“Go to sleep, lass.”
Twelve
It waslate of the morning when I wakened. I sat up, a faint headache at the back of my head, as I remembered the evening before.
I rose, dressed then splashed water on my face from the basin. As I reached for the towel there was a vague memory of Brodie from the night before. However, the other side of the bed was undisturbed.
It appeared, as often happened, that he had been up most of the night. No doubt working on the case.
I attempted to put some order to my hair and caught my reflection in the mirror over the wash stand as I tied it back.
“Are ye certain there isna a Scot in yer family somewhere with that red hair and that stubborn nature of yers?”Brodie had once asked.
My family history through my great-aunt went back hundreds of years and innumerable ancestors. It was very possible there was a Scot in there somewhere, considering some of my ancestor’s exploits and wanderings about.
It would serve him right of course, if there was.
The headache had subsided somewhat as I stepped out into the outer office.
Brodie was there, the earpiece of the telephone in hand, a frown on his face as I went to the coal stove. He had set the coffee pot to boil earlier and that wonderful aroma beckoned.
“Aye,” he replied to the person on the other end of that call. There was nothing more and he hung up the earpiece somewhat abruptly.
I had gone to the blackboard, coffee mug in hand, and studied the notes I had made as well as the sequence of letters Lily had deciphered along with those numbers on that note that had been intercepted.
“Sir Avery,” Brodie commented, the frown still there. “We are to report to him after ye’ve met with the curator at the museum.”
A directive, which brought me back to the question— what were we dealing with? Something important that had everyone scurrying about most seriously. But what? And what was the connection to Dimitri Soropkin?
We knew when something was to happen— December eighteenth. Now, three days away. What was so important about that date?
“There are biscuits and ham that Miss Effie sent over this morning.” He indicated the plate with a cloth over it on the desk.
“She seems to think that ye need a bit more flesh on yer bones.”
My bones and the rest of me, along with the remnants of that headache, appreciated that very much.
“There were more, however the hound made off with several.”
“And you still have all your fingers…” I remarked with some surprise as something tickled in the back of my brain, admittedly somewhat slow this morning.
“A narrow miss,” he replied, then, “Wot is it?” he asked.
It was uncanny the way he had of sensing something I was thinking.
“A thought,” I shook my head and then dismissed it. “You were out here all night?”
“Aye, going over yer notes,” he gestured to the board. “And what ye learned about that message.”
“Eighteenth of the month,” I commented. “What is it about the eighteenth?”
“That is what we must find out. After we find out what the curator has to tell us about the doctor’s notes.”
He rose from the desk and rolled down the sleeves of his shirt. The view that I had been appreciating disappeared, hidden once more.
There was a somewhat critical look in my direction as I took a last bite of biscuit and gathered my bag.
“Ye might need some assistance with yer buttons so as not to give the curator the wrong impression when we arrive. And ye might need yer boots as well.”
