In the end, as we left the office on the Strand for that early morning meeting with Sir Avery that next day after our return. I had stopped at a steel barrel on the street where early morning workers in the East End huddled for warmth before starting their day. There, with Brodie’s unspoken approval, I had tossed the entire set of documents into the fire.
I watched as the flames consumed them, with no small feeling of satisfaction, then explained that ‘tragic circumstance’ to Sir Avery later that same morning.
“Are ye satisfied now?”
“Yes.”
“What do you mean that the documents were destroyed?” Sir Avery had demanded when informed about the ‘fire.’
Brodie had explained the unfortunate ‘circumstances’ with amazing sincerity, that the documents had been lost ‘in a fire at the opera house and it could not be prevented.’ Most creative, I thought. I would have to be cautious with things he shared with me in the future.
“I would never lie to ye,” he’d protested when I mentioned it. “Perhaps a wee stretch of the truth but only when necessary.”
The little man who had attacked me in Brussels and accompanied Angeline Cotillard wherever she went, was the same one responsible for the murder of Sir Collingwood, and had stolen those plans. He was the one known as Szábo in that shadowy underground world.
The man Bruhl, whom no one had ever seen but was said to be responsible for stolen jewelry, a priceless artifact, and other documents—then sold to the highest bidder along with currency stolen from a French bank—was rumored in fact, to be a woman. Angeline Cotillard perhaps, posing as a man but never caught, when it suited the situation?
Most interesting. Although I was certain that she was very much a woman, evidenced by the portraits we had seen, an accomplished actress in disguise perhaps when it suited her. That might explain why Bruhl was never seen, or caught. Merely working behind the scenes.
She or he, as the case might be, had fled the auction that night after I stole the documents back. With nothing to sell, it seemed that she had simply vanished.
“The woman has apparently run to ground for the time being,” Sir Avery had shared with us.
Her whereabouts were presently unknown, although it was thought that she would surface again to commit her next crime. And a warning that she would undoubtedly return to avenge Szábo’s death.
“It seems the man was her brother. Hard to imagine,” Sir Avery added. “But there you are and a word of caution.”
Alex Sinclair was well on his way to full recovery from his wounds. He was particularly satisfied to learn that the little man whom we now knew as Szábo would not harm anyone else, as he had succumbed to his wound that night of the auction.
I should have felt some remorse. I did not.
There was understandably a scandal over the entire affair. Sir Collingwood had been highly revered among those in the military and with the royal family, in addition to his position as High Lord of the Admiralty.
His precise motive was not known. It was possible that he understood the very real danger of such a weapon and sought to balance the scales in some way, although that seemed contrary to his loyalty to the Crown.
Or perhaps, it was as simple as an affair. A man with no family who had dedicated his life to the military and then found it to be empty, and had found comfort as it were, with a woman who was an accomplished actress ineveryrole she played and was able to persuade him to the dangerous scheme that cost his life.
We were informed that Sir Collingwood had been placed in an ‘ice coffin’ after his body was brought back to London, in consideration of his position until the case could be resolved. Quickly it was hoped.
Now that the inquiry was closed, he was to be buried in a simple, unmarked grave, as befitting the traitor that he had become.
The Prince of Wales had expressed his gratitude to Sir Avery for a job well done, the Crown protected, and for our efforts as well.
The royal family had then proceeded to cleverly excuse the scandal as nothing more than an ‘unfortunate situation,’ as they had done in the past with other indiscretions.
As for the artist, Dornay, who was murdered in Brussels, we had recently learned that Angeline has been his muse from a very young age. That explained the portraits in his studio.
It was possible that the relationship had become far more. It wasn’t unusual for the artist to fall in love with or become obsessed with the subject of his paintings.
Having seen Szábo’s skill with the knife and very nearly experienced it firsthand, it was obvious that he had murdered the artist. But for what reason?
Jealousy perhaps? Or I suppose it was possible the artist had discovered Angeline’s darker side, perhaps even her part in Sir Collingwood’s death and had attempted to dissuade her from involving herself in any other such things? We might never know.
What I did know was that my agreement with Sir Avery had been satisfied. I was no longer obligated to assist in one of his schemes.
With our return, I had been pulled into our great-aunt’s plans for my sister’s wedding to James Warren. She was determined that it would be a grand affair, while Linnie wanted a simple, private ceremony.
She had been married before and suffered greatly for the scandal when it ended. For his part, Mr. Warren, my editor for my Emma Fortescue novels, chose to remain uninvolved as much as possible. Over a recent meeting to discuss my next book, I had congratulated him on a wise decision.
