She had shown it to us, a delicate rose made of nickel plate. The detail was remarkable. He was obviously highly skilled.
“Would you care to leave a message?” she inquired. “I will see that he gets it.”
Brodie replied with the excuse that he would call on Mr. Jardine at the tailor’s shop.
“We might search his flat,” I commented as we returned to the coach. “There might be something there that could explain the reason he left from the shop.”
He glanced back at the building.
“But the woman would be at our heels the entire time, then callin’ the police. We can return later.”
I caught a glimpse of the woman we had spoken to at a window, the drape hastily dropped back into place.
It was late afternoon as we returned to the office on the Strand.
Mr. Jardine had not returned to the shop at Savile Row, Mr. Soames informed in a conversation by telephone.
He insisted that it was not like the man, who previously worked seven days a week when necessary to meet the schedule for a client who was expecting a special order. Punctual, loyal, a dedicated craftsman, it seemed. Who had apparently disappeared.
Two drams of whisky that had dulled the pain earlier had long since worn off, and Brodie shifted uncomfortably in the chair at his desk.
I made a couple of suggestions that might ease the pain, including the laudanum Mr. Brimley had provided. He shook his head.
“A dram of yer great aunt’s whisky will do.”
Spoken like a Scot. I poured a glass, then went down to the landing at the street and asked Mr. Cavendish to bring supper from the Public House. He inquired about Brodie’s injuries.
“He’s not one to take to bein’ laid up.”
“No, he is not,” I replied.
I returned to the office as he set off across the Strand. The man in question had poured himself another dram of my great aunt’s whisky and sat in his chair at the desk, his head against the chair back, eyes closed.
The pain was there, although dulled, no doubt somewhat from that first drink. He had not touched the laudanum that sat exactly where Mr. Brimley had left it before he departed earlier.
Bloody stubborn Scot, I thought. Though not without sympathy. While I had never broken any ribs, I had taken more than one tumble from one of my great aunt’s horses that she raced at Ascot years before.
There is that moment when one has been unseated unceremoniously, dropped to the ground, and cannot catch one’s breath. That particular incident had played itself over on one of my travels, though I had become somewhat more accomplished in my horsemanship skills by then.
I had discovered on a trek across the Sahara, however, that desert sand is no more forgiving than the track at Ascot. I had recovered from both, but not without substantial bruises.
The pain in both instances was gone in a matter of days, but not without the occasional reminder that I had been quitefoolish. Not that it stopped me. In the years since, I had become quite accomplished at riding a horse. But the memory was still there.
Brodie’s encounter was hardly a tumble from the back of a horse. He had suffered substantial injury with cracked ribs and the constant reminder of them with every move he made. It was there in the lines around his eyes and about his mouth.
“Not a word when I ask ye for another dram,” he said now, without so much as cracking open an eye.
“Not a word,” I replied as I bent over and gently kissed him.
“I prefer that to laudanum,” he replied, still without opening an eye. “Perhaps even yer great aunt’s whisky.”
“I will remind you of that later.”
He eventually stirred when Mr. Cavendish arrived, by way of the lift, with supper from the Public House.
“You might try ice for the pain,” he suggested after taking a look at Brodie.
“Ye speak from experience?” Brodie inquired as I set our supper out on his desk.
