The original Sussex Square had been a royal fortress for William of Normandy, our esteemed ancestor, who ransacked most of England and declared himself king. He had lived here a short while before returning to France and other ransacking endeavors.
Over the centuries, several ancestors had torn down, then rebuilt various parts of Sussex Square, including the wall that surrounded it and the original medieval fortress.
More recently, as centuries went by, the manor that my sister and I had come to had been enlarged with the present Georgian manor that adjoined the medieval fortress with a very long hallway lit only by torches.
I knew it well as I had explored it in one of my early adventures. I had become lost in the old fortress and not found my way back until Aunt Antonia had found me.
“I became quite lost as a child myself,” she explained. “It is a rather daunting pile of stones, particularly the dungeon. Remember to just keep climbing up.”
Of course. So very simple—up.
I found her in the small parlor, the room embellished with tapestries on the wall and a portrait of her father who had one child, a daughter to whom he passed on notable family wealth and eccentricities.
The latter seemed to have missed a generation or two. However, Brodie would undoubtedly have argued the point.
“Good morning, dear,” Aunt Antonia greeted me as well. “Have I forgotten some event? Was there a note? Or did you ring me up?”
I apologized for arriving without prior notice.
“Ah, a matter with some urgency. Is Mr. Brodie with you? I shall have Cook prepare breakfast for him. Men are always about food, or…as I have said, they live their lives between their stomachs and their manly parts. That’s all, nothing more. Except perhaps Brodie.”
She was quite fond of him.
“It is regarding information about someone for one of our inquiry cases.”
“I am always pleased to assist in any way that I can. Do sit down.”
She rose from her chair, royal as any queen, resplendent in satin as she went to the side table and poured a second cup of coffee. She handed it to me as I sat in the chair opposite.
“Now, tell me dear, how may I be of assistance?”
“What can you tell me about Sir Edward Blackwood?”
There was a very long pause, and then she set her cup on the table between our chairs.
“Sir Edward Blackwood, Viscount Lindhurst,” she replied. “A nasty bit of business that was.
“There was a duel, as I remember.” She was thoughtful as she poured what appeared to be a bit of whisky into her coffee. “A man once fought a duel over me. I realize you might find that difficult to believe.”
I did not. There were several portraits of my great-aunt around Sussex Square. She was quite striking as a young woman. And still, I thought.
“Quite romantic for some,” she continued. “However, I thought it was foolishness. He lost an ear in the process—the man who fought a duel over my honor.” She smiled. “Not romantic at all.”
Duels hadn’t been fought for some time. At least not that were written up in the dailies. I was aware that most people considered them to be outdated, a dreadful part of the past, and prohibited in most places with legal consequences.
“What do you remember about it?”
“It seems there were financial difficulties. He had bet heavily in the hope of recouping enough to pay debts…” She paused and then apologized. “I’m sorry dear, no need to dredge up bad memories.”
It was a familiar scenario that had led to my own father’s disgrace and eventual suicide. That was when Aunt Antonia hadstepped in and taken on two young girls when she was well past sixty years of age.
“No need to apologize,” I assured her, then asked her to continue. “What happened?”
“There was a nasty confrontation with one of the gentlemen he owed a substantial amount. The man died and Sir Blackwood fled. The Metropolitan was called into it. As I remember, Brodie was newly made inspector then and pursued the case.”
Brodie? An early case?
“The coffee is quite delightful with a wee dram,” she suggested.
