that other, somewhat disgusting aspect. He did seem to think of himself as a lady’s man and had been most flirtatious when he wasn’t being thoroughly offensive.
“The man doesna know wot ye are capable of,” Brodie had commented at the time.
Needless to say, Mr. Burke and I had a somewhat contentious acquaintance.
However, I was not above providing a favor for someone who had assisted with information in our inquiry cases in the past, nor expecting one in return.
It was much like Brodie’s working relationship with certain persons—Mr. Brown came to mind, a street person of notorious reputation with a criminal network across London.
Such was my acquaintance with Mr. Burke. I might be able to provide him a piece of news from one of our inquiry cases before other newspapers learned of it, and he assisted me with certain information. Usually.
I was hopeful that he would provide information about the Personals section of the newspaper—particularly, how many others had responded to the ad. And since it was currently the only lead into Gwen Tavers disappearance, I needed to know who had placed the advertisement.
I pinned my hair up, then gathered my travel bag, notebook, and that page from the newspaper three weeks earlier and set off.
It was well into the morning and quite safe that time of day, hardly necessary to be concerned about being out and about alone. Still, I decided to take a little ‘persuasion’ with me as I greeted Mr. Cavendish and asked him to wave down a driver.
When the cabman arrived, I provided the address for The Times, then called for Rupert to enter the cab.
“The newspaper, is it,” Mr. Cavendish commented. “The lad doesn’t much care for the place or that man, Burke,” he added, referring to the hound.
“Precisely,” I replied, and we set off.
If necessary, the hound could be most persuasive.