Sir Collingwood’s selection of books on the shelves behind his desk were of the usual sort, I supposed, for a man who had lived his life in service with the Royal Navy.
There were several books regarding the history of warfare in places such as the Mediterranean, that included Roman and Greek sea battles, along with several maps, one in particular over the slate fireplace.
It was most interesting, with locations marked with images of ancient sailing vessels and barges. Not unusual, I supposed,for a man of Sir Collingwood’s long history with the Royal Navy or his position as Lord High Admiral.
A handful of those locations were ports and places that I had explored along the coast of Malta, the Black Sea when traveling to Budapest, and the Mediterranean to Alexandria more recently. Once the driver arrived, Brodie asked questions regarding Sir Collingwood’s schedule and any recent appointments before leaving London for that weekend of gaming.
Were there any unusual destinations the past few weeks? Any additional passengers he might have taken on at Sir Collingwood’s request? Perhaps something said by way of instructions he was given that might have seemed out of the ordinary?
Mr. Fields’s responses revealed nothing out of the ordinary over the past several weeks. However, when questions about any unusual behavior, he also mentioned that he had been paid for the full month rather than the usual weekly pay.
As I listened to Brodie’s questions, I poked at bits and pieces of paper among the ashes that had not fully burned with the toe of my boot. I knelt for a closer look, sifting through the usual sticky residue that was left behind from a fire in a coal stove.
I poked about the ash with my fingers and discovered bits and pieces of paper left behind after the fire had burned. I continued to dig and poke about, and discovered a half-dozen good-sized and smaller pieces of paper that had survived the fire.
“What have ye there?” Brodie asked after Mr. Fields left.
“It seems that Sir Collingwood burned papers in the fireplace.”
He came round the desk where I knelt with soot-stained fingers. He leaned down and frowned at the smudged and stained pieces of...
What? Merely some household trash? Or had Sir Collingwood simply cleared his desk before leaving for a few days?
“It could be useful,” Brodie commented. “Best bring wot ye can find and we’ll see if it reveals anything important.”
I gently pressed the fragile pieces of paper between the pages in my notebook, tucked it into my bag, and dusted off my hands as Mr. Jamison returned to inquire if there was anything else we needed.
Brodie didn’t question him regarding the information the housekeeper had given us. If he was aware of any other plans Sir Collingwood might have had after returning from Sandringham, he had chosen not to speak of it. Nor had he mentioned the advanced payment for several weeks’ employment.
That might mean something in itself, or nothing at all. However, I was most eager to see what those burnt pieces of paper might tell us.
Seven
We returnedto the office on the Strand with the information we’d learned as well as those pieces of paper that I carefully laid out on the blotter at Brodie’s desk.
“Can ye make anything of it?” Brodie asked after I had been at it for some time.
“It’s a bit like a jigsaw puzzle with a good many pieces missing that were completely burnt to ash in the fireplace,” I replied as I bent over the desk.
It was a tedious, painfully slow process as the note was handwritten and handling the fragile pieces caused the dry and brittle paper to crumble while the letters on larger pieces made no sense.
“It might it be useful to make a list of the letters and words on the chalkboard,” he suggested.
We had often discovered a clue in that manner, standing back, looking at information we had gathered, attempting to determine what it all meant.
However, this time, he stood at the board while I attempted to read the letters on the bits and pieces of paper.
It reminded me how we had worked together in the past—trading ideas, my note-making, the way he looked at things with his experience from his work with the MET, and from the streets, combined with what I was able to contribute.
However, this might be the exception, I thought, as I looked up at the board at the random letters.
“Nothing makes any sense. It’s like some other language,” he commented.
I stood and came round the desk, then frowned as I stared at the chalkboard.
“What is it?”
“Something…” I replied. Yet I had no idea what it was.
