“Oh, dear,” she replied. “Yes, of course. I do understand. Mr. Symons has not yet brought in the daily. I will see that she is not aware until your arrival. Such dreadful business.”
We arrived at Sussex Square, no more than an hour later. Mr. Symons, my great-aunt’s head footman greeting us at the door.
“Good day, Mr. Brodie, Miss Mikaela,” he greeted us, the use of my name a habit of many years, no disrespect toward Brodie. He leaned slightly closer.
“I intercepted the daily at her ladyship’s request,” he assured us. “Miss Lily finished her writing exercise some time ago, and is presently in the sword room, practicing, I believe.”
It was then my great-aunt swept into the main entrance to greet us. I sayswept,as that was usually the way of titled ladies. She had re-defined the word over the years. It wasmore of a marching, take-charge gait, an authoritative style that immediately put anyone in a room on notice that here was a woman of title, presence, and no small amount of power. I adored her.
“Mr. Symons has informed you?” she inquired. I nodded.
“The sword room is possibly not the preferable location to deliver such news. She will be most upset. She and Charlotte Mallory did get on so well, more like dear friends than instructor and pupil.”
Lily was the sort who kept things inside herself, I had learned. The bravado and stubbornness were often a shield she kept firmly in place around her emotions. It was something I understood.
I handed Mr. Symons my umbrella and hat. When I would have headed for the staircase that led to the second floor and the sword room, Brodie laid a hand on my arm.
“I’ll see to the lass. I wouldna want her to take yer head off in a fit of temper when she hears the news. I prefer it right where it is on yer shoulders.”
When I would have protested, he shook his head.
“It would be best if it comes from someone who has experienced this sort of thing before.”
We waited in the solar where my great-aunt had previously installed a miniature jungle in anticipation of the safari we had recently embarked upon.
The plants were still there and added an exotic atmosphere to the large room that opened out onto the pavilion in warmer weather.
There was also the Egyptian sailboat with sail unfurled, as part of the replica of the Nile River, merely a shallow stream of water that flowed through the solar, another of my great-aunt’s eccentricities as the gossip pages often reported. Everyone whohad been invited to that particular celebration had marveled at it.
Not that she gave a fig what other people thought.
“Whisky, my dear?” she inquired now as we sat at a nearby table.
I nodded. I had a feeling we were all going to need it, once Brodie was able to persuade Lily to join us. And it was after the noon hour, after all.
I was encouraged as an hour passed and there was no clamor from the second floor, or wild dash of servants fleeing for their lives, including Mr. Munro, who had appeared with said whisky.
He and Brodie came from the streets to London together as boys, both orphans who escaped the poverty of Edinburgh. Munro was now manager of my great-aunt’s estates, that included Old Lodge in the north of Scotland and her properties in France, as well as Sussex Square.
“It will be all right, miss,” he assured me as I held out my glass for a second portion.
I did hope he was right. I had just taken a sip when Brodie and Lily appeared at the entrance to the solar. There was no sight of blood; Brodie’s hand lay on Lily’s arm where it looped through his.
It did seem as if there might have been a few tears when Brodie told her of Charlotte Mallory’s death. Yet the gaze that met mine now, a very striking shade of blue, was quite composed.
We remained at Sussex Square, and then took supper later that evening with my great-aunt and Lily, who remained unusually quiet rather than her usual boisterous comments over something or another.
After supper she asked to read the newspaper with the article Theodolphus Burke had written.
My first instinct was to protect her from that. But my great-aunt pointed out the obvious, that it would be all over London and Lily would see it sooner or later, or undoubtedly hear some overly dramatic and colorful version of it. Brodie was in agreement.
She frowned as she read the article, there was then the obvious question from those glaring headlines.
“Could it be the same man who killed those other women?”
“It is always possible,” Brodie replied. “Or it might be someone entirely different.”
“The article says that the police will be investigating. If it is the same one, they have not been successful in the past.”
