Page 8 of Deadly Ghost (Angus Brodie and Mikaela Forsythe Murder Mystery #12)

Seven

Only a few of the letters hidden there gradually emerged, the acid of the lemon juice heated by the lamp slowly turning the paper a shade of brown and causing them to slowly disappear once more, one by one, into a dark stain on the paper.

I wrote down the few letters that I was able to decipher from the hodgepodge of curves and marks, very much like playing a word game, with most of the letters now faded into the dark brown cloud of the document.

“Are ye able to make anything of it?” Brodie asked as the experiment ended and he turned off the lamp.

“The letters make no sense and there are so few of them,” I replied. It was disappointing to say the least.

I had no idea what I had hoped for or what any of it might mean.

Mr. Brimley obviously sensed my disappointment.

“Might it be in another language since the document is written in French?”

“Perhaps.”

Brodie and I thanked him in spite of the fact that nothing conclusive had been revealed with Mr. Brimley’s experiment, except for those few letters.

We returned to the office on the Strand. Brodie then went to the Public House to have Miss Effie prepare two supper boxes, although I had little appetite, while I remained and added what I had learned today on the blackboard.

Our inquiry cases usually included a crime—stolen documents, a threat against the Crown, spies, murder ...

Yet, here there was no crime. There was only Victoria Grantham’s claim. That in itself, painful as it was to learn that my father may have had a child by another woman while my mother lay dying, was not a crime in itself.

The quick double ring of the telephone on Brodie’s desk was startling in the quiet of the office.

Then it rang again as it took me a moment to reach the desk.

The call was from my housekeeper, Mrs. Ryan. She had received a note by courier from Sir Laughton. I asked her to open the envelope and read the note.

He had been contacted once again by Victoria Grantham’s representative, with a request to meet with our family. Sir Laughton would be working late into the evening at his office and awaited our response.

There was no need to consult my great aunt. I knew very well what her response would be as she had already turned over the situation to me.

“To make your inquiries, dear.”

As far as Linnie was concerned, I refused to bring her into this part of it, until I could determine the truth of the woman’s claim.

I then placed a telephone call to Sir Laughton’s office. He answered promptly and inquired how he should respond to this new request.

“I will meet with Victoria Grantham,” I replied. “And it is to be at the Grantham residence in Waverly Park.”

He was not in favor of that, preferring a public place and suggesting his own office. I thanked him but insisted on the Grantham residence at Waverly for the location.

I had learned over the course of our cases that there was always something to be learned from a person’s surroundings—the hidden part of Edinburgh beneath the city streets, a walk-up flat in the poor part of the East End, the flat of an actress brutally murdered, or the physician who kept secrets in the room behind his office.

I wanted to know what might be learned from the residence where Anne Grantham had lived before her death, and Victoria Grantham had before she left for France years before.

What might it tell me about the young woman who claimed to be the daughter of an affair my father had years before?

Something? Anything? Nothing?

Yet first, I wanted to meet with Theodolphus Burke and see what he might remember from Anne Grantham’s funeral. As much as I loathed the man, he had built a reputation for detail that had always thrilled the readers of his weekly page in the Times— Crimes about the City . It was possible there was some detail that might be useful.

By the end of that brief conversation, Sir Laughton had agreed to convey my agreement to meet Victoria Grantham the following afternoon at Waverly Place. He would send round a message once it was confirmed.

“I dinna care for it,” Brodie replied when he returned and I informed him about the proposed meeting.

He was very much against my meeting alone with Victoria Grantham, although he did acknowledge that it could be useful.

I also explained that I hoped to meet with Theodolphus Burke in the morning because of what I had read in that newspaper archive. I did not intend to schedule an appointment that the man could decline.

“Aye,” Brodie eventually replied. “I shouldna have agreed to include ye in that first case over yer sister’s disappearance.”

“I do believe it is a little late for that,” I told him. “And it was through my efforts, not to mention my family connections, that we were able to solve the case at all and prevent harm to the Royal family.” He gave me that narrowed look.

“Perhaps.”

“No ‘perhaps’ to it.” Bloody stubborn Scot. He had a very convenient memory when he chose.

“You must admit that I am right about this.” End of discussion as far as I was concerned. Or possibly not, as far as the bloody stubborn Scot was concerned.

“Verra well, but ye’ll not go alone. I will see you there and wait for ye until ye are finished with your meetin’ with Miss Grantham.”

Hmmm, yes. Quite stubborn.

It was very late when we finished the supper Miss Effie had provided from the Public House. He put more coal on the stove and then we retired for the night.

Still, it was some time before I slept. I kept turning over and over in my mind what we knew about Anne Grantham, her apparent affair with my father, and Victoria Grantham’s claim.

It was like pulling the curtain back on ghosts of the past that I had worked very hard to leave in the past—our mother’s death, then childhood feelings of having been abandoned, the horror of discovering our father dead, attempting to find some understanding of it all when there was no understanding to be had.

Not then. And now?

I got up and paced the outer office, then put more coal on the fire that had burned low. And Brodie was there, quite handsome with that dark mane of hair disheveled about his head, the shadow of that dark beard, those dark eyes that watched me through the shadows. Quite stirring, I thought, as I wiped the bloody tears from my cheek.

And I never cried! Almost never.

And he was still there, a bit blurry through the tears as his hand found mine. He pulled me down across his lap, and handed me a glass of my aunt’s very fine whisky with just a wee dram.

“To help ye sleep, lass.”

Bloody Scot, I thought as I sipped the whisky. He did know me quite well.

We dressed the following morning and returned to the town house in Mayfair. Sir Laughton’s telephone call came just after the clock in the front parlor chimed the ten o’clock hour.

“It has been arranged for you to meet with Victoria Grantham at her residence, although I advise against it.”

I did appreciate his concerns and informed him that Brodie would be accompanying me.

“There are many issues with this young woman’s claim. You must let me know what you are able to learn afterward.”

I had dressed for the day earlier while awaiting his call, and now asked Mrs. Ryan to call for a driver to take me to the Times newspaper offices, where I hoped to meet with Theodolphus Burke.

Not for the first time, I did wonder who named their child that, and suspected once again that it was no doubt invented by Mr. Burke himself.

The arrogance of the man!

Brodie was confident that I could handle Mr. Burke and sent me off on my own with the agreement that he would meet me outside the Times offices by noon. That would leave more than enough time for my meeting with Victoria Grantham.

“I know how ye can be when ye have yer mind set,” he commented in parting, with a brief kiss. “That should give ye enough time to ‘ persuade ’ the man that his life is not worth holding back information for his own purposes.”

He could be such a cheeky fellow.

The business offices, including the large writers’ gallery where desks were crowded side-by-side on the second floor, were at a separate location from the building that held the archives.

I arrived in good time, considering the weather and the traffic, and at the time I hoped to find Burke still about when assignments were handed out to staff writers—including, I hoped, the latest noteworthy funeral that he would be given to write about.

I had been here before and passed by the first-floor clerk by informing him that I had an appointment, which of course I did not. But I refused to give Burke warning that I was there to see him as I climbed the stairs to the second floor. It would not be the first time he had simply left the building by way of another stairway to avoid meeting with me.

I reached the second floor and scanned the desks in the gallery. Even for someone who had never been there before or spoken with the man, he would have been easy to identify by the rolled-back shirt sleeves with garters, and overall appearance as if he might have slept in his clothes. The cigarette that hung out of his mouth was familiar sight as he gathered the package of more cigarettes, a box of wood matches by the label, and top hat—his signature calling card—and his long coat from the back of his chair.

“Good morning, Mr. Burke,” I called out as I briskly crossed the gallery before he could get past me and disappear.

“A moment of your time, if you please. And it is so good to see you again.”

My arrival brought up heads and caused stares from those others who had not yet departed the gallery with their daily assignment.

I was greeted by a series of curious glances, openly flirtatious stares, and a very audible groan as the only escape route was closed to him.

“To what do I owe this doubtful pleasure?” Burke snapped. “I was about to leave.”

So charming, I thought. I had no idea how long it would take to ask my questions about the funeral of Lady Anne Grantham since that depended completely on him.

“I will only need a few minutes of your time.”

Another groan.

“The private conference room?” I suggested. “Or here in the gallery?” Where his fellow writers would obviously eavesdrop on our conversation.

“The conference room if you please, Lady Forsythe,” he replied with a nod of the head.

I had met here previously on another case, yet indicated for him to proceed ahead of me. I did not put it past him to escape at the last minute.

“I had heard that you were off on travels,” he commented as we each went to a chair across the meeting table from each other.

Sarcasm. I was reminded that he was quite the expert at it.

“Perhaps in the spring.” I played along. And then decided that flattery might work. If not, I was prepared to use other tactics.

Where Brodie and I often bandied comments, it was all in good humor. There was nothing humorous to a conversation with Mr. Burke. It was all about what was in it for him.

“As I was saying, to what do I owe the pleasure?” he repeated.

“It seems that you have come up in the ranks of journalism of late. I recently noted your reporting among the obituaries.”

“A brief exercise, I assure you, gathering material for a book I may write about the profession of legitimate journalism, not the usual flotsam and gibberish that some write about.”

Touché, I thought.

“What particular death notice caught your eye, if I may inquire. Working on something of your own, perhaps?”

I thought briefly of the revolver in my bag, then dismissed it. Brodie would not approve—there too many witnesses about.

“The funeral notice for Lady Anne Grantham was quite eloquent.” Never let it be said that I was above flattery, even as the words very nearly caught in my throat.

“However,” I continued, “It was missing a bit of information. That is so very unlike you. And since Lady Antonia is acquainted with the family ...” A slight exaggeration there. “She was concerned that someone may have been overlooked. As I say, so very unlike you.”

His eyes narrowed.

“Such as, Lady Forsythe? As I recall, although it has been very near two months ago, I mentioned family and servants.”

“With the exception of the name of the gentleman that was also present. An oversight, to be certain.”

“As I remember it, the man’s name was not provided by the vicar or Lady Victoria Grantham.” That gaze narrowed even further.

“It is most curious that you would be interested in such a minor detail.”

“It is most curious that you would neglect such a detail, given your reputation.”

“As I said, the man’s name was not given. Yet I did notice an accent. You must forgive me, Lady Forsythe. I only heard a comment as the service ended, and it was in French; foreign languages are not my strong point.”

French! The man had spoken French with Victoria Grantham! Her London representative was well known about London and most certainly not French. That could mean that the man had accompanied her when she returned from France.

What was his part in this? Lover? An acquaintance for some other reason?

It was most interesting.

Burke had unwittingly provided me something that might be important in his haste to be as condescending as possible.

I then asked if there was anything peculiar or out of the ordinary about the funeral.

He gave me a look, that I very possibly did not want to know the meaning of.

“Since when do you have a fascination with funerals?” he asked. And another thought, “What of Lady Montgomery?”

It was a bit callous that his thoughts of my great aunt might be for her imminent departure, and his ability to have the story of the death of one of the most highly revered persons in the Empire for his collection. It would be quite a feather in his cap.

Not hardly, I thought. When and if that time came, which I was beginning to seriously doubt with each passing year, I would write about it myself and not leave it to someone who wanted only to further his ambitions.

I rose from the chair and tucked away the information he did not realize that he had provided. However, the most important question remained unanswered.

What did Victoria Grantham want?

To know her real family, according to that letter Aunt Antonia had received?

Or was it something else?

Brodie was waiting on the street adjacent to the Times offices. He assisted me up into the coach for my meeting with Victoria Grantham.

It made no sense to return to the office, then turn right around and make the ride back across London for the meeting.

“No blood let?” he commented.

“I thought about it,” I replied. “However, he can be useful from time to time.”

“Learned something important, did ye?”

“I don’t know yet,” I replied. “It seems there were very few mourners at the funeral for Lady Grantham, only two servants, which seemed odd to him for a member of the Grantham family. Victoria Grantham was there of course, and a man Burke didn’t recognize as part of the family, with a French accent that he overheard.”

“The young woman had been living in France,” Brodie reminded me. And of course that seemed reasonable.

“He was given the assignment to cover the funeral due to Sir Grantham’s long service in Parliament,” I said, thoughtful.

“Yet, even though it was for his widow, Burke thought it particularly lacking for a member of a notable family. He was quite disappointed.”

“It might have been due to the daughter living on the Continent,” Brodie speculated. “With fewer connections remaining in London.”

“Perhaps,” I replied. Still, there was something about it that seemed very ... odd.

Waverly Park was small, more of a green with a handful of residences along each side that were of the late Georgian style. Waverly Place was one of the streets that circled the park of oak and birch trees, their branches bare of leaves with the season amid stands of juniper. Quite barren and gloomy in the gray afternoon, it reminded me of a book I’d read as a child—Sleepy Hollow. I half expected the headless horseman to come bounding down the dirt road that cut through the park.

Brodie had the driver pull up at the entrance to Grantham manor then handed me his umbrella.

“I’ll wait at the entrance to the park.”

I could have arranged for a driver to arrive at a specific time—perhaps no more than an hour would have been necessary as this was not a social call.

An hour would be more than enough time, I thought, for a ‘brief’ meeting to hopefully learn more about Victoria Grantham and the purpose of her contact.

Brodie gave instructions to the driver and they slowly circled round to the street, no doubt providing him a slow inspection of the manor and surrounding area—once a police inspector, I supposed, always one.

Our meeting was scheduled for two o’clock in the afternoon. I was thirty minutes early, most definitely not socially appropriate, yet it might work in my favor with an opportunity for me to make my observations once inside the manor.

I immediately noticed something unusual, as I reached the front entrance. There wasn’t the usual black bunting about the door for a family in mourning that one usually found after a death.

Each to their own, I supposed. I certainly wouldn’t care for wearing black, no matter who died.

As I twisted the doorbell lever to announce my arrival, I caught a movement along the hedgerow that lined the driveway at the far side of the manor.

A man in a long overcoat with top hat, moved quickly along the hedgerow. I heard the distinct sound of horses and a coach briefly lurched into view from alongside the manor where it had been waiting.

The coach lurched down the driveway out onto the street, then moved toward the main roadway with more speed than seemed necessary.

Most curious, I thought, as the man had obviously departed the manor from a different location and with some urgency.

An earlier appointment that had concluded? Or to avoid being seen?

The door at the entrance was abruptly opened by a small, thin woman, who resembled a shriveled prune, dressed in a dark gray gown with a stiff white collar.

brODIE

He saw the man as he left by way of a side entrance at the manor, then made his way to the coach that was partially hidden behind the hedgerow.

The man was well dressed, with a long coat and top hat, and carried a black bag, the professional sort Brodie had seen countless times on the streets of London.

He might have been a banker or possibly the lawyer the Grantham woman had hired. Except for his manner.

Brodie had encountered that manner countless time in his time with the MET—the quick look about to see if anyone had seen him, nervous as he reached the coach, then a destination hastily given as he quickly climbed inside.

The coach pulled away from the manor and rolled past where he waited, toward the high street beyond. Rental coach, No. 112, according to the city license attached at the rear, with a scar of some past mishap on the door, and a pair of mismatched horses—gray and black.

Who was the man? What was his reason for being there, and then departing in a hurry? With that instinct that had served him well, Brodie quickly decided and stepped down from the coach.

“Yer to wait for the lady,” he told their driver, then set off at a run.

When he reached the high street, he found a cabman and climbed aboard.

“A coach just passed this way, No. 112 by the license, with a mismatched team. I need ye to follow, but at distance, and there’ll be extra coin in it for ye.”

“Right yer are, guv’ner,” the driver called down as he maneuvered the rig into late afternoon traffic, then cut through an opening in the congestion until the coach came into view.

They followed at a distance as he requested, manor houses and squares in that part of London giving way to markets and shops. Then, onto Oxford Street as darkness closed in, and continued across London proper, past the Strand, then into Aldgate.

Here, the narrow streets ran one into the other, filled with tenements, shops with windows darkened at the end of day, and more than a tavern or two.

Brodie had his driver wait around the corner as the coach pulled up before a tenement building.

The man he’d seen leaving Grantham Manor stepped down, paid the fare, then took the steps down behind a wrought iron gate, and entered a part of the building below street level.

A light appeared in one of the basement windows.

“Wait here,” Brodie told the cabman, and then crossed the street.

He reached the building, then moved toward the basement, and down the steps in that way that he’d learned a long time ago when he lived on the streets—quiet, careful, watchful.

He peered in the near window, smudged with grime from the street and the weather. Yet, clear enough to see what the man was about as he crossed that small room to a scarred wood cabinet and opened the door to reveal a small safe.

The man worked the combination, then the handle, and opened the safe. He then reached inside his coat and pulled out a thick envelope that he placed inside; something of value for safekeeping.

Money perhaps, Brodie speculated. If so, payment for what?

The safe door was quickly closed, then the scarred cabinet door as well. The black bag was tucked into a narrow closet. The man turned toward the entrance of the shabby flat. He put out the light, then opened the door.

Brodie flattened himself into the shadows as the man left that basement flat and crossed the street toward a tavern.

He watched as the man went inside, then went to the door of the flat. He pulled out the slender tool he always carried along with the revolver.

It was a simple matter, learned on the streets of Edinburgh as a lad. With patience and a careful hand, it was easily done, bypassing the ‘wards’ inside the lock on the door until he heard that sharp click as the bolt moved.

He pushed the door open.