I had been temptedto stay over the night at Sussex Square as it grew later.
However, there was information to add to my notes on the chalkboard. Admittedly, that could have waited until the following morning, however I hoped there might be some word at the office from Lily in Edinburgh.
Aunt Antonia’s driver, Mr. Hastings, delivered me back to the office.
There was no telegram, no letter telling me when she might return, Mr. Cavendish informed me when I arrived.
“She’s safe enough with Mr. Munro, miss. Not to worry.”
Of course. And then there was Brodie. I had hoped that he might have returned with some word about what he had learned that day. Mr. Cavendish’s response was the same in that regard.
“Not as yet, miss. You know how it is when he takes to the streets.”
He had then added. “He wouldn’t much care for you returning here alone for the night, so best take the hound up to the office with you.”
So here I was, notes completed, a glass tumbler with a wee dram of Old Lodge whisky, and Rupert appearing as if he might have died on the rug before the coal stove, except for an occasional twitch and one eye that opened briefly as I moved about the office and added those notes from what I had learned.
I then went to my desk and stared at my typewriting machine, with a blank sheet of paper staring back at me as rain began. I inserted the paper, rolled it into place and began to type:
‘It was a dark and storming night as Emma Fortestcue returned alone to the flat she now shared with police Inspector McKenzie.
He had taken to the streets once more, familiar places after a troubled youth with things best left in the past, he told her when she had asked about them’
Well past midnight, there was a stirring at the door.
Startled, she looked up as...’
Bloody hell!I thought, as Rupert was suddenly on his feet, charging toward the door, hair raised on his back as he let out that baying sound that only meant one thing. I retrieved the revolver from my bag and slowly approached as he continued to sound the alarm, placing himself between the door and me.
There was more stirring at the door, the lock turned, and the door slowly opened.
“Oh, bloody hell!” An understatement as I took in the man who leaned against the door opening, dried blood above his beard on his left cheek, holding himself with one arm wrapped about him as if he might break.
“I’d probably feel better if ye shot me,” he said with a glance at the revolver in my hand. A bit of wry Scots humor that, I thought, as I laid the revolver aside, then returned and slipped an arm about him.
“Easy, lass.”
It did seem pointless to ask if he was injured. He winced as he leaned heavily against me.
“And the other man?” I inquired at the sight of the dried stain on his coat sleeve as we slowly made our way across the office and he eased down into the chair at his desk.
“Yer concern is touching,” he replied.
I ignored the sarcasm as I went into the adjacent room and filled a basin of water and returned with a towel.
That dark gaze narrowed, his cheek below bloodied, from a cut.
“I’d much prefer a shot of whisky.”
“Of course,” I replied, forcing back the alarm at the sight of him as I reminded myself that he was very much alive, sharp comments and all.
“Do ye know wot ye are doing?”
“For the most part,” I replied. “Rupert survived his injuries some months ago without further harm.”
“A bloody hound?” he replied, obviously in a great deal of pain that seemed far more than the bruise and cut on his face.
The ‘bloody hound’ sat nearby, the hair on his back still standing on end as he eyed Brodie suspiciously, as if attempting to decide whether or not he should attack.
