Which of course then led to the next thought about my relationship with the man beside me in that carriage.
Our driver was well paid when we arrived at the Westminster.
“Go to the room,” Brodie told me as we entered the hotel. “I need to send a message to London.”
I nodded. I was too tired to argue.
“Excalibur,” I reminded him of the code-name Alex Sinclair said we were to use before we left London.
It did all seem quite nefarious, I thought.
A member of the Admiralty brutally murdered, a name scribbled on that message found in Sir Collingwood’s fireplace, a struggling artist murdered at the apartment at Number Thirteen Rue Miron, those travel papers and the handbill for that exhibition at the museum in Brussels, along with a code name we were supposed to use?
What did all of it mean? What had we stumbled into?
I had visited the Westminster when our great-aunt visited my sister and me at school in Paris, and I was familiar with the hotel. While Brodie went to send off that telegram, I passed by the men’s sitting room, an elegant recreation of a gentlemen’s club.
I entered the room and was immediately informed by an attendant that the club was for gentlemen only. I thanked him and continued to the mahogany bar where I requested not wine but whisky, preferably Old Lodge whisky imported from Scotland.
To my surprise they carried a bottle of my great-aunt’s whisky. Bless Munro who handled that enterprise, I thought, then inquired about supper.
The man behind the bar informed me with a familiar English accent that there were a variety of entrees provided for the guests of the men’s sitting room.
I placed an order for supper and a bottle of whisky, gave the man the room number for the meal to be delivered, then tucked that bottle into my bag and ignored the stares of the gentlemen who were present as I left.
In spite of the fact that we had one of the smaller rooms in the hotel, it did have a gas fireplace. I soon had a fire going, opened that bottle of whisky, poured two glasses, and then took out my notebook.
Brodie arrived soon after. He looked tired with faint lines around those dark eyes and his mouth. He pulled his revolver from his pocket and set it on the table. I handed him that other glass of whisky.
“I suppose ye pulled this from yer bag,” he commented after taking a very long taste.
“It seems that Munro has invaded the Continent with my aunt’s whisky,” I replied.
“A good man,” he replied, as he went to one of those fine satin brocade-covered chairs before the fire, sat, drained the tumbler, and then held it out for another dram. He immediately took another long drink as I handed it back to him.
“I explained wot we found as best I could in a brief message.” He leaned his head on the chair back, eyes closed as he let the whisky have its way.
“Ye can send the next message. I have no idea if I spelled those French words or that damned code word correctly.”
It was a small thing, but it was a reminder that we worked very well together, all things considered, including spelling.
Was that all that was left?
I had made my notes regarding our discoveries of the day and set my pen aside. I then went into the adjacent bathroom and turned on the tap to fill the bathtub with hot water.
I slowly undressed, stepped out of my clothes, and discovered those bruises. They were quite vivid in shades of blue. I stepped into the tub and slowly sank down into the hot water.
Not usually one for extravagance—after all I had bathed in rivers and from a bucket when on my travels—there was still something I very much appreciated about the fragrant milled soap, the creamy lather it provided, and that extra dram of my aunt’s very fine whisky.
I had woven my hair into a single braid after I’d lost the pins while climbing out of that apartment building. I leaned back and closed my eyes, hot water and that soap working another bit of magic.
I drifted in a sea of soap, warm water, steam, and whisky, my muscles slowly loosening. The thought occurred to me that I might have drowned, and didn’t care.
Except that I was still breathing, there was a murder case to be solved, and there was a very dark gaze watching me through that steamy, whisky-laden haze.
Brodie leaned over the tub. With anyone else I would have been embarrassed at the least, angry at best. But this was Brodie and I did suppose that we were past embarrassment in consideration of the fact that we were husband and wife, as he had clearly informed the man at the inn in Calais.
“A man has arrived with what appears to be supper, unless ye’ve a mind to remain until the water is cold or ye begin to take on the look of a prune.”
