And for a moment, it did occur to me that if there were a few more hours to our journey, it would be necessary for him to set the latch on the compartment door.
“Ye are a bold one, Mikaela Forsythe.”
It was barely an hour later when I felt the train slow, and the attendant announced at the passageway that we had arrived at Portsmouth. Then that faint jarring motion, and we stood to depart. Brodie paused at the entrance, as he had before, then turned.
He brushed my cheek with the back of his fingers, a gentle touch from a gentle man.
Portsmouth was quite large, spread along the coastal shore of the South Atlantic and the Solent, that large channel that linkedto the Isle of Wight, where the Queen was known to stay, and east with Gosport just beyond.
The streets and roadways were filled with the usual traffic found in a busy seaport city, including those who lived there, trams, wagons laden with barrels, shopkeepers, vendors, along with crews from private merchant ships.
As well as sailors from a half-dozen ships of the line moored at the docks, taking on supplies for destinations, possibly to some of the places I had visited. Their wooden hulls gleamed in the afternoon sun, while riggers made repairs to sails.
The attendant at the station directed us to a line of cabmen and drivers for passengers who disembarked. Brodie found a coachman who made a regular run to Gosport.
“Not many such as yourself or the lady go there,” he added. “Only them who work there.”
Brodie thanked him, and we climbed aboard.
The entire southeastern point from Portsmouth, past the Solent and beyond, was a maze of piers, docks with moored Royal Naval vessels, dry docks with ships under construction, warehouses, and manufacturing buildings with smoke pouring from giant stacks.
We passed carters and wagon drivers, along with short-haul rail lines that carried larger cargoes, as well as vans and wagons with work crews. It was a city unto itself, extending along the coastline, with signage made up of letters and numbers, a sort of street code, that directed drivers and haulers to different areas. And included three large structures that loomed over bays that had been sealed off from the harbor.
“Dry docks,” Brodie commented. “What was that number that Adele wrote in her journal?”
“Gosport, B10,” I replied.
He signaled to the driver.
“Not allowed beyond, sir. This is a restricted area by order of the Royal Navy.”
“We need to learn what B-10 refers to,” Brodie said beyond the hearing of the driver.
“It could tell us wot the men who met at St. John’s Wood were about.”
The question was how to go about it, in an area that was restricted.
I did have a thought on that, not brilliant, and certainly not one that I would usually undertake.
Yet, if we were to learn what importance that number meant, we needed to be creative. It certainly wasn’t the first time, as I thought of that name Aunt Antonia had mentioned.
“Tell the driver that I am the daughter of Admiral Ormsby, and we’re to meet him at B-10.”
“Who the devil is...?”
I smiled. “Trust me.”
After all, what was the worst that could happen? That our driver would refuse?
I listened as Brodie gave him the information. He returned and quickly climbed into the coach.
“And wot if Admiral Ormsby learns of it?” he demanded as the coach set off toward that last covered dock.
“That would be quite remarkable,” I replied. “The man is dead.”
“Bloody hell...”
There was more, muttered in Gaelic. The coach rolled to a stop, and we stepped down.
