He had always known the Mudger by his street name. Mikaela had quickly learned that his name was Cavendish and called him by it.
He suspected that the man had taken a bit of a fancy to her. For whatever reason, Mr. Cavendish had taken to washing somewhat regularly, pulling his overlong hair back in more acceptable fashion, and now wore clothes that in the very least didna smell like the hound.
Mikaela insisted that it was due to an affection that he had grown for Miss Effie at the Public House. Be that as it may, the man still had a habit of defending Mikaela in an argument.
“She is probably right, you know,”he had told him recently. “The ladies often are. It’s that other sense they seem to have. It’s hopeless to argue with them.”
Hopeless. Aye, Brodie was finding that out. It called for different measures, such as tonight, and his hope of contacting a man he knew from the streets.
He finally reached Dooley.
The streets had been quiet of late as far as any reports of assault against business owners. Brown’s people guaranteed protection from other known gangs about London.
But Dooley and his men hadn’t picked up rumors of any plans in that regard. It might have been the weather.
He changed out of the suit of clothes he usually wore when making appointments with clients, and pulled on rough woolen trousers and a woolen jumper that looked as if it might have been something the Mudger had pulled from a rubbish bin on the street.
When planning a visit to the streets of the East End and a man like Brown, it was best to dress the part, a part he was all too familiar with.
Eighteen
MIKAELA
I arrived somewhat lateat the Theater Royal where the cabaret was to be held for that one-night performance.
My friend, Templeton, no stranger to theatrical performances, was to join us, for hopefully a performance that was to be as the playbills about the district had advertised—an evening of music, with the ladies and gentlemen of the cabaret troupe providing an exciting and oftentimes bawdy entertainment.
Aunt Antonia had dressed the part.
“I have attended such performances in the past, in Paris,” she had explained when we first made plans to attend. “Of course, that was some time ago. Quite entertaining and risqué.”
The evening promised to be quite remarkable for more than the sort of entertainment that it provided the people of London, including several well-known members of polite society. And also, for a reunion, if it could be called that, between my very good friend and Mr. Munro.
They had shared a somewhat fiery relationship in the past—thatwasthe only word for it.
Any doubts in that regard disappeared completely at the discovery of a particular piece of furniture at Templeton’s country home quite by accident.
It was in the matter of a previous inquiry case, and the circumstances had taken Brodie and me to Surrey. It was in the course of that case that we discovered the rather bold painting on the headboard of her bed.
There was no mistaking the images of the two persons painted there. The artist, whoever it was, could have rivaled DaVinci.
As I was saying…
I heard someone call out and was immediately seized about the shoulders and pulled into a heavily perfumed embrace.
“He assured me that you would be here, tonight,” Templeton exclaimed. “It has been too long with you and Mr. Brodie off and about on the Continent.”
Considering that greeting,hecould only be Sir William, William Shakespeare that is, her muse.
“And he has shared the most amazing rumor!”
I could only imagine what that might be.
“Her ladyship and a young woman arrived some time ago…” she continued, looping her arm through mine and drawing me to the line of attendees who were eager to enter the theater.
“You could have told me that Mr. Munro would be accompanying them,” she said in a somewhat peevish tone.
“I would have thought that Sir William would have provided that information,” I replied.
