MacGregor shook his head. “Only one of the gals wot has her eye on him.” There was another look in my direction. “Not that it done her any good, if ye get my meanin’. He’s only come back for a couple of hours each night in one of the rooms upstairs.”
This with a glance toward a door which I assumed led to a stairway.
“Then off again, and with a look o’ the devil about him. Not that Miss Mable is put off, ye ken?”
Munro angled a look at me, then told him, “We’ll wait.”
“Another pint?” MacGregor asked with a glance at the one that was now half empty.
“Aye.”
As we waited, I kept the brim of my cap low, and looked about the crowded hall. Was Miss Mabel there, waiting for Brodie’s return? I hoped not, and force back the twinge of anger at the thought.
That brought the next question—would he return that night, or remain somewhere out on the street, following yet another clue in the search for Ellie Sutton’s killer?
I caught the rap of knuckles on the bar in front of Munro. MacGregor then angled a look toward the entrance.
Brodie. His head was down, his jacket buttoned to his throat as he made his way into the hall, past the man we had encountered. I then caught a sudden streak of movement toward him.
The woman was shorter than myself, with light brown hair piled atop her head. She wore a long gabardine skirt, stained about the hem, and a shirtwaist that was too small, with sleeves rolled back to her elbows.
There was obvious familiarity as she greeted Brodie with a hand laid against the front of his coat. His expression was one I had seen dozens of times when encountering someone on the streets—intense, a quick nod, then the brush aside of her hand, and the obvious disappointment at her face.
Miss Mabel, no doubt. And truth be known, I could hardly blame her for trying. Brodie was handsome, those dark eyes, the dark beard, and that intense look that gave him the appearance of someone who might be dangerous. His dark gaze fastened on Munro, and then me beside him.
To say that intense expression suddenly changed is an understatement. There was surprise, followed by what could only be described as anger as he recognized me with my coat and cap pulled low.
“What the devil?” The question aimed at Munro. “Have ye lost yer mind bringin’ her here? And you!” he snapped, glaring at me.
“Best not here,” Munro calmly replied with a jerk of his head in Mabel’s direction. “Before there are too many questions.”
It took all of Brodie’s control not to say something, most likely very colorful. But there was something else there, something behind the anger.
“I have information,” I told him, cutting off any further comment that would most likely have been a curse.
With a look about, he nodded. “This way.”
We followed him to that door just off the bar. It opened into a short hallway, another door that possibly led to a storeroom, and a dimly lit staircase.
Brodie moved ahead, shielding me as a man passed by, adjusting his clothes. At the landing we heard muffled sounds and encountered a man and woman in the shadows who hadn’t waited to reach a room. We quickly moved past to the stairs that led to the next floor.
He stopped at a room, unlocked it, and removed a sliver of paper that had been lodged between the edge of the door and the door frame. A clever precaution. If it fell, he would know that someone had entered while he was gone.
The room was dark and musty with a small window so badly smudged that a curtain wouldn’t have been necessary. I heard the sound of him moving about, then the slow glow of a single electric light over a scarred table and a bed in the corner.
“I’ll wait downstairs.” Munro stood in the doorway behind me.
“I’ll hear the reason ye brought her here,” Brodie snapped.
“I made him bring me.” As soon as the words were out, I realized how ridiculous that was. I doubted anyone had made Munro do anything.
He closed the door. “There are things she needs to tell ye, and other things ye need to know.”
It was said in a way, with a certain sharpness, undertones I was certain had been formed years before by two young boys.
Brodie pulled a chair out from the table for me and I sat. He shoved the other one toward Munro with a single word, “Talk.”
This was someone I had glimpsed, but didn’t fully know; someone hardened by the streets, loss, and the things that he had done, and that were done to him. I saw it in his expression and the sharpness in that dark gaze at a sudden noise on the other side of the door. Just as suddenly, the noise was gone.
