“You are not very good at it, you know.”
“What is that?”
“Telling lies.”
He winced as if he had been struck. “My dear wife has said the same. Still, I know Mr. Brodie. He is like a cat with nine lives, as the saying goes, also according to my Maeve.”
Nine lives. I did wonder how many of those he had already used. And now, he faced a man who was dying and nothing more to lose, out for revenge?
Mr. Cavendish was there as Mr. Dooley’s coach departed. He looked up at me from his platform as I didn’t immediately go to the stairs.
I took out my notebook and pen.
“I need to send word to Mr. Brodie. It’s important,” I explained as I opened my notebook, and there in the shelter of the alcove, penned a brief note about what Mr. Dooley and I had learned.
A man desperate for morphine to dull the pain, and without resources, might not be difficult to find with assistance from someone like Mr. Brown, who was known to have certain ‘enterprises’ in such things.
The note was brief. I signed it with,‘Please be careful. M.B.’and handed it to Mr. Cavendish.
He nodded. “I’ll get it to the man who will get it to Mr. Brown. Not to worry, Miss Mikaela.”
He tucked the note into his jacket.
I watched as he set off in the rain, a wake of icy water following him as he expertly traversed the Strand in spite of the flooded thoroughfare.
He was the second person in as many hours to remind me of that. Not that I was worried for Brodie.
He knew the streets and a good many people in them. I was confident that he would find Sir Blackwood, or perhaps his body.
It was undoubtedly a sin to hope for that, for those who believed in such things. I never had. As I climbed the stairs to the office, I preferred to believe in the lives of a cat.
I apologized to Rupert for that as I opened the door and stepped into the office.
It was cold inside, the fire in the stove having burned low after I left. But I had experienced that before.
The light from the electric cast shadows at the edge of the room. I had also experienced that several times before.
It was no different now, and yet it was because he wasn’t there.
Bloody hell, I silently swore.
When had everything changed? Quite some time ago, that inner voice whispered, on the island off the coast of Greece when a dark-eyed man had refused to give in to my curses, threats, and excuses. A man who was there whether I wanted it or not…until I did. And a bloody Scot for all that.
There was nothing more to be accomplished here tonight. I could add what I’d learned today to my notes, yet I could do that at the townhouse. And my latest publishing endeavor was there, half finished, in the typewriter on my desk.
Mrs. Ryan would be there…
I wrote a note for Brodie, telling him that I was returning to Mayfair for the night, then looked down at a sound the hound made as he lay patiently at my feet, large eyes fixed on me, waiting.
“You are quite fond of Mrs. Ryan’s suppers,” I commented.
He immediately rose to his feet, head cocked, tail wagging.
“I thought as much,” I replied to his obvious enthusiasm. I could almost see Brodie roll his eyes as I talked to Rupert.
“You will need to be particularly nice to Mrs. Ryan and mind your manners.”
He was already waiting at the door as I laid the note on Brodie’s desk where he would easily find it.
