He was unscrupulous and untrustworthy for the most part, interested only in furthering his status and career, along with the ambition of one day writing his own novel about his time in the newspaper business.
He was not particularly liked by those in Parliament or the Royal family, with articles that exposed secrets and scandals.
The Prince of Wales had once described him as ‘a pox upon decent people’ after a particularly scathing article about the Prince’s ‘private activities,’ that had included my good friend Templeton.
“Marvelous,” she had declared at the time. “That article will undoubtedly bring more patrons to the theatre.”
As for my own experience with the man, he had been scathingly condescending of my Emma Fortescue novels, which he described as ‘drivel for frustrated women,’ as well as my inquiries in the cases Brodie and I pursued. I had particular thoughts about the man.
Brodie had reminded me, somewhat amused, that such action was referred to as ‘murder,’and would no doubt see me thrown into prison. I had informed him that I might very well be awarded a medal by the Prince of Wales for it.
And here I was now, staring suspiciously at an envelope that he had obviously sent, as I sat at my desk with the hound sprawled at my feet as he devoured the remnants of that earlierbreakfast that Mr. Cavendish had brought over from the Public House.
I was tempted to simply toss the letter into the rubbish bin beside Brodie’s desk after other notes Burke had sent in the past:
“How are your inquiries progressing regarding Lady Ainsworth and her affair with that young military officer her daughter is betrothed to?”
And another:
“What of the missing bank funds after the disappearance of the bank president? New material for your next novel?”
What new insult was contained in Burke’s latest note?
I stared at the envelope for the longest time. I should throw it away as I had the others—however, there was that saying about curiosity and the cat.
I seized the envelope, opened it, and pulled out the note.
“I have a proposition for you, Emma Fortescue. Meet me at the Old Bell this evening. And do not be late.”
There was also a time noted. Arrogant, miserable... As if his time were so very valuable. I stared at the note.
Most curiously, he had used my pen name for my novels. Was it merely nothing more than one of his insults in his search for information for an article he was writing regarding a recent inquiry case?
I paced the office. That note was much like a banner being waved before a bull in the arena I had seen on my travels through Spain. I vividly remembered how that had ended, thoroughly disgusted by the ‘sporting event,’ as it was called.
I glanced at it once more. A ruse, no doubt, to further his own ambitions. Still, the way he had worded it...
The Old Bell tavern was on Fleet Street, very near the Times offices. It was a favorite of Burke’s, where he could be seen indulging in the adulation of those of his profession. Over pints of ale, amid stories he told of his own adventures reporting the daily news.
It was very near the time Burke had said to meet him at the Old Bell.
I gathered my travel bag, tucked the note into it, and locked the office door behind me. On the street below, I had Mr. Cavendish wave down a cab.
“What shall I tell Mr. Brodie?” he inquired.
What indeed? After previous incidents, he would no doubt find it interesting that I had gone to meet Burke. And equally, would not approve, particularly because I had done so alone, and at that time in the evening.
“A quick errand,” I replied. No doubt I would return shortly, very likely before Brodie.
The hound waited expectantly as the driver arrived, and I opened the door of the coach.
“Not this time,” I told him with a hand to prevent him jumping inside.
Although it was quite tempting to take him along. He had a particular dislike for Burke. However, I was most curious what the‘proposition’ he had mentioned in the note might be, and the hound rarely hesitated when he disliked someone.
Rupert sat on the sidewalk with what could only be interpreted as a grumpy expression at being left behind as I gave the driver the destination of the Old Bell on Fleet Street.
It was not far, however the street in front of the tavern was quite congested.
