I suppose I should have been warned at that first meeting by my own cautions when we met.
He was quite handsome, though informal with appearance—I remembered it well. With a workman’s shirt open at the collar, his sleeves rolled back, cotton-spun trousers, and boots sorely in need of a polish, along with overlong hair that curled over his collar. All of it what a common worker might wear.
There was that dark gaze that fastened on me as I entered his office, his expression what could only be called…impatience. As if I had disturbed him at some important matter. And a bloody Scot of all things…
Oh, there was most definitely that other recommendation my great-aunt made.
That had come somewhat later. Friendship and then…a man I could trust who made my toes curl.
Together, somewhat reluctantly on his part, we had solved that first inquiry case. My sister was found safe. However, dear, sweet Mary was lost, brutally murdered.
I looked up at Mrs. Ryan who stood beside the table as she retrieved my plate with the now cold roast chicken she had labored over and an expression of disapproval on her face.
“I suppose I shall have to feed it to that flea-ridden beast,” she announced, her Irish accent always somewhat stronger when she was in a temper.
“You do know that I adore you,” I replied.
She made a sound that might mean anything. “And the supper was marvelous,” I complimented her. “Mr. Brodie will be disappointed that he wasn’t here to share it.
“You might put it in the icebox,” I suggested. “With a portion for Rupert, of course.”
Another sound. “A portion for the beast.” She shook her head, much as a mother would have.
“Will you be taking coffee at your desk in the front parlor?” she asked.
It did seem that I had perhaps been forgiven. I smiled.
“Yes, please.”
The fire in the fireplace was warm; the coffee was perfect with that hint of cinnamon that Mrs. Ryan insisted was good for me. And then there was a dram of Old Lodge, my great-aunt’s whisky distilled in the Highlands, to smooth the edges of my nerves over the message I had given to Mr. Cavendish.
Was he able to find Brown’s man who would get the message to Brodie?
Had he received it?
What of Blackwood?
Where was he now?
Was Brodie the next target?
I poured another dram of whisky and went to my writing desk.
I worked through the evening, adding notes to my notebook, then read back through the last chapter of my current Emma novel.
It was a thinly disguised account of an inquiry case I was involved in.
I smiled at the description of the rather handsome, strong-willed man who was now part of her adventures in murder. The last two novels had met with great success.
It did seem as if the ladies of London had a particular fondness for‘murder most foul,’ according to Sir William. Shakespeare, that is.
My good friend Templeton, who claimed to be connected to the spirit of Sir William, would be highly amused. She was presently on tour with her theater group. I did miss our often-bizarre conversations.
Mrs. Ryan had bid me goodnight some time earlier, not without a parting comment about supper.
“Shall I prepare supper tomorrow for one, miss?”
I hoped not. I did hope that Brodie would return, the business of Blackwood resolved. However…
