Page 13 of Deadly Ghost (Angus Brodie and Mikaela Forsythe Murder Mystery #12)

Twelve

“Most women don’t take well to the sight of blood,” Brodie commented as I carefully tugged at the sleeves of his jacket and laid it over the back of a chair in the room.

“I’ve had some experience,” I replied. That brought a faint chuckle from him.

The door was closed. There hadn’t been any inquiries from hotel staff about the sounds in the room. And for now, the man who had attacked me was gone.

Brodie shrugged out of his shirt with that bloodied sleeve. There was a smile on one corner of his mouth as he continued to watch me as I gently wiped away the blood on his lower arm. The cut wasn’t deep, but it had bled nicely.

He reached up with his other hand, fingers lightly brushing my bruised cheek. It was there in the gentleness of his hand and the expression that appeared on his face, and in that dark gaze.

“Did ye get a look at the man?”

I had seen him twice before—the first time when I went to meet with Victoria Grantham. He had been waiting for her on the landing at the top of the stairs when our meeting abruptly ended. And then again at Dover. I had dismissed it at the time, but I was certain of it now.

“Aye, he followed us from London.”

“Your arm needs to be bandaged.”

He shook his head. “Some of that brandy will do.” He gestured to the wide table near the hearth. “And a strip of cloth from yer underskirt.”

“Will he come back?”

“He’s more likely to find a place to hide and dress his own wound.” That dark gaze held mine. “He hoped to find ye alone and be done with ye. He didna count on the fact that ye fight like a man, and it seems ye broke his nose. There was a lot of blood.”

Including no doubt, the wound he had received.

“What if someone at the hotel notified the local police?”

He shook his head. “It’s not likely. Or they would have been here already.”

“There’s no train to Calais until morning,” I pointed out. I would have preferred to leave that night.

I looked around at the room—the furniture that had been overturned, and a good amount of blood on the carpet. No doubt from that broken nose.

“I’ll find another room down the hall. There are not a lot of guests about. There is bound to be an empty one. That will go a long way to discourage any other visits should the man decide to return.”

He stood as I finished bandaging his arm, then gently kissed me.

“Ye have a fine hand, lass. As long as there’s not a revolver in it.” He kissed me again.

“Prop the chair under the latch on the door.”

He was only gone a few minutes.

Our new room was at the end of the hall by the stairway.

“I persuaded the guest to leave.”

He was teasing of course.

“And bring the brandy.”

We spent the night in that second room. Brodie went down to the restaurant as a bruise began to appear on my cheek which would undoubtedly have raised questions. He returned with roast chicken, vegetables, warm bread, and wine. However, there was no soup!

I slept fitfully, waking several times during the night at a sound from the hallway and found Brodie awake in the chair before the hearth.

“Go back to sleep,” he said each time, and somehow I managed.

In the morning it seemed that he had been awake the entire night.

I had washed his shirt the night before and set it to dry in front of the hearth. He quickly dressed while I moved about a bit more slowly. Other than the cut on his arm, he appeared to have escaped relatively unscathed.

To say that I was sore in more places than my bruised cheek was a bit of an understatement. I hurt all over from being thrown against the door and then to the floor.

I made use of the adjoining washroom and set some order to my hair. When I stepped back into the room, we made a quick breakfast from the leftover baguette.

“It’s cold and there is a bit of snow,” he said, stepping away from the window.

He helped me with my coat and bag that contained the copy of the document we’d brought with us, along with my notebook and the revolver, then wrapped his woolen scarf high around my neck so that it covered most of the bruise on my cheek.

“Aye, that will do.”

We left the room.

At the concierge desk, he requested a driver to take us to the rail station. The same driver we had the day before arrived and we quickly climbed inside.

There was only a brief wait at the rail station for the morning train to Creil. Brodie purchased our fares. We quickly climbed aboard when the train arrived, both of us watchful for the man who had attacked me.

We didn’t see him at the station or among the few passengers as we boarded. If he was going to return to London it seemed that it would be on another train.

Brodie purchased box lunches from a café at the station at Creil. The train that would take us to Calais arrived the next hour.

There were few people in the rail car for that return trip, as there were generally fewer travelers that time of year due to unpredictable weather.

We arrived in Calais the middle of the afternoon. There were no encounters on the trip there.

Brodie stepped down on the platform, then reached a hand to steady me. I stepped down as well and looked up into Munro’s sharp blue gaze.

“Ye made the crossing well enough,” Brodie commented.

“Aye, but there will be none the rest of the day with the storm that’s come in.”

I had dozed off on the trip from Creil and my thoughts were slow. Then there was only one. And the fear was there.

“Has something happened?” I asked. “Aunt Antonia? Lily?”

“They are safe,” he replied. “Best to get out of the weather.”

With no crossings the remainder of the day there was nothing for us to do but go to the inn where we’d stayed before and find a room for the night.

It was crowded with other travelers who were forced to stay over until the weather improved, as were other inns and a hotel, according to Munro.

Brodie was able to get one of the last rooms available. It seemed I would have to share the room with the two of them.

He had sent a telegram to London the night before and cautioned Munro about what had happened.

And in that way of having known each other for all those years, Munro had made arrangements with Mr. Brown, and then come to Calais.

I could only imagine my great aunt’s response to Brown’s men taking up temporary residence at Sussex Square. And then there was Lily.

“Her ladyship has the matter well in hand,” Munro said of my great aunt. “The young miss as well, until I return.”

And my sister?

“Safe,” he replied. He looked at me as we sat at a table in the tavern on the main floor of the inn, and knowing me quite well, made only one comment.

“I hope ye gave as good as ye received.”

Brodie explained what had happened.

“Aye, well the next time,” Munro replied.

They both ordered ale, while I requested coffee.

We ate in the tavern. Several times, I noticed Brodie watching the door as someone arrived or departed.

Over ale and then supper he spoke quietly with Munro. He explained what we’d learned and what had happened at the hotel in Compiegne.

“What news do ye have?” Brodie asked him.

He had kept watch over the man Brodie had followed to Aldgate, and had made inquiries about him.

The man was German, according to what he was told. He learned a name—Kessler. Then made other inquiries. It seemed that Herr Kessler was a doctor.

“Not just any doctor, but a surgeon.”

Why would Victoria Grantham have need of a doctor, more specifically a surgeon?

It made no sense, but as I had learned in our other inquiry cases, the clues we learned often made no sense until we uncovered that one piece of information that connected all of it, and everything came together.

There was more.

“The man is dead,” Munro told us.

“How?” Brodie asked.

“At his shop when I returned. Someone had used his own instrument to kill him.”

Which made it impossible to learn anything from the man.

I was exhausted, my cheek throbbed, and a headache had begun. I needed sleep.

Brodie stood as I rose from the chair at the table, and escorted me to our room. He helped me undress, then tucked me in bed with a thick comforter. His fingers brushed my cheek.

“We won’t be long.” The ‘ we, ’ of course, included Munro.

“Munro?”

“Aye. He’ll manage by the fire. I’ll not have him in my bed. He snores.”

I would have laughed, except that it hurt.

I caught his hand in mine as he stood to leave. The question was there ... a dozen questions were there. And no answers.

“We’ll find out what the Grantham woman is about. What happened yesterday will have upset her plans. She will make a mistake and we’ll be there to see it.”

I nodded and curled into myself under the comforter.

I was only slightly aware when he returned to the room with Munro.

Brodie was not given to snoring, except if there was an abundance of whisky or ale. And then there was Munro.

While I had no practical experience in that regard, it did seem as if both men had indulged in a considerable amount of ale by the amount of noise I was surprised didn’t rattle the walls of the room.

I buried my head, along with my bruised cheek, in the covers and somehow managed to go back to sleep.

There was a faint sliver of light beneath the shutters at the window when I finally conceded there would be no more sleep and slipped from the bed I shared with Brodie.

He moved into the spot I had occupied without waking, his snoring temporarily muffled with his face buried in the pillow.

I pulled a blanket from the bed, stepped carefully around the second snoring Scot under a heavy wool blanket in front of the hearth, then let myself out of the room and went down the hall to the loo.

When I returned, somewhat refreshed with soap and water, I encountered a dark haired, dark eyed Scot in somewhat ill humor at the door to the room.

“Wot are ye about, lass, takin’ herself off alone after what happened?” Brodie demanded.

There were still remnants of the headache from the day before. It was cold in the hallway, I was bare of foot, and in no mood to stand about in only my undergarments with only a blanket for warmth.

“I needed to use the room,” I informed him. “It was not something that might wait for an escort, particularly two Scots who snore loud enough to wake the dead.”

“What is all the noise?”

We both looked at Munro who appeared behind Brodie in the doorway, glowering at us.

There were moments when I was amazed by some small thing that completely flummoxed Brodie. This was one of those moments, as he stood there in just his trousers, bare of foot, with the bloodied bandage on one arm, a scowl on his face.

“I have no need of a guard when I need to use the loo!” I whispered quite vehemently, then stepped past the both of them as I returned to the room.

“There’ll be no more sleep.” Munro returned as well. He pulled on his boots then grabbed his jacket, and left the room.

Brodie found his shirt and pulled it on, then grabbed his boots.

“Ye canna go about in yer underthings as if it’s of no matter, with another man about.”

Another man? Munro?

He was quite disheveled as he tucked his shirt into his pants. And then there was the scowl. He scraped that mane of hair back. The scowl was still there.

“Munro has seen me dressed as a man, wounded with little more than what I am wearing now, and countless other times at Old Lodge in little more than my knickers before the morning fire.”

He jerked one boot on then reached for the other.

“Aye,” he snapped.

“What is this about, then?” I demanded. He yanked on his other boot, then stood.

He looked very much like some ancient Scot, ready to do battle.

“It isna so much about Munro,” he finally said. “I trust him with my life, and yers. I know he would never have a thought about ye as a woman ... not in that way. Even tho’ ye are most fetchin’ in yer underthings,” he admitted, as the scowl faded.

Fetching. Now there was a word to impress a woman.

“I suppose it’s everything that happened in Compiegne,” he attempted to explain. “I woke, and ye were gone ...”

“I had gone to the loo,” I reminded him.

“Aye.”

He reached out and laid his hand gently on my bruised cheek. The scowl was gone, replaced with another expression.

“Ah, Mikaela Forsythe, ye tear me heart out, with the way ye look at me, the way I need ye.

“When that man attacked ye, my only thought was that I might lose ye and there was somethin’ near rage. Then, to find ye gone this mornin’ ...”

I did understand—the pain of his childhood, the loss, then orphaned to the streets, and the years since.

“I know,” I told him and meant it. “However, you do realize that it will happen again.”

Those dark eyes narrowed, and the scowl returned.

It was really too tempting. I laid my hand over his.

“I will need to use the loo again.”

With me in my knickers and a bruise on my cheek, he cursed ... then kissed me quite thoroughly.

Brodie’s scarf was tucked high about my neck, more for warmth than any concern that someone might see the bruise on my cheek as we waited to board the steamer for the trip back across the channel. It also provided the opportunity to search the faces of our fellow passengers who gathered nearby.

Word had reached the inn that the steamer would make the crossing. To say that the weather was calmer than the day before seemed a bit optimistic, as whitecaps churned the waves that swirled about the dock.

Brodie left me with my ‘protector’ when we arrived, and made a walk about the dock as we waited to board, that dark gaze shielded beneath the bill of his cap as he moved among the other passengers huddled in the building and under the eaves.

“He is not here,” he announced in a low voice when he returned.

I should have been relieved that the man who had attacked me was not there. Yet, that meant that he was still out there somewhere—and having escaped would he try again?

The day I met with Victoria Grantham, he had been at Grantham Manor, standing on the landing at the top of the stairs as I left.

Who was he? A servant? Companion? Lover?

He had followed us to Compiegne. And now the man Munro had been asked to follow was dead.

What did it have to do with Victoria Grantham’s claim?

We made the train at Dover, then the return rail trip to London without further incident.

Brodie insisted that I go to the townhouse to rest, but I refused and accompanied him back to the office on the Strand.

Munro returned with us as far as the office, then continued on to Sussex Square.

Mr. Cavendish was there, as well as the hound. He frowned, obviously at the sight of the bruise, but made no comment on it.

“Good to see ye, miss.”

Rupert insisted on accompanying us up the stairs to the office.

There was no fuss as we entered the office, none of the usual anticipation for food. He simply followed me to my desk, then curled on the floor at my feet, soulful eyes watching me.

“Worthless beast,” Brodie said, not unkindly.

Good boy , I thought, with the usual scratch behind his ears.

Rupert made his usual response, a thump of his tail, then promptly went to sleep.

I took out my notebook, then went to the blackboard to add notes I had made on the trip from Dover.

Motive, means, opportunity.

The ‘ means’ and ‘ opportunity ’ were obvious with that attack in Compiegne. But for what reason? What was the motive?

Victoria Grantham’s claim, that she only wanted to know her real family? Financial gain? Surely getting hands on my great aunt’s wealth could be a possible motive. It wouldn’t be the first time that someone attempted that.

With what had happened in Compiegne, it seemed that it was something far more. And now the man I had seen leaving the Grantham Manor was dead.

What was his part in all of this? Who had killed him? And for what reason?

The answer seemed obvious—Victoria Grantham.

Was she taking care of ‘loose ends,’ as Brodie called it?

It sounded preposterous. And yet ...

I glanced at the manuscript Victoria Grantham had written and then sent to my brother-in-law with the hope of having it published; that bore a striking resemblance to the details of my life, and her claim that she only wanted to know her family.

The thought was there even as I attempted to push it away. It was simply too bizarre, terrifying. And insane?

I thought of the encounters with Victoria Grantham—at the book shop, her appearance at the gallery the night of Linnie’s art showing, then again at the German gymnasium.

Places and events that were part of my life!

And now the disappearance of that document from the records at Compiegne, that might prove that it was all a deception, followed by the attack that might have succeeded if Brodie had not been there.

It was there in the words I had added to that improbable list of clues, glaring back at me from the blackboard. The piece of chalk snapped in my fingers.

I came away from the board and the glaring possibility, and wrapped my arms around myself trying to understand, to comprehend what madness had driven Victoria Grantham to do such things.

I heard a small sound and realized I had made that sound, almost a whimper like a wounded animal.

I turned away from the chalkboard, unable to look at the words ... at the truth.

“Brodie ...?”

I felt as if I couldn’t breathe. Was that even my own voice?

He pulled me into his arms.

“I’m here, lass.”

We sat in one of the overstuffed chairs in front of his desk for the longest time.

I had fought him at first. Fought the anger of that glaring truth, then fought the fear for my sister, my great aunt, Lily ...

Impossible . I kept coming back to that word.

How could Victoria Grantham hope to make any of them accept her ...?

I had tried to push Brodie away. He held on, and somewhere between the truth and the anger, he pulled me down into that chair and held me, as I cursed and wept, then curled against him until the rage was spent.

“What is to be done?” I asked.

The truth was that we had no evidence to prove any of it. With the physician’s death and the disappearance of the man who had attacked me, there was no one who might be persuaded to expose Victoria Grantham’s scheme. There was only Victoria Grantham.

I insisted on checking on both James and my sister, as well as my great aunt.

Only James had been aware of the men who discreetly followed him from home to office and then back again. My sister had been oblivious to it, as I had insisted in consideration of her condition.

However, my great aunt was another matter. I was reminded as we took a coach to Sussex Square that this was a woman who was descended from a ruthless king, had outlived several ‘ gentlemen friends,’ as she referred to them, and boldly traveled to Africa while other friends who were still alive were in their rocking chairs.

Adding to that, she motored fearlessly across London whenever she chose, amidst all sorts of persons on the streets who would not have hesitated to accost her, and had once chased drawn a man who had attempted it with a pistol—the apple had not fallen far from that tree.

And then there was Lily. I was determined to protect all of them.

I greeted Mr. Symons as we arrived. Munro was there as well, and informed us that my great aunt was in the drawing room.

I wasn’t at all certain what to make of his expression in the look he gave Brodie.

“Here you are, dear,” Aunt Antonia exclaimed. “Safe and sound, I see. Munro did share your encounter with us. You’re in time to join us for the next hand.”

It appeared to be a game of poker, of all things, as she shuffled a deck of cards and called for bets to be placed from those at the table, that included Lily, and Mr. Brown!