Was it possible they were one and the same?
“Miss Forsythe!”
There was only one person among my companions who still called me that, force of habit I suspect. I turned as Alex Sinclair came toward me through the crowd of people.
Two things then happened almost at the same time. A figure darted toward me. He was short, no taller than a child, a knife clutched in one hand.
He was extremely quick. As instinct took over, I side-stepped, thrust my foot under, sent him sprawling to the floor, and pulled the knife from my boot.
Quick as a cat, he rolled, sprang back to his feet and lunged at me.
“I’ve got him, Miss Forsythe,” Alex called out as he charged to my defense.
The little man grinned as he spun away from me, somersaulted, then slashed at Alex as he rolled back to his feet, tossed a look back at me, then disappeared through the crowd of stunned, screaming bystanders who were only just becoming aware of the assault among them.
I ran to Alex. He looked up at me with a startled expression.
“Are you all right, Miss Forsythe?”
“Yes, of course…” I assured him, then saw the blood on the front of his shirt.
“I tried to stop him…” He was quite pale and unsteady on his feet. “Oh, my…”
He swayed toward me and would have gone down if Brodie hadn’t reached us. He caught him about the shoulders, then looked at me
“Ye have blood all over ye.”
I heard that sound low in his voice that I had heard before—calm but with that edge.
“It’s not mine. I’m all right.”
“Are ye certain?”
“Yes, I’m afraid it’s poor Alex who’s been badly wounded.”
He nodded then. “We need to get him away from here,” he said in that same low voice as those around us stared while others simply moved on as if it was an everyday occurrence to attend an art exhibit in the museum and have a man slashed in their midst.
Munro had joined us by now, and quickly assessed the situation.
“I’m all right,” I assured him as that cold blue gaze swept over me.
“Did ye see who did this?”
“A small man, no taller than my waist, dressed in everyday work clothes, boots,” and something that came back as shock gave way to anger.
“He had a tattoo on the side of his neck.”
Munro nodded and he was off, pushing his way through the crowd as Brodie supported Alex, barely conscious, and I led the way from the exhibit hall.
Munro joined us outside the museum.
“I lost him in the crowd. How bad is he wounded?”
“Bad enough,” Brodie replied as Munro waived down a driver, that well-known gesture that needed no translation.
We were fortunate that most of the people were still arriving for the exhibit, as Munro held open the door of a coach as the passengers disembarked, then assisted Brodie getting Alex inside.
They climbed in after, then Brodie held out a hand to me. I climbed in as Munro gave the driver the name of our hotel.
