It was late afternoon now, as I arrived back at the Strand, the office above darkened.
“Aye, Mr. Brodie has not returned yet,” Mr. Cavendish informed as he wheeled out from the alcove. Rupert the hound followed at a trot to show me his latest conquest—an old boot that had been thoroughly mauled and chewed.
I gave him a pat on the head, and did hope there hadn’t been a foot inside that boot.
“I was just on me way over to the Public House,” Mr. Cavendish announced. “Might I bring supper for you, miss?”
“Perhaps for Mr. Brodie,” I replied. I had eaten an early supper with Lily and my great-aunt before leaving Sussex Square.
“Right you are,” he nodded, then waited.
“Is there something else, Mr. Cavendish?”
“I’ll just wait until you reach the office, miss.”
I gave him a surprised look.
“Mr. Brodie’s instructions, now that I’m workin’ for him. Not that I wouldn’t otherwise.”
“Instructions?” This was something I wasn’t aware of.
“He said that me and the hound were to make certain that you were safe up at the office with the lock set. What with them poor women murdered, and other crime about the city. Can’t be too careful.”
He patted the front of his short coat, somewhat shorter in his case due to his infirmity.
“He said that I was to use this if it came to it.” He produced a knife, of the sort that might have come from Munro and similar to the one I carried.
“The hound, he naturally has his own weapons,” he added.
I could have sworn the hound grinned on the sidewalk beside him, flashing those‘weapons.’
It seemed that I now had two bodyguards. It was quite amusing in the extreme. However, I had seen the swiftness with which Mr. Cavendish maneuvered that wheeled platform. Legsand ankles would certainly be in danger. As for the hound, there was that grin.
It did seem that Brodie had taken precautions once again. It was that over-protective nature of his that I had decided I simply had to accept. One could take the man out of Scotland, but not the Scot out of the man. And I had to admit that I did like those other aspects of Angus Brodie.
“Very well, Mr. Cavendish,” I replied as I climbed the stairs to the second-floor landing. “Please convey my greetings to Miss Effie.”
He grinned, almost as wide as the hound, and then he was off, the hound remaining on guard duty, with his boot at the bottom of the stairs.
Along with other changes at the office under the new ownership, locks had been changed including a bolt, with keys provided by the locksmith, who had been less than forthcoming regarding who had ordered the new locks when Brodie had questioned him.
I now carried one of the two matching keys as I wondered again about the new owners and how long we might remain. It did seem with that rather elegant sign that it might be arranged. Although one could only speculate what the new rents might be.
I turned on the electric just inside the entrance that was also one of the recent improvements, then closed the door and smiled to myself as I set the lock according to Mr. Cavendish’s instructions.
The office was cold with the weather that was expected. I quickly removed my coat and scarf, then crossed to the stove and filled the hopper with coal.
I soon had the fire going, then crossed over to the desk and turned on the electric desk lamp eager to read that letter found in Charlotte Mallory’s handbag that the police had found. Mr. Dooley had sent it over.
I noted the name on the outside of the envelope—C. Walmsley, Guildford, Surrey—and took out the letter. It was dated the same day Charlotte Mallory was murdered:
Mrs. Walmsley,
I am in receipt of your letter of November 18 in addition to your previous letter of 4 June.
I cannot understand the reason you are doing this.
I must ask that you have no further contact with me in the matter.
