It was a matter that was still up for discussion from time to time.
While I was fairly certain that calling on Mrs. Bennett did not present a danger of any kind, I went ahead and tucked the pistol into my bag. No point in poking the bear— Brodie being the bear as it were.
The hound was a different matter. Brodie had also insisted that I take the hound with me whenever I was out and about in London on an inquiry case.
One look at Rupert as I left the office and descended the steps to the street, and I was doubtful that he would be well received at Belgrave Square. He did lack a certain appropriate presentation, not to mention that most people did not go about London with a guard hound.
The closest thing might be the Pekingese dogs that some women tucked under their arms, a bit of fluff that hardly resembled a dog at all with bows and baubles tied about their necks.
As a child I had been very familiar with my father’s hunting dogs that Rupert most closely resembled, including the mud. In the hound’s case the somewhat overripe smell was undoubtedly from the day’s catch at the docks.
“Aye,” Mr. Cavendish acknowledged, as he waived down a cab for me. “Mr. Brodie did mention that ye were to take the beast with ye.”
I looked at “the beast,” quite alert now from his morning nap no doubt at the prospect of an adventure.
While I had my doubts, I was forced to admit that he had acquitted himself quite admirably in the past during a particularly nasty investigation. In short, he had undoubtedly saved my life, or at least prevented substantial injury.
It was, of course, difficult to imagine at present as he sat at my feet, tongue hanging out the side of his mouth, with what appeared to be a grin once one got past the appearance of all those teeth.
“Oh, very well,” I conceded as the driver arrived. I held open the gate and the hound promptly jumped inside which brought a frown from atop the cab.
I gave the driver the address at Belgrave Square, then climbed in as well.
Mr. Cavendish nodded. “He’s just protectin’ his own,” he commented as he turned and paddled back from the sidewalk on his rolling platform.
Protecting his own?
Unless the hound had developed some sort of human emotional sense. I doubted that. Although I could have sworn otherwise with that grin, most particularly when he had caughtsomething particularly foul. However, I had the distinct feeling that Mr. Cavendish was not referring to the hound.
We arrived at Number 32 Belgrave Square in good time. I paid the driver, then looked down at the hound. It seemed unlikely that he would be welcome in the Bennett residence. Or at the square for that matter, as a gentleman in a long coat and hat glanced our way with a critical expression as he passed by.
“Are you quite all right, miss?” he asked with a wary eye toward Rupert.
The hound did bring out that sort of comment from people beyond the Strand. However, those who frequented the area were quite accustomed to seeing him about.
“Yes, of course,” I replied and thanked him, which brought the usual sort of response as the gentleman turned and went about his way, with a cautious glance back over his shoulder.
“Filthy beast!”
I could have sworn the hound was most pleased with himself.
“Stay,” I told him, a statement that would have worked with my father’s well-trained hunting hounds. However…
“Stay, or there will be no more biscuits,” I added.
Quite amazingly, the hound sat down and stared back at me with what I could only guess was an expectant expression, then proceeded to lay down, head resting on outstretched paws alongside the wrought iron fence at the entrance to the building.
“Good boy,” I told him.
I could only imagine what my friend Templeton’s response would have been to my conversation with the hound, since she was quite familiar with conversing with Ziggy, her four-and-a-half-foot long iguana that had been given to her after one of her tours.
Ziggy was currently residing in the London Zoo after escaping and causing some excitement about the city. The last I had spoken with Templeton, she was quite concerned for him.
“They don’t understand how sensitive he is. He appears quite lonely,”she had commented after a recent visit.
The Bennett housekeeper answered the bell pull. With a look back at the hound, still stretched out along the fence, I entered the residence for my meeting with Helen Bennett.
As I said, she did not give the impression of one with nothing better to do than worry endlessly about everything. Even now, after that note and hearing the sound of her voice over the telephone, she appeared quite calm as she thanked me for meeting with her on such short notice.
