Page 5 of Deadly Ghost (Angus Brodie and Mikaela Forsythe Murder Mystery #12)

Four

I shared everything with Brodie that my great aunt had told me—the things that would have served no purpose telling two young children at the time, suddenly orphaned after the deaths of both parents.

“What of yer sister?” Brodie asked. “Ye have to think of her as well.”

“I am thinking of her,” I replied over very strong coffee and breakfast at the Public House.

Most particularly of her longing for a family of her own after difficult things in the past.

“What will ye do then?” he asked as we returned to the office with a carton of food for Mr. Cavendish and Rupert.

“I want to read the letters.”

Knowing me and my need to understand so very well, he simply nodded.

“There are things I must see to at the Agency.”

The Talmadge inquiry. I understood that, as well.

He had Mr. Cavendish call for a cab. The service bell rang to let us know that a driver had arrived.

His hand closed around mine. He stared down at that simple bronze band he had given me, his thumb brushing the metal, warm from my hand.

“Whatever ye decide ...”

It was that simple—whatever I decided, that was to be done. Not in so many words, of course, but just in that simple gesture.

I pressed my hand against his cheek.

“Brodie ...”

His other hand closed around mine. He turned it in his, then pressed a kiss to the palm. My fingers curled as if to hold onto it.

“I know, lass.”

I didn’t immediately take out the letters after he left. I needed to gather my thoughts first, to set my emotions aside, as Brodie had once told me in that difficult case.

It was sometime later and more than one cup of coffee when I finally took them out of my bag and spread them on the top of the desk, along with those documents. And then began ...

20 April 18

Dear Anne,

So many thoughts, so many feelings. You must understand that I struggle with all of them.

The encounter in the park was unexpected, and at the same time left me feeling something I have not felt in a very long time. A lightness of feeling to be certain, and your smile ...

I look forward to seeing you again, if you should find yourself in the park.

John Forsythe

I sat back in my chair at the desk, and closed my eyes as if I could summon the sound of my father’s voice.

I could not, and pulled the note from the next envelope.

Dearest Anne,

I have told you all, and hold you in confidence. It is a sad situation for which I see no hope, no other choice ...

Each letter began in that manner, as their affair began and then continued over the months that followed. He wrote of their stolen moments together, a trip to the country during the summer that included an excuse to her husband that she was visiting family.

Then, a change in the tone of a letter dated that October.

Dearest Anne,

You must believe that I want to be with you, but cannot. There are so many other considerations ...

I looked up from the letter. Considerations? Our mother? Linnie and myself? There had been no mention of us in the other letters.

Had she let him know there was a child all those months later when she returned from France, according to those documents and that registration of birth?

By then, our mother was gone.

Was it grief that had sent my father to the stables that day? The possibility of a scandal, along with the debts?

I refolded the letters and returned them to the envelopes, then looked up at a sound on the landing as Brodie returned.

That dark gaze met mine as he entered the office.

“I’ve informed Sir Avery that I am stepping away from the Talmadge inquiry.”

“I would think that he was not pleased,” I replied with more than a little surprise as I brushed the rain from the shoulders of his coat. A different expression then, not quite a smile nor a frown.

“He was not.”

That dark gaze met mine, then his arms went around me.

“Are ye all right?” he asked as he had the night before.

I laid my head against his shoulder, his heart beating strong beneath my hand on the front of his coat.

I nodded.

He looked at that certificate of birth from over twenty years earlier. “It is worn and smeared, though the date is there: a girl, born 10 April of the following year, in France.”

After he returned to the office, he spent the next hours reading the letters as well as the documents my great aunt had received.

“At the registrar’s office in Compiègne,” I replied, indicating the faint stamp at the bottom that was equally faded.

“Does this name mean anything to you?” He pointed out the faint signature in a tiny, precise scrawl above that barely legible stamp.

“It could be the signature of the local magistrate or possibly someone who attended the birth. I have heard there are places where women might go privately to have a child. Particularly in a situation that might not be acceptable in proper society.”

“Aye, proper society ,” he repeated with no attempt to hide the disgust he felt.

I knew his thoughts ... that glaring difference between the classes where a woman of means might go to have a child in private and safety, while a woman of the poorer classes would be forced to have her child in some cold, rat-infested tenement.

“Where do ye want to begin?”

“I would like to know more about this woman, even though she’s only been back in London for a short time. And about Lady Grantham.” I knew there was always more to know about a person.

The Grantham name was not unknown. There had to be records for Sir Grantham: record of marriage, any other births, deaths, that sort of thing.

In addition, he had been a successful merchant as well as a member of Parliament. There were undoubtedly other members who knew him, and knew the family. There might be something there that could help us learn the truth.

“I will begin tomorrow with the Office of Official Records. There might also be something in the newspaper archives.”

“And I will see wot might be learned through those associated with the Agency. They have sources that might be able to provide something,” Brodie added.

“I don’t imagine that Sir Stanton would approve of that, since you have stepped away from the Talmadge inquiry.”

“No,” Brodie admitted. “But young Mr. Sinclair might be able to assist.”

Alex Sinclair was a young associate with the Agency, quite brilliant with his inventions and with a fascination for the more dangerous aspects of the Agency’s work. He had proven himself to be quite valuable, surprisingly talented with a weapon that had surprised him as well, and he could keep a secret regarding some of those experiences.

There was much to do and I was most eager to begin.

“Wot of the showing of yer sister’s paintings this evenin’?”

“I suppose there is very little that might be accomplished this afternoon,” I replied, given the late hour with most offices I wanted to visit closing within a very short while.

“And I know the gallery showing is most important to her. We should attend as planned. She would be terribly disappointed if we did not.”

I caught the expression on his face. More a grimace, I thought.

“It will be good for you,” I added. “It will broaden your intellectual horizons.”

The grimace was still there.

“Ye are the only one who could persuade me to attend such a thing. I would much rather spend the evening alone with ye. “

I laid my hand against the front of his shirt, just there where it lay open.

“Afterward, Mr. Brodie,” I promised him.

His hand closed around mine and he pressed a kiss against my fingers.

“I will hold ye to the bargain.”

Attending a gallery showing did require more appropriate attire in consideration of the prestige of the gallery and those who would be attending.

We returned to Mayfair where I had moved most of his clothes under much protest.

It made no sense to keep two wardrobes of clothes, limited as his were—by choice—and had simply taken the matter into my own hands and had everything packed up except for his ‘street clothes,’ as he called them.

The situation was finally discovered as we prepared to decamp to Old Lodge and he had inquired about his long boots, which would undoubtedly be necessary in the cooler, often mucky climes in the north.

I had informed him that they were at the townhouse, along with his long overcoat, woolen trousers, and shirts.

I’ve heard about this sort of thing , he had declared at the time. I suppose next ye’ll be purchasing silk underdrawers and a nightshirt for me to wear.

Silly man.

Not at all, I had assured him at the time. A nightshirt would not do at all.

Ye are a wanton woman , he had replied. And that had ended the conversation.

My housekeeper Mrs. Ryan had provided an early supper. I now stood in the doorway of the dressing room adjacent to the bedroom.

I had laid out the appropriate attire for him for the evening—the wool dress suit that he had previously worn once, white linen shirt, brocade vest, and tie.

He was presently standing in the middle of the room, quite impressive, in trousers, shirt, and vest, and a glare as he struggled with the tie.

That glare fastened on me as I brushed his hands aside and proceeded to tie his tie, then fanned the flared ends out.

“Another of yer many talents,” he commented. “Which might raise the question where ye learned such a thing.”

“Aunt Antonia is a source of amazing information,” I replied.

“And no doubt a woman of some experience.”

I nodded. “There are rumors.”

That dark gaze narrowed in a way I was most familiar with, and I took a step back.

“The driver will be here quite soon.”

The gallery was in Westminster very near Mayfair, at the Mews, an elaborate concrete and stone building with marble columns that framed the entrance, and contained iron girders to protect it against fires that had ravaged London more than once in the past.

It had been privately funded and built over twenty years earlier, and my great aunt had been one of the founding donors. She had insisted that had nothing to do with the invitation for my sister to display her paintings. That had come independently from the board that oversaw the gallery.

The Grosvenor Gallery was actually several galleries housed in the building with that main entrance on New Bond Street, that included the East and West galleries of more traditional well-known artists, the Sculpture Gallery, and the Water Color Gallery, where the reception for Linnie’s paintings was being held this evening.

We arrived in good time, a considerable number of other guests entering the gallery. I was enormously pleased for my sister.

With encouragement from her husband, James, she had returned to her painting the past year with what could only be described as artistic passion. She had completed several new pieces that were to be included, along with others that had been stored away at Sussex Square during a difficult period.

We entered the gallery and gradually made our way past the library, then downstairs to the galleries.

The Water Color gallery was not as large as the main galleries, due to what Linnie had described as the smaller but growing interest in the medium—watercolors as opposed to oil paintings. But the location was equally impressive with a domed ceiling.

There were other artists’ works displayed on the walls, but my sister’s collection had been given particular placement at the entrance and then again on a raised carpet dais with one or two paintings along the way. It was a very special occasion for her.

Linnie, with James at her side, was nearby in conversation with an older gentleman—Sir Ponsonby, one of the owners of the gallery. He gazed about, and seemed most pleased with the number of people who filled the gallery.

“It seems that her ladyship has already arrived as well.” Brodie pointed out my great aunt, surrounded by at least a dozen acquaintances, including Sir Laughton and his wife, much like a queen holding court

I was not surprised. Her family line went back several hundred years to King William, along with several other assorted royals along the way. And there was almost nothing she liked better than praising the accomplishments of our family.

I did wonder how she explained my ventures in assisting Brodie with his inquiry cases.

I then discovered Lily, standing before a display of four framed watercolors that represented the seasons of the year in the same garden in France that I recognized from my sister’s earlier efforts. They were each quite beautiful, with a faint misty quality in the one that was meant to portray rain, while the painting that was labeled Spring Returns glowed with the promise of new flowers should a young woman stroll through a garden.

“Linnie started the first the first one when we were at school in Paris. I couldn’t draw a simple figure to save myself, while this painting was presented before the class by our art instructor,” I explained as I joined Lily.

“That must have been horrible. What did you do?”

“I managed to convince the headmistress that I was quite ill, then left the school.”

“Where did you go?”

That was a conversation for another time. As Brodie often pointed out, she was very like me in spite of the fact that there was no blood relation, and could be quite bold.

“What do you think of the paintings?” I suggested instead, a diversion to be certain.

“Four seasons?” she replied. “There are only two at Old Lodge, and three here in London when the rains let up.”

I laughed. I was much in agreement. In London the three seasons were rain, a warm month or two, then more rain. In Scotland the seasons had the reputation of being cold and colder, with a great deal of rain or snow, and a few hours of spring in the mix just to tease everyone.

Of course that was a bit of an exaggeration.

We continued our exploration of the gallery. As we encountered people I was acquainted with, I made introductions. I was quite impressed with Lily’s polite responses. Particularly with Lady Dalrymple, who stared back at her through her lorgnette much like I had seen Mr. Brimley staring through his magnifying glass at a specimen. Her son, Horton, who had to be at least sixty years old and had never married, dithered beside her.

I did detect that faint roll of Lily’s eyes, as we quickly moved on to the next part of the exhibit. I was much in agreement.

“What about this painting?” she asked as we gradually made our way around to where my great aunt stood with James, a woman I recognized as Mrs. Elnora Keating, and a handful of others.

Brodie stood nearby in conversation with a gentleman he was obviously acquainted with. As the man turned to acknowledge something Brodie said, I realized that it was Sir Avery Stanton from the Agency.

“Those are the gardens at Aunt Antonia’s chateau at Chédigny in France,” I explained.

She looked at me with a frown. “Chateau?”

“It’s more of a country house with vineyards,” I explained.

“The wine that Munro has brought from France,” she observed as she continued to study the painting. “C’est magnifique,” she commented.

Her expertise of the French language was definitely improving in spite of declaring that she had no use for another language. I smiled.

It was most interesting to overhear some of the comments made about Linnie’s paintings as we continued around the gallery, all of them quite complimentary.

I was pleased for her, considering she had been forced to step away from her painting during her former marriage. Now James was so supportive of her, and as I glanced over at her in conversation with a gentleman and a woman—presumably his wife, although one could never tell—I could see what all of this meant to her. It was quite a triumph.

We continued about the gallery and gradually approached where I had first seen Aunt Antonia in conversation with those about her. As we approached closer, Lily took hold of my arm.

“What is it?”

“That’s her!” she said as she stared past me.

“Whatever are you talking about?”

“The woman I saw outside the bookstore!”

Lily had been most adamant about the encounter.

The woman’s interest in books, artwork, and now she had the boldness to approach Aunt Antonia directly.

She was dressed in a dark green satin gown with a dark green overcoat, and her hair was swept up into a thick cascade of waves of dark hair ... dark auburn hair.

Sir Laughton made my great aunt aware that we approached, in a tone I had heard before, but only in his profession as legal counsel, as with the day before at Sussex Square.

“Lady Forsythe,” he said then. “Please make the acquaintance of ...”

The woman who stood with them turned, held out her hand, and made her own introduction.

“Victoria Grantham.”