“Do you want me to send for Mr. Brimley?”
The chemist and good friend had some experience previously attending various wounds, including my own. He had studied medicine at King’s College and then set up his shop in one of the poorest parts of London, attending to those who needed care.
“Ye dinna need to contact him. It’s but a scratch. Wot I do want is a good drink to help dull the pain.”
“Mr. Brimley has cautioned about drinking when recovering from a wound,” I reminded him. His response was quite colorful.
Since becoming part in our inquiry cases and our more personal relationship, I have learned to pick my battles.
“Do ye want me to pour it myself?” he commented, somewhat more civil.
I tossed the cloth into the bowl, went to the side table, and poured a small amount. I returned and handed it to him, then retrieved the cloth from the bowl of water.
“Should I prepare myself for a visit from the police with a body lying somewhere about London?” I inquired.
The cut had stopped bleeding somewhere along his travels back to the office. I wiped dried blood from his cheek surrounding the cut and then in his beard.
“This is going to be quite colorful.” I announced.
When there was no wry comment, I looked up. He was staring past me to the chalkboard.
“Ye made more notes.”
That dark gaze narrowed. “Southwark?”
He cursed again, this time in Gaelic. It was far more impressive than English, with that sound that needed no translation.
“Have ye lost the common sense God gave ye, woman? A man has been murdered, and ye take it upon yerself to go therealone?”
That little voice inside my head cautioned that he was obviously exhausted, wounded.
I calmly set the bowl and towel aside, as it did seem that he was not in imminent danger of expiring from the wound.
“I learned there is a woman in Southwark who may very well be Adele DeMille, after I found information at Burke’s office,” I explained. “It was on a laundry receipt dated just two days ago.”
That dark gaze pinned me.
“Ye took it upon yerself to go there, without tellin’ me first and waitin’ so that I could go with ye?”
“Mr. Jarvis was not familiar with the area. It seemed that the time was better spent going to Sussex Square,” I calmly explained. “I did want to speak with Aunt Antonia about that gold button.” I didn’t point out that if he had read all the notes, he would have noticed that particular one.
Brodie tossed back the last of the whisky.
“Wot about the button?”
“Buttons such as the one we found in St. John’s Wood are usually requested by those who can afford them, including those in the military.” I frowned as he held out his glass for another dram.
I poured and explained further. “Buttons of that quality are quite expensive and almost always have some emblem on the front, usually the family crest. It’s a sign of...”
“Wealth and authority,” he added.
“There was something else she explained that we had not noticed,” I continued. “Such buttons are individually made to exact measurements and quality, not like wood or bone buttons.”
Brodie took a sip, winced as he shifted in his chair, then took another longer drink. He was obviously in a great deal of pain that appeared to have nothing to do with the cut below his left eye.
“Go on.”
I watched his expression and the way he held himself as I continued.
