The way he kept saying my name was irritating in the least, unnerving in the extreme. I felt increasingly uncomfortable, the promise Brodie asked me to make, there as well.
He looked back at the photograph of the young man who had been pulled from the water at the docks.
“Women are so very vulnerable these days, wouldn’t you agree, Miss Forsythe?”
An answer that was no answer at all. Or was it? I needed to leave.
“Thank you for your time, Mr. Talbot.”
As I turned toward the door, he blocked my way with his arm.
“There are more to see. Or perhaps a photograph of yourself? You would make a wonderful subject for my camera, Miss Forsythe.”
More photographs? I had no desire to see more as my hand tightened around the handle of the knife.
“Thank you, no. I must be going. Mr. Brodie is expecting me.”
Of course, he wasn’t, and I had no idea where he was at present. And even as I said it, I thought to myself— coward. But it was more than that. It was that tiny little voice that whispered a warning.
Just as I would have pulled the knife from my pocket, his arm dropped.
“Of course, Mr. Brodie.”
I was finished with polite conversation and immediately went to the door of the dark room.
Talbot’s sister was standing in the hallway as I quickly passed by and returned to the front of the studio.
It was already dark out, in that way that the days shortened this time of the year, and a bone-chilling cold had set in.
There was only a single street lamp across the way, and I was relieved that my driver was still there as I hastily climbed aboard.
I didn’t know what to make of my encounter with Jefferson Talbot.
What was the purpose of showing me those photographs he had obviously recently taken? Merely an artist, as he obviously considered himself, showing his works?
Or was there more to that display in the dark room? A threat perhaps?
“Is everything all right, miss?” the driver called down.
No, everything was not all right, I thought, as I gave him the address of the office on the Strand.
With the weather and the fact that it was well past the time that workers filled the streets at the end of the day, the traffic was less than it had been earlier, and we arrived at the office in good time.
I paid the driver and included extra fare for his time. “Thank ye kindly, miss. And a word of caution, that ye might not want to be in that part of London late of the day.”
I appreciated his concern. He tipped his cap and set off. I turned to find Mr. Cavendish and Rupert on the sidewalk.
“Mr. Brodie asked about you earlier,” Mr. Cavendish commented as I bent to scratch the hound’s ears. “You might take that as a word of caution, miss.”
I thanked him, and climbed the stairs.
“Where the devil have ye been?” Brodie demanded as I entered the office.
I had discovered over the past several months that there were two different types of anger when it came to Angus Brodie.
There was the quiet, intense sort of anger, even cold with little said, thoughts working how best to confront a situation. Munro had once explained that was the side of Brodie that came from the streets. And he should know well enough.
“Best to leave him to himself when that happens. Not that there would be any harm to ye, only that ye might see things ye wish ye had not.”
