“He was out late as well,” Mr. Cavendish informed me. “Came back this morning, rougher than a badger’s arse, and been there ever since.”
That was a most colorful description. I wondered how Mr. Cavendish might know that particular aspect regarding a badger. There was not so much as an eye cracked open by the hound.
Late, indeed. In consideration of the things he had been known to drag back to the alcove in the past, one could only imagine where he’d been.
“He’ll be right as the rain though when you’re ready to leave, miss.”
I had my doubts as the hound was presently snoring loud enough even over the usual noise from the street this time of the morning.
Right as rain, indeed.
“Look for a message on the landing,” Mr. Cavendish added. “It was brought round first thing by one of them courier services.”
He gestured overhead to the second-floor landing.
Climbing the stairs to deliver the message was not an option due to an injury some years before that had taken both of his legs at the knees. Therefore messages that were delivered were either announced by the rope pull attached to a bell on the landing if Brodie or myself were about. If not, it was sent aloft, tucked in an empty whisky bottle from my aunt’s estate at Old Lodge in the north of Scotland.
The message was rolled and inserted into the bottle. A cord was then tied about the neck of the bottle and it was sent aloft to the second-floor landing at the end of a rope by way of a pulley. It really was quite ingenious.
“How are you getting along with the new platform Brodie had made for you?” I inquired before turning to the stairs.
The previous one that he wheeled about the streets of London on had been a crude affair that at least gave Mr. Cavendish mobility.
It had been destroyed in a previous case and Brodie had replaced it with a fine one made of hickory with wheels affixed with rubber and a thick carpet on the platform.
However, the carpet was easily soaked by the weather and Mr. Cavendish had reluctantly discarded it. He had commandeered a lady’s padded undergarment from one of the seconds shops in the East End.
Miss Effie, a friend at the Public House across the way had stitched the pads into the bottom of his trousers providing a comfortable change for him.
“The cushion is right fine, helps ease the misery in me bones,” he replied. “Thanks to Miss Effie,” he added. “She’s a good woman.”
A good woman indeed. Did I sense a hint of something more behind that comment?
Prior to my association with Brodie, Mr. Cavendish was known to take up lodging in the storeroom behind the Public House when the weather turned bad.
Miss Effie was a widow, having lost her husband some time earlier. Brodie had paid the rent on her flat in the past before she found work at the Public House. I was aware he still supplemented her wages from time to time.
She had returned the favor in a roundabout way, by arranging for the back door to the storeroom at the Public House to be left unlocked for Mr. Cavendish when storms rolled in from the river and flooded the streets and sidewalks.
There was a sound from the hound now as I reached the stairs. However, he had merely rolled over onto his back and continued his snoring, much like someone sleeping it off.
So much for accompanying me on my travels about London.
“The biscuits you brought will ease his temper when he wakens,” Mr. Cavendish commented.
I had my doubts as I climbed the stairs to the second-floor landing and retrieved the message that Mr. Cavendish had tucked into the neck of the bottle. It was from Helen Bennett.
Miss Forsythe, please contact me as soon as you receive this. I need to meet with you. The situation has become most serious.
Helen Bennett
That did sound quite ominous, I thought.
I had met with her previously in the matter of her husband’s absences over the past several weeks.
At first those absences had not seemed unusual as he frequently worked long hours that extended into the evening. But those absences had become more frequent over the past few weeks and with only the same explanation each time that it was his“work.”
Joseph Bennett was a physician and surgeon. It seemed plausible that his work made demands on his time.
