Page 11 of Deadly Ghost (Angus Brodie and Mikaela Forsythe Murder Mystery #12)

Ten

I wakened several times through the night, and each time Brodie was there—with his solid strength and gentle words whispered in Scots that persuaded me back to sleep. And I dreamed.

I was a child again, and there was the sound of the gunshot at the stables at our country home. Pigeons scattered into the sky and clouds of dust filled the air as I ran into the stables, then suddenly stopped at the sight of my father’s body, and the blood.

In my dream, I called out, but there was no answer. There was only the sound one of the horses made in their stalls, and then the frantic howl of the hounds in their kennels ...

I sat up in the bed in the room adjacent to the office. It was empty beside me.

There were voices, and a persistent scratching sound at the door that had been closed between the rooms.

I recognized Brodie’s accent, and then a response, also with that Scots accent—Munro. And the faint scratching sound could only be the hound.

I rose, splashed water on my face from the basin and dressed, then opened the door.

“Rude bloody beast!” Munro commented. “I threatened him earlier, but he set up such a stramash on the street below that I brought him up to the office. Pardon, miss.”

“Not to worry. I overslept,” if it could be called that, as I scratched the ‘rude, bloody beast’ about the ears. He now seemed most content, except for the fierce wagging of his tail.

Brodie frowned where he sat at the desk.

“There’s coffee and breakfast on the stove, Mr. Cavendish brought earlier.”

I wasn’t certain whether the frown, handsome as it was with that dark beard around it, was about the breakfast or myself.

Admittedly, I had been somewhat taken aback at my appearance in the mirror above the washbasin. Dark circles were not what most women hoped to present to the world.

I had brought my hair into some order with a ribbon and combs. That would have to do at present, as I made my way to the stove and coffee. Very strong coffee. It was much appreciated.

“Better?” Brodie inquired as I crossed the office to the chair at the desk that now occupied the back wall of the office, along with the portable typewriter that he had purchased for me.

Wonderful invention that, and made typing up our reports, not to mention my latest work in progress, far easier than needing to return to the townhouse each time. Most thoughtful.

Munro stood. “I’ll be going now, and I’ll see to that matter,” he told Brodie.

“Take care not to be discovered,” Brodie cautioned. “We dinna know what the man is about.”

Munro nodded. “Careful as a thief in the night.”

With a lick to my hand the hound followed him out the door. So much for being the favorite person in the room.

“That did seem somewhat ominous,” I commented as I sat in the chair opposite Brodie’s desk.

“Necessary, as ye well know, in places where one doesn’t want to be seen.”

“Aldgate?”

“He makes frequent trips about the city on business for her ladyship. I’ve asked him to inquire about the man I followed.”

I was not surprised.

I refilled my cup then went to the blackboard.

Motive, means, opportunity. It was always there, as I had learned from Brodie. The question now?

What was Victoria Grantham’s motive?

There was obviously financial difficulty, as my great aunt had learned.

The means?

It would seem the letters and that somewhat damaged document provided the means for her claim.

And the opportunity? That was not yet clear, as she had already made the claim.

And what about the chloroform on that piece of cloth?

I wanted to speak with Mr. Brimley about that. He might be able to offer some insight other than my brief experience with it previously.

The telephone rang, a sharp, jangling sound that was somehow more irritating than usual, no doubt due to little sleep the night before.

At the moment, I was inclined to agree with my great aunt, and cursed the bloody thing.

In the interest of preventing it being yanked from the desk and thrown across the room, Brodie picked up the handpiece. How was it that he could be so very cordial after little sleep?

Oh, yes, I reminded myself. It had to be that previous experience as an inspector with the MET, and his somewhat criminal life on the street before that.

I took another sip of coffee, then caught a bit of conversation. The call was from James Warren, my sister’s husband. Also known as my publisher.

However, the call was not regarding that ever-present question, when would I be delivering my next book .

It was about another matter that he wished to discuss at his office, not over the telephone. It seemed quite serious.

Brodie handed me the earpiece. My first thought was for Linnie.

Was there some difficulty with the pregnancy? He assured me that was not the situation, but still insisted that we meet.

We agreed to meet at ten o’clock.

“I’ll go with ye,” Brodie announced.

James’s office was very near Mayfair. There was just enough time for us to return to the townhouse so that I might change into fresh clothes, as my gown was thoroughly stained with mud from the day before.

Even though James had reassured me that Linnie was quite well, I still worried as we returned to the townhouse and I changed clothes, then on the cab ride to his office. It was not like him to be so very serious, or secretive.

We arrived at the appointed time, and Brodie escorted me inside the two-story Georgian building that had once been a residence and was now the office for Warren however, his description could mean only one person whom I had previously met on a case.

“Very well,” James agreed. “What should I tell Linnie?”

“Ye tell her nothing. Neither of ye will know his men are about. It’s best that way.”

“Mr. Brown?” I questioned as we left James’s office with that manuscript written by Victoria Grantham.

I had read no further than the title page. I would read it later for anything that might tell us about her and her claim. As I knew well enough, it was not unusual for an author to include a great deal about themselves.

As for Mr. Brown, he was most certainly not the sort to be found on the streets of Mayfair.

“Ye can trust him to protect both yer sister and James,” Brodie replied. “I’ll get word to him.”

It was true that Mr. Brown had proven himself to be a man of his word, as well as resourceful. Yet, there was the small matter of his reputation as a thief, smuggler, and some nasty business about certain people who simply disappeared when they attempted to cheat him out of a cargo while doing ‘business.’

Still Munro trusted him. As for myself ...

“It’s rumored that he has committed murder,” I reminded him on that ride back across the city, and a meeting I hoped to have with Mr. Brimley regarding the chloroform on that piece of cloth.

“The same could be said of myself, lass. I wasn’t always with the Metropolitan.”

There was that. Which I accepted quite simply because I knew him, and he had come highly recommended by my great aunt—a man I could trust. And I did.

“There is that other part of it about Brown,” he added.

“What part?”

“The man is most fond of ye.”

“Fond?” I remarked with more than a little surprise. “As in ...?”

That smile across the inside of the coach, always a bit devilish.

“He’s never before known a lady who can speak four languages, prefers whisky, shoots a revolver, and curses better than himself.”

He leaned forward and took my hand, then kissed the palm. The sort of simple gesture that ... made my toes curl.

“I suspect ye have him under a spell.”

I burst out laughing at the ridiculous notion.

“And myself as well, lass.”

Mr. Brimley’s assistant, Sara, greeted us when we arrived at his shop. We were told that he was presently conducting an experiment.

“It was after ye left the other day, about the lemon juice ...” she explained when there was suddenly an excited shouted from the back of the shop.

“Success! I did it!”

Mr. Brimley emerged from the back of the shop, quite a sight to be certain. He wore a long leather apron, leather gloves, and goggles, and waved a piece of paper about.

He stopped and blinked when saw us, then pushed the goggles back.

“You are responsible,” he announced in that somewhat confusing manner. “You must come and see the results.”

With that, he spun around and charged into the back of the shop once more.

Brodie and I followed.

“I do hope he is not about to explode the place,” I commented.

We found him at one of his work stations , as he called them, with an array of bottles, brushes, and the paper he’d been waving at us, along with the distinct smell of lemon.

“You started me thinking, Miss Forsythe ... Most extraordinary!”

He looked up as he carefully held that piece of paper over a gas burner that he used for sterilizing instruments, and a meal when he remembered to eat.

“Watch carefully now,” he told us.

The paper gradually heated then turned brown about the edges as letters slowly began to emerge on the paper with a message, the current date—30 November 1892!

“A hidden message,” he announced, then seized another piece of paper from the countertop. Across the paper was a note— To Whom It May Concern .

He repeated the steps, holding the paper with the note over the burners. Eventually the date 29 November 1892 emerged.

“It works, the exact opposite of what I attempted when you brought that document to me.” He was as excited as a child at Christmas.

“The message is painted with the lemon juice. I then allow it to dry, and it’s invisible, revealed only when the paper is heated!”

It was quite extraordinary.

“Secret messages,” I commented.

“Most interesting,” Brodie added.

Mr. Brimley looked up. “I think you are not here to discuss my little experiment.”

“I need your assistance,” I replied.

“What might that be, Miss Forsythe?”

“I need to know more about chloroform.”

He indicated for us to follow him to the small office that was hardly more than a closet at the back of the shop. An adjacent storage room was used from time to time as a small recovery room after one of our cases.

He sat behind the desk and poured a dark liquid from a beaker.

“Tea—the girl keeps it warm for me. Please have a seat.”

I took the chair across from him.

“I know that it is used prior to surgery, for pain,” I said. “I need to know if there are symptoms one might experience afterward.”

“Most interesting,” he commented. “I trust not for yourself. Perhaps one of your inquiry cases.

“Some people might experience changes in their manner,” he continued. “They might become easily angered, perhaps even have hallucinations, wild imaginings of their surroundings, but most usually that would be with recurring use. It eventually wears off, as you well know.”

Did that describe what I had seen in Victoria Grantham?

“Might a person be unsteady and have trouble walking?”

“Of course, if they attempted to go about their usual way right afterward.”

It did seem as if that might have been what I had seen during my visit with Victoria Grantham. I retrieved the cloth I had found from my bag and laid it on the desk.

“What can you tell me about this?”

Mr. Brimley picked up the cloth and carefully examined it.

“A fine piece of linen, stained with those few marks, and ...” he smelled it. “With the faint smell of chloroform.”

“What about the marks?” Brodie asked. “Can ye identify them?”

“On the shelf in the storeroom,” he replied. “There is a large jar of water.” He smiled. “If you please, Mr. Brodie.”

Brodie retrieved the jar and set it on the desk.

“For my experiments, quite pure. Not the muck that comes through pipes compliments of the City of London.” He grinned, then removed the lid and poured a portion in a glass bowl. He resealed the jar, then dipped the cloth into the bowl of water.

“Ah, there it is,” he announced as the stains darkened. “Blood to be certain, I’ve seen my share. And chloroform as well, the smell quite strong now.”

It was late afternoon when we left his shop. From what we had learned it did seem very likely that Victoria Grantham had been experiencing possible effects from the chloroform on the cloth that I had discovered.

But for what reason? And the traces of blood that Mr. Brimley was able to identify? Was it her blood?

I had not seen any injury.

Brodie asked Mr. Cavendish to put out the word on the street that he wanted to meet with Mr. Brown, while I climbed the stairs to the office. And we waited.

While we waited, I added what we had learned to the blackboard, including that disturbing information from my brother-in-law.

It was well into the evening when the service bell sounded on the landing.

Mr. Brown had arrived and filled the entrance to the office.

He was as I remembered him from our last encounter, very near the same height as Brodie, but with a thicker frame, heavily muscled with a roll of flesh at the back of his neck below the rim of his cap.

He wore the clothes of a street or dock worker with a heavy worsted coat, corduroy pants, a blue cotton shirt, with a wool scarf and boots.

He had a scar that ran the length of his face from his left eye to his chin, and when he smiled, as now, it revealed several teeth were missing.

“Brodie,” he said by way of greeting, then turned to me. “And the lovely lady, with the opportunity to warm meself before a warm fire of a cold night. What could it be, I asked meself, that Angus Brodie puts the word out on the street most urgent?”