“Twins?” Brodie exclaimed when I explained her method for calculating her age. “The world is no longer safe.”
I had to agree.
Most certainly, she did not appear anywhere near eighty-seven years, while, at the moment, I felt every one of my own twenty-seven years.
I had indulged a bit the night before over tarot readings, board games, charades, and crambo, a word rhyming game that became quite colorful, even risqué, as the evening continued. My great-aunt had also arranged for a magician to the entertainment of all in attendance.
While my sister and her husband had departed early, Brodie and I had remained quite late.
He had never experienced that sort of celebration and I had caught him watching from across the great hall with his good friend, Munro, each with a glass of Old Lodge whisky.
It could be said that I had no clear memory of the coach ride to the townhouse at the end of the evening, nor the fact that Brodie had put me to bed, although he had reminded me of it this morning over breakfast.
“Ye were not completely honest with me about yer nightly habits,” he had commented over very strong coffee.
I had no idea what he was talking about and did not ask. It was not necessary as he was most forthcoming with one corner of his mouth lifted in amusement.
“Ye snore when ye’re blottered.”
That was undoubtedly one of those Scottish words that needed no translation under the circumstances, and an obvious reference to my celebratory condition the previous evening.
“I do not snore,” I corrected him, between my housekeeper’s trips from the kitchen to dining room with our breakfast.
“You do, miss, if I may say so,” Mrs. Ryan added. “But only when you’ve had a bit of the drink.” To which she refilled my cup with more coffee.
Mrs. Ryan and I had shared the loss of her daughter in our first inquiry case. Mary Ryan had been my sister’s maid, a bright young woman with a keen sense of humor. She had disappeared along with my sister and was tragically murdered.
In the time since, Mrs. Ryan had become my housekeeper and far more. Much like a surrogate for the mother that I had lost early on, in the way she looked after me. At least most of the time, in spite of her present comment.
That brought a devilish grin from Brodie.
“It seems that ye might have also wakened Mrs. Ryan with the noise ye made. And I will add that ye were quite insistent in other matters as well,” he added as she returned to the kitchen. “If I was not an understanding sort, I might have been embarrassed.”
Brodie embarrassed?
I sincerely doubted that it had ever occurred. I did have a very clear memory regarding what he was speaking of, however I would not give him the satisfaction of acknowledging it.
“I have no idea what you are talking about.”
Which brought us to the office somewhat late in the morning, with me struggling somewhat from the effects of the previous evening. For which I fully understood the reasons some women were “indisposed” the day after such celebrations.
However, I was not the sort to be indisposed, providing I could navigate the stairs to the office on the second-floor landing without a mishap.
For his part, Brodie was quite cheerful. Aggravatingly so.
“A bit of the hair of the dog is in order,” he said.
One of those sayings that made no sense as he kept a firm hand on my arm and we climbed the stairs together, my other hand on the stair rail.
The “hair of the dog,”as it turned out, was a dram of my aunt’s very fine whisky which he poured and set before me on the table in the office. And since it was very near midday, I did not argue the matter.
“And then more coffee,” he added.
He was most definitely enjoying my condition far too much as the dear man proceeded to set the pot on the iron stove.
“Hair of the dog, I assume that is a Scottish phrase?” I said after my second sip and had to admit that it was easing my “wobbles” as he called them.
“Well known among all those who spend time in taverns and pubs and over-indulge on a dare,” he added pointedly.
