Page 2 of Deadly Murder (Angus Brodie and Mikaela Forsythe Murder Mystery #14)

One

I stepped down from the coach upon our arrival at the office, somewhat gingerly. That cautious step, however, was quite enough to set the pounding at the back of my head off once more as the tall, dark-eyed man beside me gently clasped my arm.

“Are ye all right?” Brodie asked with more than a little amusement as he stepped away to pay the driver.

“Of course,” I assured him, not about to let on that I was suffering somewhat from the previous evening, the birthday celebration that I shared with my great aunt.

Aunt Antonia has always considered it quite remarkable that we were born on the same day, November 9 th , albeit sixty years apart. That number—sixty—I am sworn not to reveal.

She had adopted a scheme several years before, for when she became a year older, she simply chose to subtract two years if anyone asked. She had been using that scheme for so long that in no time at all, it would put her at my age sometime in the future.

“We shall be twins!” she had exclaimed when I pointed that out. “How marvelous!”

In that regard, it did seem as if it would be necessary to postpone her final voyage in a Viking longboat until well into the next century, a delay I approved of most heartily.

I adored her, and it did seem that we were much alike in temperament according to our horoscope.

“Twins?” Brodie exclaimed when I explained her method for calculating her age. “The world is no longer safe.”

I had to agree.

Most certainly, she did not appear anywhere near eighty-seven years, while, at the moment, I felt every one of my own twenty-seven years.

I had indulged a bit the night before over tarot readings, board games, charades, and crambo, a word rhyming game that became quite colorful, even risqué, as the evening continued. My great-aunt had also arranged for a magician to the entertainment of all in attendance.

While my sister and her husband had departed early, Brodie and I had remained quite late.

He had never experienced that sort of celebration and I had caught him watching from across the great hall with his good friend, Munro, each with a glass of Old Lodge whisky.

It could be said that I had no clear memory of the coach ride to the townhouse at the end of the evening, nor the fact that Brodie had put me to bed, although he had reminded me of it this morning over breakfast.

“Ye were not completely honest with me about yer nightly habits,” he had commented over very strong coffee.

I had no idea what he was talking about and did not ask. It was not necessary as he was most forthcoming with one corner of his mouth lifted in amusement.

“Ye snore when ye’re blottered.”

That was undoubtedly one of those Scottish words that needed no translation under the circumstances, and an obvious reference to my celebratory condition the previous evening.

“I do not snore,” I corrected him, between my housekeeper’s trips from the kitchen to dining room with our breakfast.

“You do, miss, if I may say so,” Mrs. Ryan added. “But only when you’ve had a bit of the drink.” To which she refilled my cup with more coffee.

Mrs. Ryan and I had shared the loss of her daughter in our first inquiry case. Mary Ryan had been my sister’s maid, a bright young woman with a keen sense of humor. She had disappeared along with my sister and was tragically murdered.

In the time since, Mrs. Ryan had become my housekeeper and far more. Much like a surrogate for the mother that I had lost early on, in the way she looked after me. At least most of the time, in spite of her present comment.

That brought a devilish grin from Brodie.

“It seems that ye might have also wakened Mrs. Ryan with the noise ye made. And I will add that ye were quite insistent in other matters as well,” he added as she returned to the kitchen. “If I was not an understanding sort, I might have been embarrassed.”

Brodie embarrassed?

I sincerely doubted that it had ever occurred. I did have a very clear memory regarding what he was speaking of, however I would not give him the satisfaction of acknowledging it.

“I have no idea what you are talking about.”

Which brought us to the office somewhat late in the morning, with me struggling somewhat from the effects of the previous evening. For which I fully understood the reasons some women were “indisposed” the day after such celebrations.

However, I was not the sort to be indisposed, providing I could navigate the stairs to the office on the second-floor landing without a mishap.

For his part, Brodie was quite cheerful. Aggravatingly so.

“A bit of the hair of the dog is in order,” he said.

One of those sayings that made no sense as he kept a firm hand on my arm and we climbed the stairs together, my other hand on the stair rail.

The “ hair of the dog,” as it turned out, was a dram of my aunt’s very fine whisky which he poured and set before me on the table in the office. And since it was very near midday, I did not argue the matter.

“And then more coffee,” he added.

He was most definitely enjoying my condition far too much as the dear man proceeded to set the pot on the iron stove.

“Hair of the dog, I assume that is a Scottish phrase?” I said after my second sip and had to admit that it was easing my “wobbles” as he called them.

“Well known among all those who spend time in taverns and pubs and over-indulge on a dare,” he added pointedly.

“I am convinced Aunt Antonia cheated,” I insisted.

“Is that so?”

“Absolutely.”

He had stepped into the adjoining bedroom and returned with a folded cloth that he’d obviously soaked in water.

“Hold this against yer head.”

“It’s cold,” I pointed out.

“Aye, hot water is not yet available with the improvements.” He pressed the cloth against my forehead, then added my hand over it as I sat at my desk.

“And I do not snore,” I emphatically informed him.

“Nor make demands on the man ye keep company with?” he added.

“You seem quite well recovered,” I pointed out.

“There was a moment when I was in fear for my life.”

I burst out laughing and immediately regretted it at the pain that shot through my head.

“I shall be more considerate in the future,” I replied and wondered if all married couples had such conversations.

“Please, do not be. It was most interesting.”

“For someone who thought he had nothing more to learn regarding such things between a man and woman?” I inquired.

“Interesting in the manner in which ye learned such things.”

I ignored that. He could be such a devil.

As the dram steadied me and the coffee cleared my head, I went through the mail that had been delivered earlier.

“There is an envelope from Mr. Peterson.” I handed it to Brodie.

We had just concluded a case for the man regarding missing payroll from a recent deposit for his trading company.

It had been resolved after questioning bank staff where the substantially reduced payroll deposit was made.

When Brodie was able to determine that there was no involvement by the bank clerk, he then questioned Mr. Peterson’s son who had been tasked with delivering the payroll to the bank.

Brodie was able to trip the young man up over his excuses which were quite inventive and then proceeded to retrieve a gaming ticket from the location where it had been hidden—in the heel of the young man’s boot.

It did seem as if Brodie might have used that particular hiding place himself at one time.

Young Mr. Peterson had stopped over at a well-known gaming parlor on his way to the bank. Usually quite lucky in such things and not his first time—it seemed that he usually won enough to cover his bets.

However, in this particular instance, he had lost a considerable portion of the week’s payroll. He had hoped to disguise the loss by claiming that the number amount written on the accompanying deposit ticket from the warehouse manager was incorrect.

However…never attempt to outwit someone who has perhaps used every scheme possible in his past life on the streets, not to mention that experience with the Metropolitan Police.

Brodie opened the envelope.

“Our fee for solving the case of the missing payroll,” he commented as he handed me a bank cheque.

I had been doubtful there would be payment considering the thief turned out to be the client’s son, resulting in the usual reprimand for the young man and then the obvious effort to simply move past the issue.

Somewhat surprisingly, Mr. Peterson paid our fee in full, along with an additional amount for our discretion in the matter and a note of gratitude.

“You seem to have made an impression on the man,” I commented.

“Not so much Mr. Peterson as his son, when I reminded him where thieves usually ended up.”

“From experience, I would imagine.”

There was a shrug beneath the cut of Brodie’s coat.

“When ye’ve been places and can share what it is like, it might leave an impression.”

“It is possible that it was enough of an impression that young Mr. Peterson won’t be inclined to steal again.”

“Aye, that and the threat from his father to turn him out without a farthing to his name.”

The service bell rang out on the landing, a situation soon to be enhanced with the installation of the new lift that was presently a work in progress.

Brodie went out onto the landing and then down the stairs. He quickly returned with an envelope in hand. It was unmarked except for our names on the outside and noticeably without a return address or name of who had sent it.

“This was delivered by the courier service.”

Most intriguing, I thought, as he opened it, read the contents, and then handed it to me.

It appeared that we were being summoned, albeit politely, to a private meeting at The Grand Hotel, at a specific suite of rooms that I was somewhat familiar with at three o’clock that same afternoon…