I suspected it was simply his way of avoiding lengthy reports. Better at it, indeed.
What did you expect?That little voice inside my head whispered.It’s the way of the man. You have certainly known others who were long on words and lacking in all other ways.
Most certainly, I thought, as I straightened the office, then went to the chalkboard and made my final notes regarding the resolution of the Ambersley case.
I then decided to spend the next couple of hours on my next Emma novel.
I had created a character who was most fond of adventures and had taken herself off on several of them, until her path had crossed that of a mysterious dark haired, dark-eyed man who provided private inquiry services in a series of very dangerous cases.
There had been eight Emma Fortescue novels to date, regarded by the newspapers as somewhat less than literary classics in their pithy comments when the books were mentioned at all. Yet Emma’s adventures were adored by a readership across London that included not only women but men as well.
There had been a somewhat fascinating conversation with Brodie when he learned there was an obvious resemblance to our work, not to mention our relationship.
“Ye canna write about anyone in the royal family,” he had reminded me at the time. “Or ye might find yerself bundled off to Newgate prison for revealing important information.”
Of course, dear.
I understood perfectly well, and in conversation with my publisher over the matter, had simply changed the names and a few of the details in the ‘adventures’that Emma Fortescue found herself in. Not to mention her working partnership with a particular individual who happened to be a Scot.
The books were reviewed, including a warning that they might not be appropriate for proper ladies and young women to read. The critic’s objection: The somewhat colorful details of inquiry cases and a growing relationship between Emme Fortescue and the mysterious man she had thrown in with to solve the murder of a man she had once known.
Scandal books, they were called by those who wrote for the dailies, specifically Theodolphus Burke, writer for the Times. And in spite of the not-subtle warning that they were not suitable for respectable ladies and young women, the sales of that first book, and the other ones that followed, had been quite incredible.
My publisher and also my brother-in-law, was ecstatic with the success of the Emma Books as he called them.
It did seem as if the women and ladies of London and beyond were not of the same opinion as the newspaper writers and critics. And more recently, there was an inquiry from a New York publisher to publish them there.
I inserted a piece of paper into the typing machine, then turned and studied my notes for the Ambersley case on the chalkboard.
The names would have to be changed, of course, along with a few of the details. With a flash of inspiration, I typed the first paragraph of my new book:
‘The little dog fit nicely into Lady Montcrief’s handbag, nipping at anyone who came near.
The hound, stalwart veteran of countless encounters with wild beasts and fowl, regarded the creature like its next meal.
Emma Fortescue would need to keep a watchful eye on the hound.
He did have a habit of doing-in bothersome pests. Not precisely murder, yet offensive to some persons, particularly those with small,irritating pets that resembled hairy rats.’
It would need some editing, I thought. Those who carried their pets around in handbags would undoubtedly take offense.
Still, my publisher had received several letters hailing the previous adventures of the stalwart hound who had participated in our inquiry cases.
“It does seem as if you have acquired an audience,” I mentioned to said hound, who lay on the floor beside my desk.
I admit that the look he gave me then bore a resemblance to another look I often received from Brodie when extolling the hound’s virtues.
‘Scepticism’ was not quite right. It was more a look as if I had taken complete leave of my senses.
“Next, ye’ll be tellin’ me that he understands everythin’ ye say.”
I simply smiled at that
It was very near midday when the hound rose from the floor beside my desk, stretched, then went to the office door. An obvious sign that his morning nap was concluded.
I followed him down the stairs with the thought that Brodie might have returned, only to discover that Mr. Cavendish had arrived quite late—unusual for him, or possibly delayed by some errand.
“Good day, miss,” he greeted me as the hound charged across the thoroughfare with particular enthusiasm that could only mean food was involved.
