However, Rupert was quite insistent, returning to the base of the stairs, tail wagging furiously, and barking insistently.
“Oh, very well,” I told him, something that Brodie found quite amusing—talking to Rupert as if he was capable of understanding. I was working on that, as I knew perfectly well that he understood most everything I said.
Rupert turned and charged up the stairs. I gathered my skirts and followed. I suddenly stopped at the landing.
He had nosed his way into the office!
He was extremely smart as I had discovered in the past, yet I was fairly certain that unlocking the office door was not amonghis many talents. Which of course raised the question, how had it become unlocked?
He now stood in the middle of the office and barked most insistently. I cautiously pushed the door fully open. As I did, Rupert began to inspect the office, nose to the floor, obviously tracking a scent. His inspection took him into the adjacent flat, where he let out another bark.
He emerged, head cocked, ears up, and barked again, inspection apparently concluded. At least to assure me that there was no one lurking about.
“Good boy,” I told him as I slowly walked into the office and began my own inspection that included the remnants of damp footprints on the carpet, apparently left by whoever had been there.
Was it possible that Brodie had returned in the middle of the night?
It seemed logical that he might have, since he was out and about in all sorts of places, quite determined to learn more about Constable Martin’s murder.
I carefully continued my inspection as Rupert returned to the office and sat expectantly before the coal stove.
The chalkboard appeared to be as I had left it the previous day, with the felt eraser in the same place on the chalk rail.
The file on Brodie’s desk that he had been working on, adding notes from our last case, was on the corner of his desk, although upon closer inspection it did seem as if it might have been moved. I then went to my desk.
Brodie insisted that I have my own desk and had gifted me with a portable typing machine. Even though he had insisted at the time that it might be useful when working on my next novel.
I was not fooled that it also just happened to be most convenient for typing out our case reports. His handwriting wasoften indecipherable. There were moments when he was quite transparent.
Instead of inquiring if I would type the report, he had grumbled and groused that he couldn’t read the “damned thing,” tossing the folder back down onto the desk with obvious impatience.
How had I responded when I usually would not have patience for such things?
“Let me type up the report, dear, rather than listen to your complaints and curses.”
It was not lost on me, by the self-satisfied smirk on his face, that he had maneuvered the situation to his favor. Yet, I had discovered there were ways to get back at him.
I straightened the folder and noticed that the edge was damp as if something had spilled on it. I opened it. The top page of the report was faintly smudged, as if whoever had opened the folder had smudged the ink on the page. I closed the file.
Rupert had joined my inspection and sat expectantly with that same demeanor as moments before.
“What is it? What do you think you’ve found?” I went to my desk.
Everything seemed in order—pencil holder, a tablet for notes when Brodie and I discussed a case, a copy of my last novel that James Warren, my publisher and also my brother-in-law, had sent to the office just before the volume’s recent release at the bookstores.
I frowned. I was almost certain that I had placed it on the bookshelf with other books I had brought to the office. As I reached for it to return it to the shelf, I noticed drops of what appeared to be water on the desktop. I glanced at the door that had been ajar when I arrived. From what I had discovered, it did seem that someone had been in the office.
Brodie would not have left the office unlocked and the door ajar.
Rupert nudged my hand. I stroked his ears. I had no doubt that he sensed…something. Or someone.
“It does seem as though we had a visitor,” I commented, not that I expected a response.
And it did appear that it was not Brodie. While he was very supportive of my efforts as an author, he had yet to read one of my Emma Fortescue novels, especially with her recent adventures in crime solving.
“I’m afraid wot I might find that ye’ve written there. Particularly how women gather about when ye have a new book out.”
Dear Emma, the heroine of my novels, had taken on a partner in her endeavors—a tall, dark, brooding Scot! I had yet to make Rupert a central character.
