Prologue
#204 ON THE STRAND, LONDON
I stepped downfrom the coach, Aunt Antonia’s driver having delivered me back to the office after our latest afternoon adventure viewing a potential residence after the loss of the townhouse to fire some months earlier.
I sayadventure, as these forays about London had begun to resemble some of my more interesting adventures during my travels.
There was Covington House some weeks earlier, a monument to the late Lord Arthur Covington, with his penchant for collecting Middle Eastern artifacts from his own travels before his untimely death at the age of ninety-four.
There had been a very interesting sword that had once belonged to Genghis Khan, according to the estate manager. Lily, who shared my appreciation for swords, would have loved it.
However, she was presently in Edinburgh after receiving a rather ominous letter from an old acquaintance of her former life before I brought her to London after a previous inquiry case.
While I had not approved of her taking herself off, Brodie had reminded me that she was of an age where she could makedecisions for herself. And she was now in the company of his friend Munro, who had appointed himself guardian.
That was some consolation, as she could be quite impetuous and headstrong, and while she might be of an age at almost twenty years, a young woman on her own...
Brodie had also reminded me that I had also taken myself off on my travel adventures at an early age. The shoe very much now on the other foot.
I had also visited the former residence of Sir William McMannis, a once highly regarded merchant with international trade connections.
There was a bit of a scandal several years before when it was rumored his company encountered some financial difficulties discovered by his associate, who disappeared and was eventually found buried in the gardens of McMannis Manor.
Sir William was arrested when evidence was discovered about his involvement, eventually sent to trial, and was presently serving time in prison.
Brodie had accompanied me on that inspection of McMannis Manor and commented afterward regarding other bodies that might be buried there. I had declined further interest in the residence.
He refused to accompany me further in our search for a residence after pointing out that he could live anywhere. Case in point, the small flat that adjoined the office on the Strand.
There also remained my great aunt’s invitation that we might take up residence with her at Sussex Square. I suspected Brodie would not be in favor of that.
He was fond of Aunt Antonia. They had quite a lot in common. There was a smuggler or two in the family, along with a highwayman who was quite notorious. Brodie had his own past exploits surviving on the streets of Edinburgh before arriving in London with Munro. Still...
I thanked her as her driver, Mr. Hastings, guided the coach onto the street. I was rapidly coming to the conclusion that we might be making the office our permanent residence.
Mr. Cavendish, who had become a trusted associate, wheeled out from the adjacent tobacco shop on his platform, Rupert the hound trotting along behind. The owner of the shop often had a cookie or biscuit for the hound, a reward for guarding the shop at night, as well as the office.
“Afternoon, Miss,” Mr. Cavendish greeted me.
“Mr. Brodie has not returned?” I inquired as I knelt on the sidewalk and scratched the hound’s ears.
Brodie had departed quite early, informing me that he had an appointment after learning that Aunt Antonia had another residence we might want to see today. At the time, I had my suspicions about that sudden ‘appointment.’
“Not as yet. That appointment did seem important. He said it would take some time.”
“Yes, of course.”
“There was a lad, one of those newspaper runners, wot brought round a message for you earlier. I put it in the letterbox for you, up at the office.”
I thanked him and entered the lift, Rupert at my side. He was an excellent protection dog; however, I was not fooled that he was protecting me now from some unseen menace.
The hound was an excellent forager and no doubt was hoping for one of the biscuits left from breakfast earlier. Upon reaching the second-floor landing, I retrieved the envelope from the letterbox.
The envelope was plain, with my name in a hasty scrawl that was familiar. It appeared to have been sent by Theodolphus Burke, reporter for the Times newspaper.
He had acquired a reputation for the daily articles that appeared in the scandal sheet that had exposed some of the most sensational gossip and criminal activities across the city.
We had crossed paths in the past when I had inquired about information from the newspaper archives and previous articles he had written, while making inquiries for a client. He had taken to attempting to pry information from me as well. Not that I trusted him.
