Page 34 of Deadly Murder (Angus Brodie and Mikaela Forsythe Murder Mystery #14)

Twenty-One

Brodie called it my woman’s intuition.

It appeared that I was far more correct than I would have liked in my conversation with Lily.

An attempt had been made upon the Duke of York, the son of His Highness, and his young wife as they returned the previous evening to their apartments at St. James’s Palace.

The attack had come on the street as they returned from a reception at Buckingham Palace, an incredibly bold attempt, not unlike the attack on the son of Lord Salisbery as he had departed White’s Club.

It explained the urgent meeting that Brodie was called to earlier.

“Was anyone harmed?”

“The guards around the Duke of York had been increased. One of them got in a blow before the man managed to escape with the aid of another.”

“Was either man seen?”

“There was not enough light with the weather and the late hour of the night. But the man who attacked the duke had an obvious impairment of one leg.”

“What of the man who helped him escape?” I then asked.

I was certain I already knew the answer—a tall man and thick set.

I explained the feeling there was someone outside of the church’s library. And my decision for Lily to return to Sussex Square. Rupert was quite insistent in the graveyard as if there was someone there.

“Aye, it was right ye did so. She is headstrong, that one.”

I then told him what we had learned from the church records.

“St. Mary’s Church?” he remarked. “That could tell us more, but not tonight,” he added as he pushed aside the heavy drapes at the office window.

“No one will be out and about, wot with the weather.”

The lights in the office flickered and then went out leaving us in darkness except for the fire in the coal stove.

He attempted to place a telephone call to Sir Avery to tell him what I had learned. But it appeared that, along with the electric, the service for the telephone had also become a victim of the weather that had steadily worsened after I left Sussex Square.

Rain beat against the office window and filled the street below, a risky enterprise for anyone who ventured out as traffic thinned.

It did appear that a good part of the rest of The Strand was without electric as well, except for gas streetlights in the theatre district in the distance.

Then the sound of the rain eased and turned to snow.

I retrieved an oil lamp from the cabinet, left from somewhat more primitive conditions only the year before, and lit it as Brodie set the lock on the door. He then added more coal to the fire in the stove.

“The mornin’ will be here soon enough,” he said, as he poked at the fire. I sat at my desk and opened my notebook and made notes in the pool of light from the stove.

It was sometime later that he added more coal to the fire, then went to the cupboard adjacent to his desk.

“Stale biscuits and whisky,” he announced.

I set my pen down. It wasn’t the first time we had only biscuits and some of my great aunt’s whisky.

“Yes, please,” I replied.

He poured us both a dram, handed a tumbler to me, then set the carton of stale biscuits on my desk.

I munched—it was good that I had strong teeth—then took a sip of Old Lodge whisky.

“Is it possible that Reverend Chastain is behind the murders?” I asked him. “Revenge for what happened to his daughter, even though that was over thirty years ago?”

A strong motive, as we had seen in previous inquiry cases.

“Perhaps,” Brodie replied as he bit off a piece of biscuit.

“I suppose it is possible that the man who’s been doing this might be the husband of Mary Chastain,” I said as I thought of what we knew.

“Aye, perhaps.”

“She could be living somewhere here in London and her husband learned of it…”

“Perhaps.”

That was the third “perhaps,” an obvious sign that he was deep in his own thoughts.

He tossed back the last of the whisky in his glass.

“I will contact Sir Avery first thing in the morning,” he said as he had obviously been directed to do so, yet not at all pleased about it. I sensed there was more.

“It was good that ye took Lily back to Sussex Square,” he said again. “It would probably be best for ye to go there as well, then Sir Avery’s people and I will see what can be learned at St. Mary’s Church.”

This was a new tactic—compliment, confuse, then subtly persuade.

Two could play this game, I thought, as I set my own glass on the desk. I’d had enough of stale biscuits, whisky, and a bloody stubborn Scot!

I rose from the chair across from him at the desk and went to the door to the adjacent bedroom.

“Perhaps,” I replied.

It was much later when he entered the bedroom and I listened as he removed his boots, shirt, and trousers, then felt the bed dip as he joined me and pulled the blankets over the both of us.

And then, not one to easily concede, “Ye know I’m right.”

I didn’t respond. Instead, I kept my breathing slow and even as if I was already asleep and hadn’t heard a thing he said.

He rose early the next morning, and I heard a curse from the adjacent office, then the sharp sound of the earpiece to the telephone being slammed back into the cradle.

I dressed, splashed water on my face, then joined him.

“The electric has come on,” he announced. “But there’s no service for the telephone.” Then he looked over at me.

“It stopped snowing during the night and turned to rain. There are coaches about on the street. I will send a message to Sir Avery about the information ye found.”

I’d had time to think during the night. I knew where his concern came from, even if the argument was an old one. I understood. It was not unlike my own fear for him each time he left the office to meet with someone from his time with the Metropolitan.

However…

“We can reach Hendon by rail,” I announced. “There should be a train departing this morning and no difficulty with roads.”

“Mikaela.”

I heard the objection in his voice. Yet, I was not one to sit idly by and wait for him to return.

I pointed out that I had been part of the case from the beginning. It was through people I knew that we had learned important information, not to mention my acquaintance with members of the royal family albeit from a past case that had provided access to the Prince of Wales.

I glanced at the small watch pinned to my blouse. It was half past eight o’clock.

“The church should be open by the time we arrive.”

I tucked my notebook into my bag, my fingers brushing the cold steel of the revolver Brodie insisted I carry.

He had gone into the bedroom, then returned. I was already out the door and down the stairs as the door to the office slammed shut.

“Mornin’, miss,” Mr. Cavendish greeted me. “That was a bit of weather earlier. We might be in for more.”

“Would the messenger office have the train schedule for Hendon?” I inquired.

When there was no answer, I looked up. Brodie had arrived, and with the expression on his face, he had heard my question.

“We discussed this.”

“I had no part in the discussion,” I reminded him. “You may send me off to Sussex Square, but I will go to Hendon and St. Mary’s Church.”

With that, I hitched up the hem of my skirt and set off across The Strand toward the messenger office. They were already open for the business of London.

“That would be King’s Cross station, miss,” the clerk informed me. “With a train departing at ten o’clock, if they’re running on time.”

I thanked him, then opened my umbrella as I stepped out onto the sidewalk, looked for a driver, and discovered Brodie had followed.

“The train departs at ten o’clock, which would be a considerably faster than going by coach.” I stepped past him and waved down a driver.

“We might share the ride to King’s Cross station and save the double fare,” I suggested.

I didn’t wait for a response but stepped up into the coach. I gave the driver the destination of the rail station. As I sat back in the seat, Brodie climbed aboard and slammed the door.

The train for Hendon was on schedule.

I purchased my own fare when we arrived. I must admit that I would not have put it past Brodie to summon a constable and have me packed off to the office or to Sussex Square. Such was the anger behind that dark gaze.

“Many of the entries in the records at St. Pancras were written in Latin,” I commented as we found two seats in the main car. “It is quite common in older churches. Do you read Latin?”

Brodie shook his head. “Ye’re to do exactly as I say when we arrive.”