Chapter 12

Twelve

It was late of the morning when I wakened. I sat up, a faint headache at the back of my head, as I remembered the evening before.

I rose, dressed then splashed water on my face from the basin. As I reached for the towel there was a vague memory of Brodie from the night before. However, the other side of the bed was undisturbed.

It appeared, as often happened, that he had been up most of the night. No doubt working on the case.

I attempted to put some order to my hair and caught my reflection in the mirror over the wash stand as I tied it back.

"Are ye certain there isna a Scot in yer family somewhere with that red hair and that stubborn nature of yers?" Brodie had once asked.

My family history through my great-aunt went back hundreds of years and innumerable ancestors. It was very possible there was a Scot in there somewhere, considering some of my ancestor's exploits and wanderings about.

It would serve him right of course, if there was.

The headache had subsided somewhat as I stepped out into the outer office.

Brodie was there, the earpiece of the telephone in hand, a frown on his face as I went to the coal stove. He had set the coffee pot to boil earlier and that wonderful aroma beckoned.

" Aye ," he replied to the person on the other end of that call. There was nothing more and he hung up the earpiece somewhat abruptly.

I had gone to the blackboard, coffee mug in hand, and studied the notes I had made as well as the sequence of letters Lily had deciphered along with those numbers on that note that had been intercepted.

"Sir Avery," Brodie commented, the frown still there. "We are to report to him after ye've met with the curator at the museum."

A directive, which brought me back to the question— what were we dealing with? Something important that had everyone scurrying about most seriously. But what? And what was the connection to Dimitri Soropkin?

We knew when something was to happen— December eighteenth. Now, three days away. What was so important about that date?

"There are biscuits and ham that Miss Effie sent over this morning." He indicated the plate with a cloth over it on the desk.

"She seems to think that ye need a bit more flesh on yer bones."

My bones and the rest of me, along with the remnants of that headache, appreciated that very much.

"There were more, however the hound made off with several."

"And you still have all your fingers…" I remarked with some surprise as something tickled in the back of my brain, admittedly somewhat slow this morning.

"A narrow miss," he replied, then, "Wot is it?" he asked.

It was uncanny the way he had of sensing something I was thinking.

"A thought," I shook my head and then dismissed it. "You were out here all night?"

"Aye, going over yer notes," he gestured to the board. "And what ye learned about that message."

"Eighteenth of the month," I commented. "What is it about the eighteenth?"

"That is what we must find out. After we find out what the curator has to tell us about the doctor's notes."

He rose from the desk and rolled down the sleeves of his shirt. The view that I had been appreciating disappeared, hidden once more.

There was a somewhat critical look in my direction as I took a last bite of biscuit and gathered my bag.

"Ye might need some assistance with yer buttons so as not to give the curator the wrong impression when we arrive. And ye might need yer boots as well."

The wrong impression.

In consideration of Sir Reginald, who preferred ancient Egyptian ruins and most certainly was not the same sort as Brodie, I almost burst out laughing.

However, it did appear that I needed some assistance as I looked down. My shirtwaist was somewhat askew.

"Wot am I to do with a woman who canna even dress herself proper of a mornin'," he commented as he crossed the office to where I stood.

His warm fingers brushed my skin as he unbuttoned my shirtwaist then realigned the buttons. I did have my own thoughts in the matter.

"I had not realized all the advantages," I commented as I watched those strong fingers and other thoughts arose.

"Advantages?" he replied as he finished straightening my clothes.

"To having a man about…" I explained.

That dark gaze narrowed as he seized my coat and held it for me.

"Other than the obvious reasons, of course," I added as I slipped through one arm, then the other, and smiled to myself at the softly muttered curse.

"Ye have no shame, woman."

"Very little," I replied. Most particularly, it seemed, when it came to Angus Brodie.

"This is most exciting!" Sir Reginald exclaimed after we arrived at the museum and found him in the Egyptian Hall— I did take a quick visual inventory to make certain that all the pieces on loan to my aunt had in fact been returned and now occupied their appropriate places.

"I spent most of the night going through the notes and the papyrus… magnificent, and such a find!" he went on almost beside himself.

His eyes closed much like someone enjoying a rare feast.

"You were able to make the translation?" I presumed.

"Oh my, yes." He was quite ecstatic. So much so, that I thought he might become apoplectic.

"As I suspected, the papyrus are written in Coptic. What a discovery! This will enhance our understanding of the Egyptian culture. Imagine! Very near three thousand years old!"

"The translation, sir?" Brodie reminded him after I had made introductions.

"Of course. It's just that discoveries like this so far are rare. Actual written text! And to have a manuscript like this… Do come along and I will explain."

We followed him from the hall to his office.

It was much as I expected, having seen other such places in the museum. There were books lining the shelves, papers covering his desk, along with the manuscript I had asked him to translate, and…

Good heavens! A skull.

"This just arrived. I must often be both curator and archeologist."

Obviously, by his adoration of the skull, he preferred the latter.

"The skull was detached from the rest of the skeleton. Most unfortunate. However in proximity and in remarkable good condition in consideration of the amount of time that has passed. It was quite well preserved, except for being detached that is."

There was that, and I thought again of my preference for a Viking send off. Much simpler, and I wouldn't have someone poking about my bones sometime in the future.

"The person whom the skeleton belonged to appears to have been someone of some significance," he went on to explain about the discovery of the skeleton.

"There were ancient symbols etched into the stone covering his sarcophagus discovered at the temple at Edfu. Along with gold jewelry and a fascinating medallion, there were canopic jars that contained his heart and other organs.

I thought again of my preference, no jars for me with the thought that some future Mr. Brimley might have my heart in a container on his shelf.

"It seems that the mummification process, however, was either interrupted or perhaps never took place as the man is as you see him here."

Poor fellow, I thought.

Sir Reginald looked from Brodie to me, obviously expecting us to share his enthusiasm.

"Magnificent," I replied. Then I reminded him, "The papyrus found among Dr. Bennett's notes?"

"Oh, yes. Do forgive me, that is the reason you are here." He gestured to the chairs across from his desk, also covered in books and papers. He quickly gathered the papers, then circled round his desk and sat down. He adjusted his glasses.

"From other artifacts that have been found, it seems that the Egyptians were quite advanced in their medical treatments. With this, I was able to discern some very interesting procedures. See here," he carefully turned over a page of that ancient manuscript.

Brodie shook his head. "Cutting open a man's head to operate on his brain!" he exclaimed with obvious disgust and no small amount of doubt as our coach left the British Museum.

"They were quite advanced in a great many things— plumbing, water systems, astrology," I pointed out.

"There is plumbing in London," he pointed out. "And water systems built by the Romans, ye told me."

"How do you think they knew what to build?" I replied. "The Egyptians were far ahead of the Romans in that regard."

"The brain?" he made a disgusted sound.

It was not the procedures of the brain Sir Reginald had discovered in those ancient texts and then also in the doctor's notes, that caught my attention. And Brodie's as well.

"The complete restoration of a person's face."

"Fascinated with that, were ye?" Brodie commented.

"It seems that Dr. Bennett was as well." I thought of Ethan's injuries and the burns that were now healing.

"How remarkable, the ability to restore someone's features by using their own skin."

"Has anyone ever mentioned that ye have a somewhat odd fascination for such things?"

I had heard that before, present company included. I ignored it.

"You must admit that it seems that Dr. Bennett was able to use those same procedures to help Ethan," I pointed out as we reached Mayfair.

I wanted to change into something more appropriate for our meeting with Sir Avery.

"I believe that Mr. Brimley would call it an experiment," Brodie pointed out as we arrived and went to the front entrance where we were greeted by Mrs. Ryan and a most incredible aroma of food.

"However, as I have learned, inventions, procedures, everything begins with someone's experiment at some point in time."

"Ye have a peculiar nature, Mikaela. Most women would be taken with a new gown, a bit of furniture for the home, or a bouquet of flowers. However, ye are fascinated with surgeries of the brain and tissues."

"The doctor's notes referred to ‘grafting' the skin at the site of the injuries," I corrected him as he moved in the direction of the dining room and kitchen.

"That is a remarkable aroma, Mrs. Ryan," he commented.

I headed for the stairs and my room to change.

"Making a statement, are ye, fer our meeting with Sir Avery?" Brodie commented as I returned.

I had chosen my gown with that in mind. Sir Avery did have a tendency of putting me in my place from time to time, as it were, or completely disregarding the points I had made in the past regarding a specific inquiry.

Brodie had intervened at the time, however, I had not forgotten those encounters. In addition he had sent Brodie off to Edinburgh with very little assistance that could have had disastrous consequences.

The Agency was important in the often delicate and frequently dangerous inquiries they made on behalf of the Crown. A somewhat murky organization to be certain.

I did, however, like Alex Sinclair very much, and trusted him. And it was obvious that Brodie was at least willing to use the Agency in matters that had proven difficult or almost impossible.

Case in point, that cryptic message that was intercepted and seemed very much connected to the death of Dr. Joseph Bennett.

"According to Templeton the color one wears conveys certain messages to anyone they encounter," I explained as the smell of Mrs. Ryan's roast chicken beckoned.

It had, after all, been some time since those biscuits and ham…

"And the source of her information?" Brodie asked as he pulled my chair out for me, then took the one at the opposite side of the table.

"She had it on good authority," I replied as Mrs. Ryan appeared with said chicken and set it on the table.

There were advantages to having her at the townhouse and I told her so.

"Someone has to prepare the food," this with a baleful look in my direction. "And with the two of you now, it makes it a pleasure. The saints know that you might starve with the lack of skill in the kitchen."

Brodie thanked her for her efforts and the fine meal as she returned to the kitchen.

"Good authority?" Brodie commented as he cut off a portion of the chicken for my plate then his.

I did hesitate on that, knowing what his reaction would be.

"A dead poet, perhaps?" he added.

William Shakespeare to be precise, whom Templeton claimed communicated with her on a regular basis, and with somewhat surprising accuracy in the past. It did make one consider the possibility.

"Playwright, not a poet," I clarified.

"And ye believe such things?"

"I believe in the possibility of such things," I replied.

The chicken was most delicious, quite different from my last efforts when I had abandoned undertaking such things in the future.

"It is not impossible," I continued. "According to Templeton, the afterlife is not at all what we have been led to believe."

"The man… spirit, whatever she thinks she hears… had some thoughts on that as well?"

I knew when I was being indulged, something along the line of— "let her get it out, she'll be all right in a few moments . "

"Supposedly the soul returns into a new life, oftentimes somewhat similar to the previous one."

"Returns? From where?"

"From the spirit world," I gestured about, as if there was something stirring in the air about us.

"There are those who believe that is where the memory of things quite unexpected comes from, and other aspects."

"What other aspects?"

I did hesitate with this one, knowing him quite well with his somewhat cynical way of looking at things. However, there was always hope for enlightenment— with those experiments and surgical procedures that he had scoffed at in mind.

"There is every possibility that two souls may be destined to find one another."

"Such as Templeton finding Mr. Shakespeare? Munro should find that theory of yours most interesting."

There was a hint of amusement in reference to Templeton's past relationship with Munro. Actually, more than a hint. He was enjoying the conversation.

I didn't respond, but let him think on that, trusting that insightful intellect of his that I found so fascinating. For a man.

There it was, I thought, as his fork stopped midair and that dark gaze met mine.

"Ye're not suggesting… that you and I have met before in another life?"

"That could be most interesting," I suggested. "That fate or whatever you want to call it, crossed our paths once more."

He lowered his fork. "And wot might the circumstances of that previous life be?"

I had finished the meal and rose from the table. "According to Templeton, she might very well have been a man in that previous life and Munro…" I left the obvious unspoken.

"It's never quite certain how it will happen, you see. According to her sources …"

"And the color of yer gown?" Brodie asked as a coach arrived to take us to the Agency offices at the Tower of London for our scheduled meeting with Sir Avery.

"Purple? Although it is most becoming to ye."

He held my jacket then handed me my bag that contained notes I'd made during our meeting with Sir Reginald at the museum.

"Wot does it stand for according to Miss Templeton?"

We departed with my notes and a new urgency with the information we had learned, put off until the afternoon when Sir Avery apparently had time to meet with us.

"Power," I replied as Brodie gave the driver our destination.