Early upon rising, admittedly with little sleep, I did check my toes with some amusement and they seemed intact. I had handed my notebook to him, to go over my notes in case I had forgotten anything when I made my latest entries the previous evening.
“We will see it through,” he replied, but I heard the caution in his voice.
“You don’t trust Sir Avery?” And with good reason, I thought, after that previous case that took us both to Edinburgh.
Brodie leaned over as I sat before the dressing table, brushing my hair before pinning it back. He gathered a handful and stroked it with his fingers.
“I am hopeful that we will have other information as well. Perhaps from Alex.”
I looked up at his reflection in the mirror.
“You sent him a telegram as well?”
“Aye. Sir Avery is the sort who keeps things hidden. And that can be even more dangerous.”
I understood his meaning and knew from the previous evening that Sir Avery wanted us to continue on to Brussels after the information we found at Monsieur Dornay’s apartment.
There, we were to attend the latest art exhibition that was opening at the Royal Museum, according to that handbill we found at the apartment along with Dornay’s travel papers.
He had obviously intended to see the exhibit, although we had no way of knowing as yet what that meant as far as Sir Collingwood’s murder.
And now, Sir Avery had decided to send Alex Sinclair over with new information. It was obvious that he didn’t trust the information to a telegram. We were to meet Alex in Brussels at the Hotel Castelan. I could only wonder what the information might be, so highly confidential that it was to be hand-delivered.
“We will need to make our travel arrangements,” I commented as Brodie went to the door. “The hotel concierge can do that for us.”
“The fewer people who know our destination perhaps the better. We should make the arrangements ourselves.”
I did understand his meaning. Two people were dead. The two murders were somehow connected, but we had no way of knowing how. Not yet.
We agreed to meet downstairs at the restaurant that was open early to accommodate travelers eager to get on their way.
Brodie had already packed his few clothes into the leather valise he had brought with him. I carefully folded my clothes from the day before, then put them into my carpet bag along with personal things, and my notebook.
I had dressed for travel once more in a long skirt, shirtwaist, jacket, and boots. I slipped the knife Munro had given me down the outside of my right boot, then seized my umbrella and gloves. The gloves had been a necessity the day before. After all, one never knew when one might have to escape from a building.
At the restaurant I ordered breakfast for both of us along with coffee—black, and very strong. Brodie arrived just as the meals were being served.
“Any news?” I inquired.
“Alex left this morning for Dover. He is to travel direct from Calais to Brussels,” he added in a quiet manner. “He should arrive in Brussels by early evening, and will meet us at the hotel.”
“I asked the concierge for a rail schedule.” Not an unusual request for travelers. “There is a train departing Gare de Nord for the north, including Brussels, three times daily. The next train today departs at twelve noon, and arrives just before five o’clock. I brought both of our bags. All that is needed is for us to sign out with the desk clerk.”
He shook his head. “We will simply leave, as though for the day as other travelers. There is no need for anyone know that we have left the city.”
“Do you believe that we are being followed?”
“It is safe to assume that whoever killed the artist may have also seen those travel papers and the handbill. The man had not been dead long. The blood from his wounds was still bright red.”
I had noticed, but didn’t know what that might mean, other than the fact that he was very dead.
“It is possible that he was interrupted by our arrival and would have returned, and also verra possible that he was watching the building, and then the police arrived.”
Observations from years with the MET. I did see his meaning. Brodie stood and assisted with my chair.
“I am not an invalid,” I pointed out.
“Ye certainly are not an invalid, but ye are my wife.”
