It was my aunt’s connections and long history with the Bank of England that facilitated my meeting with the stockholders of the bank regarding the counterfeit currency that had surfaced about London.
The currency had first been discovered some weeks earlier, through banking made by a reputable merchant, and then several other subsequent incidents.
It appeared that it was not a crime of some low-level amateurs as first thought. The counterfeit notes were of extremely fine quality that had been difficult to recognize unlessone was familiar with such things, and always the same in twenty- and fifty-pound notes.
That had prompted the bank’s president to contact the Agency. In the weeks since, counterfeit hundred-pound notes had begun to appear. The total, as far as could be determined, could have a devastating effect on the economy and in trade abroad. It was a most serious affair.
I had not seen Brodie since the previous afternoon and wanted to update him on my meeting with the stockholders.
He previously resided at the office on the Strand, where I stayed over from time to time in our past inquiries. Of late, he had been spending more and more time at my town house in Mayfair even though I knew that he was not comfortable with the arrangement.
“I will not have people thinkin’ that I am livin’ off ye,” he had commented over a supper of my housekeeper’s Irish stew—a favorite that had persuaded him to stay at the time.
I pointed out that I could just as easily move to the Strand, which had not gone over well either.
“And have people thinkin’ that I canna take care of ye?”
Take care of me? It was something that I found amusing. The question of where to live had not resolved itself.
For now, I had the town house in Mayfair and he had the office on the Strand.
“Is he about?” I now asked Mr. Cavendish.
He shook his head. “Not since late the evening before, miss. He left real sudden. Didn’t say where he was going. He hasn’t been back.”
That seemed somewhat curious, although it wasn’t unusual for Brodie to be out and about on some matter or another, particularly with a new case, and most particularly for Sir Avery at the Agency.
It was possible that he had returned later and decided to stay over at the office, unnoticed by Mr. Cavendish, who was in the habit of frequenting the local taverns until quite late of an evening.
I gave the hound a scratch behind the ears and headed for the stairs that led to the office on the second-floor landing. I unlocked the door and stepped into the office.
It looked much as it had when I left the previous afternoon. A pot sat on the coal stove, the contents quite cold. A file folder had been returned to the cabinet, obviously somewhat hastily, part of the folder protruding from the edge of the drawer.
A note pad lay on the desk where it appeared that Brodie had been making notes. And the adjacent bedroom was empty at a glance, the bed neatly made. Whatever the reason, it did appear that Brodie had not returned the previous night.
I looked at the blackboard where it had become a habit for me to make my notes when we were working on a case.
To his credit, Brodie found it to be useful and had taken to adding his own notes. If there had been a development in the counterfeit case, there was nothing new written on the board to indicate that.
Whatever reason, he had obviously left the office quite suddenly, as Mr. Cavendish described. However, at a glance, there was nothing to indicate what that was.
I removed my gloves and laid them on the desk. I had received a message this morning from Mr. Trumble, president of the bank, that a man with an account for his business had made a deposit that had contained a good amount of counterfeit notes.
He claimed to know nothing about the fifty- and hundred-pound notes. Still, Mr. Trumble thought it might be important to speak with him.
I had sent round a note to the customer who owned the well-known leather goods shop just near St. James’s, and hoped to meet with him later in the day.
With the intention of adding the man’s name to the board, I opened the right-hand desk drawer that contained Brodie’s pouch of tobacco, an assortment of bits and pieces of paper with notes scribbled on them that he was in the habit of writing down, and a box of chalk.
Still, two items were very obviously missing—his revolver, and the hand-held lamp he carried when out and about at night.
It was a habit to carry both since his time with the MET, encountering all sorts of criminal types on the street as a police inspector, and then in his own inquiry business.
He had also provided me with a small revolver that I carried in my travel bag, along with a particularly impressive knife Mr. Munro had given me when I set off on my first travel adventure some years before.
“I almost pity the man who makes the mistake of approaching ye,” Mr. Munro told me at the time. Then added, “Almost.”
Since Brodie was not at the office, there was nothing to do but make my notes, then leave a message for him before I departed for my meeting with the owner of the leather goods shop.
