Page 7 of Deadly Ghost (Angus Brodie and Mikaela Forsythe Murder Mystery #12)

Six

Very little it seemed, as I was informed by a very brief note in response, that Lady Trevelyan’s schedule was quite full and she could not possibly meet with me.

“I see,” Aunt Antonia replied, when I spoke of it. “It does seem as if it might be necessary for me to send round a note to persuade her. And,” she had added for emphasis, “as I recall the Viscount is hoping for an appointment to the House of Lords, with the recent death of Lord Bruce Carmichael ... such a pity, such a dear man.”

“Aye, politics,” Brodie commented when he heard of my great aunt’s response. “I’ve experienced her ladyship first-hand when she is determined to make something happen.”

Within an hour of sending round her personal footman with a note, I received a telephone call at the townhouse from Lady Trevelyan’s personal secretary, informing me that her ladyship would be pleased to meet with me at Slater’s in Piccadilly, where she was to meet with her ladies in the Tea Room.

It appeared that Brodie was correct. No one could have lived as long as my great aunt with such great influence, and not learned how to use that influence.

I arrived at Slater’s at the appointed time and went downstairs to the Tea Room, where a waiter directed me to Lady Trevelyan’s table. Her ladies had obviously not yet arrived. She sat alone.

She was an elegant woman, of the age my mother might have been had she lived. Her dark hair was swept up and fastened atop her head, her eyes gray as she greeted me with a polite smile.

“It was most pleasant speaking with Lady Montgomery,” she commented. “A formidable woman. I do hope that she is well.”

“Quite well,” I replied, “and formidable indeed.”

We exchanged a few brief pleasantries about people we both knew, and the gloomy winter weather that had set in. She paused as the waiter served tea. I waited as she added lemon, stirred, then set her spoon back on the saucer.

“Her ladyship spoke of a family matter of some importance and thought I might be of assistance, although I cannot imagine how that might be. However, I will help in any way that I can.”

Once again, I had rehearsed just how I might approach the delicate subject of an affair between my father and Lady Grantham with those who might have been within the circle of acquaintances.

“It is a rather delicate matter. A situation that occurred several years ago and is now a matter of importance to our family.”

I explained by first mentioning that three men, including my father and the Viscount, had been members of Brooks Club.

“Brooks,” she sniffed with obvious disdain. “That was indeed a very long time ago. My husband prefers White’s now, as several members of Parliament are also members there.” She lifted her cup and took a long sip of tea.

“This would be regarding something Sir John Forsythe might have shared with the Viscount in confidence,” I continued. “Regarding his ... acquaintance with a woman by the name of Lady Anne Grantham.”

I caught the look on Lady Trevelyan’s face as she very carefully set her cup back on the saucer.

“You flatter me in thinking that I would know of such things ... rumors, gossip ... there is always something of that sort going about, and best to disregard it.

“Affairs are not unusual,” she continued. “But the consequences can be devastating.”

The way she said it, I did wonder if she might have experienced a similar situation.

“Lady Grantham’s daughter has now come forward with the claim that Sir John Forsythe, not Sir Grantham, was her father.” I caught the change in her expression, the manner in which she folded her hands in her lap.

“I am certain that you can appreciate that it is most important to my great aunt to determine the validity of her claim,” I added.

“Of course,” she replied, then suddenly looked past me. “My ladies have arrived,” she announced, then stood and laid down her napkin. “What you’ve shared is an unfortunate situation, but there is nothing I can tell you.”

Considering her manner, her carefully chosen words, and now an abrupt end to our conversation, I was convinced that she knew something about all of this, but it was obvious she was not going to share whatever that might be.

As her ladies arrived at the table, I thanked her for meeting with me and left, aware of the curious stares that followed me.

‘Let them eat cake ,’ I thought.

I found a cab and asked the driver to take me to the Times newspaper building. In the past I had been able to find valuable information in our inquiry cases. The Times of London, among other publications, had begun to archive past issues of their newspapers on film rather than storing decades of copies that gradually deteriorated over time.

It was a fascinating process, and had made my task far easier when looking for information about an event or someone whose activities appeared on the gossip sheets.

What might I find on those gossip sheets about Lady Grantham’s extended stay in France twenty years earlier?

I signed in at the ground floor desk, then took the lift to the second floor where the archive was located.

“Lady Forsythe,” the man in the archive acknowledged. “A new inquiry case, no doubt. How may I help you today?” I did sense the faint undertone of disdain that I had encountered on previous occasions.

Instead of responding, I requested the film archive for the newspaper, beginning the year before my father’s death in the hope that I might find something that would provide a clue to the question about the woman’s claim.

Of course, I was aware that I might not care for what I would find.

It was tedious work that would have been far easier if there was a catalog system as in the British Library, where one could simply look up a person’s name or some other reference and find related books and documents.

Without a catalog of articles in newspapers, there was nothing to do but scan each issue of the paper, most particularly the gossip sheet.

4 June 1871

I read with some amusement an account about my great aunt. It was rumored that she had been seen at Boodles men’s club, although the person who claimed to have seen her couldn’t be certain as the person was dressed as a man ...

Scandal, scandal. What had become of London Society? The author of that particular bit of gossip had asked. I could only smile at that.

“Well done.” I commented to myself. Then ...

11 June 1872 .

The date of my father’s death.

The comment on the gossip sheet referred to the death notice of Sir John Forsythe of London, in what appeared to be a ‘ hunting ’ accident. And the next line that was written ...

Sir Forsythe’s body was found by his nine-year-old daughter. Most tragic! And further tragedy, it is rumored that the estate will be sold to pay Sir Forsythe’s gambling debts, with two children now orphaned. There are rumors about what might have caused him to take his own life ...

I forced myself past that and continued to scroll through two additional rolls of film, each one containing several weeks of copies of the newspaper. Therein I discovered when Sir George Trevelyan had been elected to the House of Commons, Sir Henry Portman appointed to the House of Lords two years later.

I continued my search as the hours of the afternoon passed. And then ...

In the society news, of 18 June 1892, I found a brief announcement that Miss Victoria Grantham, daughter of Lady Anne Grantham, had returned from France after an extended tour.

Five months earlier! And far different from the two months that Victoria Grantham had claimed, when she returned upon her mother’s illness.

I sat back in the chair and stared at the gossip sheet on the viewer in front of me.

What reason would Victoria Grantham have to lie about when she had returned?

I wrote down the information in my notebook, then continued to scroll through the most recent film archive along with copies of recent issues that had not yet been photographed.

I found the announcement of the death of Lady Anne Grantham with burial that followed at Highgate Cemetery. Guests were noted to include Lady Victoria Grantham, servants, and a man whose name was not shown.

Victoria Grantham’s representative, Jerrold Handley, perhaps? Or some other unnamed family member?

And an unexpected surprise.

The person who had been assigned to report on the funeral for the Times was none other than Theodolphus Burke.

There were several words that came to mind that might describe the man—ambitious, scheming, despicable, determined to get his story no matter the cost to others.

The man had proven himself absolutely ruthless to the extent that he had jeopardized a previous investigation and put a young woman’s life at risk.

I had heard from Lucy Penworth, who had once worked at the Times before joining the Agency, that he had been demoted from his position as preeminent reporter for the newspaper after that inquiry case. It did appear that he was now assigned to writing about dead people.

Oh, how the mighty had fallen.

I couldn’t image a better assignment for him. Yet, it did raise the possibility that he might have information about Lady Anne Grantham’s funeral and the unnamed man who had attended.

As much as I loathed the man and had once hoped for his demise—I wouldn’t have been opposed to inserting the blade myself and watching him bleed out, as they say—as much as I despised Burke, I would call on him in an attempt to learn what he might know.

The clerk announced that it was closing hour for the archive. I closed my notebook, then returned the last roll of film to the clerk at the desk. I left the Times building and waved down a cab.

I had learned several things, although it was impossible to know yet what any of it meant.

Lady Trevelyan had obviously refused to tell anything she might know. What did that mean? Was she protecting someone? If so, who? And for what reason?

The newspaper archive had revealed the difference in the date Victoria Grantham had returned to London, supposedly to care for her ailing mother. It had also revealed the mourners at Lady Anne Grantham’s funeral had included a man—name not shown.

There was a light in the window of the office as I returned. Brodie had obviously returned from that earlier meeting.

Mr. Cavendish, née The Mudger, rolled out from the overhang above the sidewalk on his platform, a unique method of transportation after losing both legs above the knees.

He was already dressed for the colder weather with a jacket—quite nattily in style, with a wool scarf about his neck and woolen cap.

Rupert the hound emerged as well, obviously awakened from a nap, stretched then approached, tail wagging.

I scratched him behind the ears. He was a fine fellow, once one looked past the smears and smudges, not to mention the smell, from his daily foray onto the streets of the East End in search of whatever might be found in refuse bins, or a hand-out from acquaintances along the Strand that included Miss Effie at the Public House.

“We were about to go for something to warm the bones,” Mr. Cavendish commented.

Warming the bones usually included a couple of pints of beer for him and a plate of left-overs for Rupert.

“Mr. Brodie said to keep an eye out for you. Seems he has a bit of information on that new case.”

Mr. Cavendish was always well-informed about our inquiry cases, even though Brodie rarely shared anything with him of that nature unless it was to assist with a particular case.

He most certainly had his own means of acquiring information from his sources on the streets.

He rang the service bell to announce my arrival. Then man and hound set off across the Strand, Mr. Cavendish wheeling himself through early evening traffic with terrifying speed, the hound bounding alongside.

“Here ye are,” Brodie said as he came down the stairs from the office. “We have an appointment that might be useful.” He waved down a driver, then assisted me inside.

“An appointment? With whom?”

The ride was brief, and then the driver pulled to the curb outside the apothecary shop. Brodie shielded me with his umbrella as we entered the shop.

There was always the strong smell of formaldehyde, much like pickles, with the sharp odor of medicinal alcohol. Such were two of the tools of the trade of the chemist, Mr. Brimley.

He had once studied to be a physician. But circumstances had changed his direction, and he had chosen to work in the East End with his shop. Here he provided care for the people, most of whom could not always pay for his services, that included women who found themselves in a ‘difficulty.’

He had assisted in past inquiry cases with his expertise, particularly with dead bodies and causes of death that had revealed clues.

I could also personally attest to his skill as a surgeon, after being shot in the course of that first inquiry case with Brodie.

He was also a good friend and greeted us now as he saw his assistant, Sara, to the door at the end of the work day.

“Your pay is in the envelope,” he told her as he handed it to her. “And give that medicine to your friend. It will help ease the misery in his lungs.”

He turned, peering at us over the top of his glasses.

“She calls him ‘ brother ,’ but I suspect that he is more than that to her. Poor chap has lung disease. Nothing to be done but make him more comfortable. She knows it as well.” That myopic gaze fastened on me.

“It is good to see you again, Miss Forsythe.”

Then in that distracted way of his, he turned and led the way to the back of his shop that contained the press for making pills, along with powders, and tonic that lined the shelves, as well as a variety of specimens that he collected in jars that had included a severed hand, an eyeball, and usually some internal organ.

I did not ask how he acquired them.

He adjusted his glasses as we entered the back room. A handful of microscopes lined the counter at one side of the room, along with what appeared to be a specimen—removed from one of those jars, pinned to a board, and I presumed currently under investigation.

“I have it here, Mr. Brodie,” he commented as he led us past the specimen, for which I was grateful.

Not that I was squeamish about such things. As a child, there was always some poor creature being brought back to our house in the country when our father went off to hunt with companions, on the rare occasions he was there.

And then there were the variety of specimens, usually missing a head, that Rupert brought back to the office on the Strand and proceeded to dismember in the alcove. The variety might include rats, castoff body parts from the butcher shop, or once an old boot with a foot still inside.

Mr. Cavendish had retrieved the foot and properly disposed of it, much to the hound’s displeasure, with a comment at the time about losing one’s foot. Or rather, both feet, as it were in his particular case.

Mr. Brimley now proceeded to a microscope at the far end of the counter and turned on the overhead light. One of the documents that had been provided by Victoria Grantham’s representative in that initial envelope that Aunt Antonia received lay on the counter beside the microscope.

“I had a thought after you left,” he explained with a look over at Brodie in that same faintly distracted manner.

He bent over the document, wisps of white hair spiking up around his head as he took off his glasses and donned a pair of goggles, much like the ones Aunt Antonia wore for protection from ‘flotsam and mud,’ when navigating about in her motor carriage.

Mr. Brimley grinned as he looked over at us, appearing very much like an enormous bug.

“I’ve improved the lenses,” he explained. “So that I can see things far better than the microscope might reveal and in greater detail.” He gestured to the document and went on to explain.

“I first looked at the paper under the microscope when you brought it over earlier today, Mr. Brodie. I then had a go at it with the goggles which revealed a great deal more.”

“And the lemon juice ye mentioned?” Brodie inquired.

Mr. Brimley smiled as he explained.

“It is something I’ve experimented with before, and was very revealing. The lemon juice is highly acidic. When brushed over paper and heated at the same time it changes the composition of the paper and anything written on it. Of course, one does need to be careful not to set the paper afire.” That smile again.

“I waited until you returned to demonstrate.”

“By all means,” I replied. I was most eager to see what might be revealed by those shadows we had seen on the document.

“Anything that emerges here will permanently mark the paper, and possibly overwrite anything else.” He looked expectantly from me to Brodie.

“If there is something else on the document, I want to see it.”

Mr. Brimley had set everything up for the ‘ experiment’ and proceeded to pour lemon juice from a bottle into a small bowl. He then added a small amount of water.

“For the heat, we might use your hand-held light, Mr. Brodie. Safer than a candle or one of my burners.”

Brodie removed the lantern from his coat pocket as Mr. Brimley stirred the lemon and water mixture, then took a brush from a nearby jar.

“For this to work, you must hold the lamp under the document as the lemon water is applied.”

Brodie held the lamp under the document as Mr. Brimley handed the brush to me.

“Very lightly now across the document where you hope to see more of that which is written, if you please, Lady Forsythe.”

I took the brush from him and dipped it into the solution, then lightly brushed across the faded writing that had been entered on the document.

Remarkably, those shadows behind the faded letters on the document slowly began to emerge!

I looked over at Brodie.

What was hidden there? What might it tell us?

Along with that, for what reason had the document been written over? And by whom?