Of course.
Nine
15 APRIL, THREE DAYS UNTIL...
What wasto happen on 18 April?
And what was important about Portsmouth? More particularly Gosport, which was very nearby?
Some sort of shipment, possibly illegal contraband?
That hardly seemed likely, as it was in the heart of the Royal Naval shipyards. It would surely take some level of insanity for someone to attempt that right under the noses of the Royal Navy.
“What is important about Portsmouth?” I asked over breakfast that Mr. Cavendish had brought for us in a carton from the Public House.
I’d had a restless night after Mr. Conner departed the previous evening with Adele DeMille to escort her to Mr. Brown’s pub, where she would be safe. Her smile in parting had struggled as she thanked me.
“You will always be my very good friend.”
Mr. Conner had returned hours later, to assure us that they had arrived without incident. Adele was provided a room above the pub, where he informed us he had remained for a while andhad sampled the finest whisky. A surprise, he announced, that Mr. Brown would have a drink of such high quality!
I had looked at Brodie after Mr. Conner left for his own flat to get some sleep.
“Very fine whisky?”
“It might have been something that Munro arranged?” he had replied.
And now?
I had not added notes to the board regarding what we had learned more recently, nor about my encounter with Adele and her subsequent, most recent ‘disappearance.’
While the office was far more secure than most places, and with Mr. Cavendish’s presence on the street below, there had still been occasions when others found their way in.
With Steiner still out there somewhere, along with what we had learned from Adele, Brodie suggested that we keep what we now knew to ourselves, with nothing written down that others might want to know.
“The question now is, what is at Portsmouth that is worth killing for?” he said from where he sat at his desk, chin propped on his hand, dark brows drawn together as he looked at me.
We often had the same thoughts.
Waterloo Rail Station was the nearest that connected direct to Portsmouth.
I had quickly dressed, and we left the office, Mr. Jarvis delivering us across the river in time for the next departure.
It was a journey of between two and three hours, far more expedient than a packet or steamer to the Solent, and then a transfer for a brief rail trip, or coach to Portsmouth, and then Gosport nearby.
Before departing the office on the Strand, I had placed a telephone call to my great aunt—my daily call for any word from Lily.
There was none, but she had informed me that she had taken more photographs with her new folding camera, and was it possible that Mr. Brimley might be able to process the film?
In that conversation I had also inquired whom she was acquainted with in the Royal Navy who might be at Portsmouth.
“Your new case, dear? Portsmouth? That might possibly be Admiral Reginald Ormsby...” She had then corrected herself. “Possibly not. He’s been dead for over twenty years. The time does seem to fly past.” She had given the matter further thought.
“Sir Thomas Mountbatten might be able to assist, if he’s not off to India.”
Yes, well...I thanked her.
“You must give my camera a go,” she said in parting. “It could be useful when you and Brodie are off on one of your adventures.”
