I had learned that, even in the East End of London, it was often those in positions less fortunate who could be trusted over others.
There was a train departing Brussels for Frankfurt at eight o’clock in the morning.
My skirt and jacket along with a pair of Brodie’s trousers had been returned late that afternoon.
I had done the best I could with his jacket and the substantial amount of dried blood from Alex’s encounter with his attacker. Our other clothes had to be hand-washed. So I proceeded to soak them in the basin in the bathroom.
Brodie watched with an expression that was a cross between doubt and amazement.
“I still canna believe that ye know how to wash yer own clothes!”
“And yours as well, Mr. Brodie,” I replied. “Water, soap, a good scrubbing. Swirl things about in a basin, apply soap, bath soap in this case, scrub well, then rinse, wring out the water, and hang to dry.” I demonstrated.
“A lady who does her own laundry. I’m verra impressed.”
That comment along with the expression on his face was taking things a bit far. I threw his wadded-up but still soggy shirt at him, hitting him square in the middle of that smug expression.
“What do you think our chances are finding those documents that went missing at Sandringham?” We had brought a meal to our room as our laundry dried before the hearth.
Dinner included a fare of beef and potatoes, with sliced fresh-baked bread, and a bottle of wine.
He frowned over his glass, then set it on the table.
“Considering the amount of time that’s passed since Sir Collingwood was murdered, it is possible it has already been sold off to the highest bidder.”
“Or not?” I suggested. It did seem possible that the documents had not been sold to anyone as yet, particularly after the encounter with the little man who was a known companion of Angeline Cotillard.
“If not,” Brodie continued, “after that encounter at the museum, there will be every attempt to sell them. The only hope we have is the amount demanded.
“For those like Szábo and Bruhl, it is all about the highest price the documents can bring on the open market, ‘foreign actors,’ who would be interested in purchasing them.”
Foreign actors—I thought that an interesting choice of words considering Angeline Cotillard’s profession.
“That drives the cost up to the highest bidder,” he continued. “It could be any one of a half-dozen possible buyers.”
“Like an auction,” I replied.
“Aye. Because of that, my guess would be that Bruhl does not yet have the documents. It is possible that Szábo either might have yet to make contact with Bruhl, or is holding onto them for his own purposes while putting out the word to others.”
“He would double-cross Bruhl?”
“Cross, double-cross,” Brodie replied.
That was interesting. No doubt something he’d learned living on the streets as a boy.
“I thought there was honor among thieves.”
“Only so far, lass. Then it is every man, or woman, for themselves.”
“Angeline Cotillard?” Was it possible that she still had the documents?
“It would depend on whose bed she’s sleeping in now.”
Cross, double-cross.
We rose early in order to depart Brussels on that morning train. In spite of my clean skirt and jacket, I chose to wear my walking skirt, boots, and freshly washed shirtwaist.
I had a reason, of course, for wearing the walking skirt. Brodie would have thought it very amusing.
