Page 9 of Deadly Ghost (Angus Brodie and Mikaela Forsythe Murder Mystery #12)

Eight

The woman appeared to be the housekeeper, which seemed odd when I might have expected a doorman or butler with the status of the Grantham family.

I introduced myself and gave the reason I was calling on Victoria Grantham.

The woman appeared somewhat flustered.

“Yes, of course,” she replied with what could only be called a cautious look about, then stepped back into the foyer so that I might enter.

She appeared uncertain what to do with me, then seemed to decide and asked me to follow her to a nearby room with a set of pocket doors. The room, lined with shelves of books, a large desk, and overstuffed wingback chairs, was obviously the library.

“Wait here. I will inform Lady Grantham that you have arrived.”

It was obvious that my early arrival had caused some upset as she snapped the double doors shut behind her.

I had learned to be observant of people and my surroundings on my travels that exposed me to different places and cultures. And in working with Brodie, I had learned to observe both far more carefully.

A person’s mannerisms, their hesitation or possible uneasiness, the twisting of hands, their eyes not meeting mine, often told far more than words. The woman’s obvious agitation seemed most curious.

As for my surroundings, I had also learned from Brodie to quickly scan a room, looking for anything out of the ordinary, a cupboard or drawer left ajar, letters or other papers unattended on a desk or table, that might tell me something.

Of course, there was always the tell-tale bit of blood left behind or a body, always quite unsettling when first discovered. Yet as Brodie had pointed out more than once, I seemed to have an unusual fascination about such things, and had commented that most men might be put off by a woman who was not undone by the sight of blood.

I suppose my early experience with that as a child had prepared me for such things.

No blood here, I thought, with no small amount of cynicism as I made my inspection of the library while I waited for my meeting with Victoria Grantham.

Not that I had expected any. Yet, there was something ... a particular smell about the room.

A glance at the hearth revealed no residue of ash. There had obviously been no early morning fire. Yet, there was most definitely something there, as I circled toward the massive desk with those two wing-back chairs.

That impression disappeared as I rounded the far side of the desk to inspect the books that lined the shelves at the wall behind the desk.

One’s choice in books often provided some insight into the person who chose them, although I reminded myself that these books had undoubtedly been collected by Sir Grantham.

There were no works by Sir William Shakespeare or Mr. Dickens—the books here included several volumes of the House of Commons journal, and what appeared to be copies of the official records of Parliament. Much what I would have expected from a former member.

I passed behind the desk. It contained what one might expect to find—a pen on a carved wood stand, a desk calendar in a brass holder, the date almost a month past, a thick leather-edged desk pad, and what appeared to be correspondence from the bank. A voucher of some kind sat atop it, along with stationary bearing the Grantham crest.

As I continued my inspection and rounded the opposite side of the desk a piece of white cloth on the floor drew my attention.

I retrieved it and immediately caught that smell once again, though much stronger. It was slightly sweet, very much like mint, and familiar from one of our past inquiry cases when I had been injured and Mr. Brimley had tended my wound.

It was chloroform! And there were traces of pale marks on the cloth.

I had no opportunity to speculate further as there was a sound just beyond those double doors. I quickly tucked the cloth into the pocket of my coat, and turned as those doors opened and Victoria Grantham entered the library.

Once again, I was struck by the resemblance that had first drawn Lily’s attention and then again at the art gallery reception. And the thought was there.

Was it possible that she was my sister, fathered through an affair by John Forsythe?

Her hair, somewhat darker than my own, was loose around her shoulders, and she wore the same gown she had worn at the reception.

While the resemblance was a bit unsettling, there was something else about her ... that I had not noticed in the gas lights of the gallery.

“I was surprised when Mrs. Aldcott informed me that you had arrived early,” she said with that faint accent I had noticed previously. “I hope that means there will be a pleasant beginning between us,” she added as she swept into the library and indicated the two chairs across from the desk.

“I have asked for tea to be served,” she said as I sat on one of the chairs and she took the one opposite.

We appraised one another as we waited for tea to arrive.

“I have been impressed by your endeavors,” she commented. “Your travels, books, and your inquiry cases. Not what one expects for a lady.”

She had previously spoken of it.

“I would like to travel as well,” she added. There was a faint smile. “We might travel together perhaps, yes? And you could show me the places you have been,” she suggested. “However, it would seem that your husband would not approve—Mr. Brodie, is it? A former detective with the Metropolitan Police, most unusual, I understand, and you are recently wed?”

Particularly well informed, I thought, and reminded her that she had requested the meeting to discuss the claim she had made.

“Yes, of course, and you can be most direct. I heard that about you as well. You are one who insists on details. It is an admirable quality when overseeing the vast affairs of the Montgomery family, considering Lady Montgomery’s age.”

Something she perhaps was not well informed about, it seemed, since I had no ambition for that. And I was not there to discuss my great aunt, the Montgomery family, or any of my great aunt’s affairs.

“You are misinformed,” I replied, to make everything perfectly clear. And I admit I also felt the instinctive need to protect my great aunt. “I have no involvement in her affairs, family, or otherwise. She is quite capable of taking care of those things.”

There was that faint smile again. It wavered and was then gone.

“Yes, of course. She appears very capable. It would seem to run in the family.”

“You have said that you want only to know your family,” I reminded her. “That is something that could have happened before now,” I pointed out. “Yet you are only now making that claim.”

She rose from her chair, and appeared to steady herself with a hand on the chairback as she approached the hearth.

“You must surely understand how difficult this is. People are always eager for scandal.” She turned. “My mother was ... very ill, and then her death. It was afterward that I found the letters. I didn’t know what to think ... Yet, I felt compelled to reach out,” she continued, hesitant.

“You seemed to be the one who would understand after losing our father in that most horrible way ...”

Our father ? That seemed a bit presumptuous, I thought, and pushed back all those old feelings from long ago.

“If it is proven to be true.” I was not willing to simply accept her claim, and she needed to know that.

“Of course it is true!” Once again there was an edge to her voice. “I have provided the letters and the documents.” She laughed, a small sound that was quickly gone. “You have no doubt seen them!”

The conversation had become difficult. Yet I had not come here to argue the matter but in an attempt to learn more about her. Whether or not her claim was legitimate had yet to be determined.

“Surely you understand that this is an extremely important matter, not something to be treated lightly,” I replied.

And certainly not something to be accepted because of a few letters and a document that was badly faded and almost illegible.

“Of course,” she said, almost a whisper, as if deeply wounded.

What was I seeing in the obvious anger that quickly turned to unexpected laughter, then anger once more? Emotions at a very difficult time? The loss of her mother, and the discovery that the man she had always thought of as Father might not be her father?

I refused to argue the matter.

“Will you be remaining in London?” I asked, in an effort to ease the conversation and learn more about her.

“Of course!” she snapped, then seemed to collect herself as she pressed her fingers against the side of her head. She did seem to be in some discomfort.

“I apologize,” she said haltingly. “I had hoped that we might be able to speak, however it is most difficult, as you can understand ...”

She seemed in some distress.

I came out of the chair and reached out to steady her as she most definitely appeared to be in some difficulty. From our meeting? Or was it something else?

“Should I call for your housekeeper?” I inquired. She seemed not at all well.

“No!” she replied quite firmly as she continued to press fingers against her right temple.

I took hold of her hand, to assist her.

“It’s only a headache ...” she protested. “Yet, it seems that I must end our meeting. I apologize. We must meet again ...”

Those double doors suddenly opened and her housekeeper was there. Perhaps listening at the door?

That certainly seemed to be the case.

“See Lady Forsythe to the door,” Victoria Grantham said in a shaky voice as she walked past me with some effort.

I watched as she made her way to the stairs with measured steps.

Suddenly taken with some malady? Or was it a very good performance?

It hardly seemed so. She had most definitely seemed to be in some discomfort.

“This way,” the housekeeper reminded me.

Our meeting was most definitely at an end, as the housekeeper waited expectantly at the entrance to the library.

“Has she been ill?” I inquired as I followed her to the main entrance of the manor.

The epidemic of influenza that had seen us to Old Lodge in Scotland seemed to have mostly disappeared, yet I supposed there were still cases of it around the city.

“I could arrange for a physician to call on her,” I suggested, and thought of Doctor Watson with the Agency.

“There is no need,” she informed me with a glance toward that stairway.

We reached the foyer and she opened the door.

“Lady Forsythe ...?” she said as if there was something more she wanted to add.

“Yes?”

She glanced back at that stairway once more. Then appeared to change her mind.

“Take care with the weather.”

I glanced past her. Victoria Grantham had reached the upper landing though with some effort, I thought, and was immediately joined by a man I had not seen as I arrived.

Was he the man Theodolphus Burke had seen at the funeral for Lady Anne Grantham? He most certainly had neither the demeanor nor the appearance of a servant.

“Good day,” Mrs. Aldcott reminded me, somewhat sharply.

I tried to make sense of what had just taken place as I made my way down the front steps and then past the manor to the corner where I had left Brodie and the coach.

The coach was there, however Brodie was not.

“The gentleman took off in bit of a hurry,” the driver said as he swung down from his seat atop the coach. “He did say as how I was to wait for you.”

Anyone else might have been put off with being left. Yet I was not.

If Brodie had taken it upon himself to go off unexpectedly, it was for a good reason.

I thought of the man I had seen departing as we arrived earlier. Brodie had undoubtedly seen him as well. Nothing escaped his attention and I was fairly certain it was possible that was where he had gone.

I climbed into the coach and gave the driver the address of the office on the Strand.

It was very near evening by the time I reached the office due to congestion in the streets, and I discovered that Brodie had not yet returned.

Mr. Cavendish rolled out from the alcove in greeting.

“I’ve not seen him since you left earlier,” he informed me. “Mr. Munro was here a while ago though and brought round a message. Said it was important.” He pulled an envelope from inside his jacket and handed it to me. “Said you were to have it straight away.”

The weather had taken a decided turn for the worse and I stepped under the overhang at the alcove to read it.

In spite of the thin light from the streetlamp, I immediately recognized the elegant handwriting on the envelope along with the Montgomery crest.

Mikaela dear,

It is imperative that we meet. Please come to Sussex Square when you receive this. I have news.

The note was simply signed with the first letter of her name as I had seen countless times, an elegant letter ‘ A.’

She had news? That might mean anything. Yet my great aunt was not given to exaggeration or theatrics.

Contrary to what most persons thought, she was highly intelligent, observant, and could be a force to reckon with.

To quote HRH Prince Albert at the conclusion of a past inquiry case, he had expressed not only gratitude, but had made it quite clear that, contrary to what some people assumed, she could be quite formidable, and he was exceedingly grateful that she was a loyal subject of the Crown, and not the enemy.

She had simply replied, Of course, Your Royal Highness.

Now I asked Mr. Cavendish if Munro had said anything regarding the note when he delivered it, as he was often privy to my great aunt’s affairs.

“No, miss. Only that it was important and I was to see that it was delivered to you.”

I tucked the note into my bag. It did seem most important and I asked Mr. Cavendish to acquire a driver, as the man who had brought me to the Strand had promptly departed with his substantial fare.

“Mr. Brodie won’t care for yer goin’ off on yer own this time o’ day,” Mr. Cavendish reminded me.

He was correct in that, yet that note seemed most urgent.

“I will be quite all right,” I assured him.

“Aye, and Mr. Brodie will have a conversation with me about that when he returns.”

He waved down a coach across the way. The driver immediately swung around, pulled to a stop at the curb, and leapt down from his seat atop the coach.

“A moment if you please,” Mr. Cavendish told him.

“That will cost you extra,” the driver gruffly replied, not pleased with the delay. “I just passed up another fare.”

Mr. Cavendish nodded to me and winked, then pressed two fingers against his lips and let out a sharp whistle.

It was somewhat more than a moment before Rupert came charging around the corner just beyond the smoke shop.

“Aye, there’s a good lad,” Mr. Cavendish said as the hound arrived, mud-splattered and with his usual smell of disgusting things I possibly didn’t want to know about.

“Up with you, then, lad,” Mr. Cavendish told him with a gesture at the inside of the coach.

“I don’t take livestock, dogs, or drunkards,” the driver growled.

“New to the Strand, are you?” Mr. Cavendish inquired. “The hound is a regular customer, well known by the other drivers with nary a complaint—an official guard dog so appointed by a member of the police.”

The member of the MET was obviously Brodie. Although he didn’t bother to mention that had ended some time ago.

And the rest of it? Exaggeration on a grand scale to be certain. However, admittedly, the hound had previously earned the unofficial role of protector, specifically when he saved my life.

I was not about to argue the point or explain to the driver.

“There will be extra coin in it for you,” I informed him as I settled the argument by stepping past the driver and up into the coach so that we could be on our way.

There was more grumbling and I thought I heard a curse or two. The driver then latched the door, climbed back atop the coach and we were off.

Rupert grinned up at me from where he sat on floor of the coach.