He handed me the chalk and I began to rearrange letters.
I added one set of letters to another, then started all over again.
“Rue Miron.”
“French?” he stared at the board. “Do ye know what it means?”
“It’s a street in Paris, in the Montparnasse Arrondissement.”
“And ye just happen to know of it.”
I ignored the sarcasm. “Linnie and I did attend school in Paris.” I didn’t elaborate on that, as I had been to the district several times in my wanderings about Paris when I should have been at my studies.
“There appears to be a name,” I added to distract any further questions about Paris.
“I suppose that ye recognize that as well.”
“It’s not French, possibly Hungarian—Szábo.”
It meant nothing to me.
What more had been in the rest of that handwritten letter that had gone up in flames at Sir Collingwood’s residence?
“It might have been an official communication, considering his position with Admiralty,” I suggested. “Particularly if he wasto depart for Sandringham for several days. But this is not the quality of official stationery. It’s more the sort like my note pad. And why burn it?”
Brodie studied what I had managed to extract from those seemingly random bits and pieces of paper that had survived the fire.
“It would seem that Sir Collingwood didn’t want to risk the servants or anyone else seein’ it. That, along with the fact that he paid the servants a full month in advance...” he added.
“His housekeeper said that he told her not to make purchases at the grocers. Is it possible that he didn’t intend to return?”
“It would seem so,” Brodie replied. “Taking care of things before he planned to be gone. And there is that street name in Paris.”
What did it mean? Perhaps someone he knew in Paris? Some time away? Or was it something else?
And what did that name mean? Who was Szábo?
There was someone who might know, someone who was deeply connected to the immigrant community in the East End—Herr Schmidt, owner of the German Gymnasium.
We had contacted him in a previous inquiry case and he was able, somewhat reluctantly, to provide valuable information. However, persuading him was a somewhat complicated endeavor.
Quid pro quocame to mind. A favor granted for a favor requested.
The two-story German Gymnasium was in St. Pancras, between the St. Pancras and Kings Cross railway stations. It had been built several decades earlier with contributions from the German community in the East End.
On the second floor was the area used for women’s exercises and gymnastics. The National Olympian association used the gymnasium for training.
The ground floor contained a boxing ring along with an area for providing lessons with rapiers and swords.
I had brought Lily here for lessons, due to her insatiable curiosity for Montgomery ancestral weapons at Sussex Square. She had excelled in her training, surpassing several levels with at least three different blades.
Her favorite was thefalcion. She had trained with it. However, the reality that it was too large and quite cumbersome as far as something she might carry with her when she was out and about was soon obvious.
I had recently learned that Munro had provided her with a folding knife and had proceeded to provide her lessons on the best use of it.
“I should probably have one as well,” my great-aunt had commented when Lily had excitedly informed me about the lessons. “A woman can never be too careful, you know,” my great-aunt had whispered. “Rapists. It seems there has been an increase in such attacks about the city.”
Why was I not surprised?
