Chapter 7

Seven

After meeting with Dr. Pennington, I did have more questions for Mrs. Bennett. It did seem that there were things she might have overlooked or had chosen not to mention regarding Dr. Bennett's work. There might be nothing at all or it might provide something important.

I had then returned to the office on the Strand after enlisting the somewhat reluctant assistance of Munro the previous afternoon. Once again, there was no sign of Brodie. Not that I was concerned, or the sort who went on and on about such things…

Mr. Cavendish insisted the hound accompany me to the townhouse upon my leaving. Mrs. Ryan had returned with the hound on her way to Sussex Square the previous day. He had somehow terrorized a neighbor who lived next to the townhouse as the man went to collect the daily. When I learned who it was, a curmudgeonly sort I had encountered on more than one occasion, I thought Rupert should be congratulated.

So there we were, Rupert and myself at the townhouse. I set the fire on the hearth in the front parlor, poured myself a bit of Old Lodge, and then found something for both of us to eat in the cold box in the kitchen. After supper, I had placed a call to Mrs. Bennett and arranged to meet this morning.

It was quite late when I finally retired for the night, Rupert accompanying me upstairs, and I contemplated the situation with Brodie.

Such things did have a way of creeping into one's thoughts when one had a dram or two.

I could only surmise what his work for Sir Avery might be. He had shown a particular displeasure toward the man in the last case that had taken us to Edinburgh, a personal matter that Brodie needed to resolve. And I was aware that it was not the first time there was a difference of opinions in certain matters between the two men.

And there was the other part of it and quite surprising… I missed him. I missed our conversations at the end of the day. I even missed our occasional disagreements over a certain matter. Such things had never bothered me before. And there was that other part of our relationship now.

It did occur to me that with recent events, pathetic as it was, I did lament that the only creature in my bed— or beside it on the floor, was the hound. The smell about him was far different from the scent of cinnamon about Brodie.

Oh, bloody hell.

The hounded sounded off as the bell at the door rang upon the arrival of the driver for my meeting with Mrs. Bennett.

I collected my coat, then gathered my umbrella along with the bag that contained my notebook. I gave the hound a long look.

It was undoubtedly not a good idea to simply leave him at the townhouse with no one about. I could only imagine what I might find upon my return.

The alternative was to simply turn him out. However, there was my neighbor to consider. I have to admit that it was tempting, however I didn't want any harm to come to the hound over the matter.

"Oh very well, do come along," I told him, and made certain that I had several of Mrs. Ryan's biscuits in hand as we departed.

A little persuasion couldn't hurt… That brought my thoughts back round to Brodie. Irritating man.

I sat in the front parlor of the Bennett residence at Belgrave Square, and politely accepted the tea the housekeeper had served.

"Is there any word?" Mrs. Bennett anxiously asked when we were once more alone.

"I'm afraid not," I replied.

She had not heard from him as well nor had he returned. Her previously calm manner was betrayed by the shaking of her hand as she set her own cup back on the saucer with a clatter.

She abruptly rose as if she could not bear to simply sit, and began to pace across the floor, a handkerchief clutched in one hand.

"There have been late evenings with his work, however he has never failed to return home. He is so very dedicated," she went on to explain then wiped at the tears that came.

She was obviously quite distraught and very near the edge. However, after my conversation with Dr. Pennington, I did have additional questions. As I knew all too well from our inquiry cases, very often there were things that a wife might not be fully aware of but might suspect.

"I have learned some things that might be useful, with your help," I continued.

"Yes, of course!" She turned. "Anything that I can do…"

She sat once more at the edge of the chair across from me. I didn't go into perhaps the more obvious reason that Dr. Bennett might not have returned the past three days after a pattern of late nights the past several weeks.

There was the possibility of gambling, which was a pastime for some. God knows my own father had the habit. I mentioned it as delicately as possible, even though I was well aware that one's wife was often the last to know of such things.

She shook her head. "I manage our household expenses. My brother is head clerk at the bank. If there were any…" she chose her words carefully, "irregularities, I would know of it."

The next question was far more delicate, however it needed to be asked. I chose my words carefully.

"Has there ever been any estrangement in the past?"

"Estrangement? Are you asking if my husband has ever had a relationship with another woman?" she inquired.

"It is something that is known to happen…"

"No," she replied quite adamantly, then seemed to gather herself once more. "My husband is a brilliant man…" she continued, and I wondered if it was an attempt to convince me or herself. "He has devoted himself completely to his profession. It is everything to him, particularly after the death of his brother some years ago. Do you understand, Miss Forsythe?"

I did understand but didn't go into it— the things that made each of us who we were.

There was another possibility, of course, that the doctor had met with some misfortune.

I explained that I had met with Dr. Pennington and that there seemed to be some dissatisfaction on Dr. Bennett's part regarding the Medical Society and criticism he had received in the past. I noted the way her gaze slipped away from mine, her hands twisting in her lap.

"The Society hasn't always valued his work. There were… letters that he received that upset him greatly."

"What sort of letters?"

"At first they were from colleagues he worked with— two of them. Then another from the chairman of King's College where he attended and has also lectured."

"Do you have those letters?"

She shook her head. "I saw only one. He kept the others to himself, although they bothered him enormously."

"Kept at a private office perhaps?" I suggested.

She shook her head. "Oh, he didn't keep a private office away from the hospital. I do know that he was greatly frustrated by certain… expectations of the Medical Society and at the hospital. He commented more than once that what they supported in many cases was no more than butchery that left people maimed afterward."

I thought of a young officer Brodie and I had met during a previous inquiry case, badly injured in the Sudan. However, he had sufficiently recovered, although he would always carry an obvious limp from the injury.

"Might I see the letter you have?" I asked. There might be something there that could provide better insight.

She rose from the chair and went to a side table that sat before bookshelves on one wall. She opened the drawer and took out an envelope, then handed it to me.

"If it might help," she said.

I pulled the letter from the envelope. It was written on official stationery and was dated very near six months earlier. It was a formal reprimand and stated that if there were further "questionable" actions, an official inquiry would be made.

There was the usual blather about it being regrettable that the letter was necessary given Dr. Bennett's dedication and skill, much in need by those of his profession. And the mention of a particularly difficult case he had taken on with a successful outcome for a prominent member of Parliament.

However, the tone was obvious. It was a warning that other such activities would not be tolerated.

I folded the letter and returned it to the envelope.

"Did Dr. Bennett explain what those other activities might be?" I asked since it seemed possible that it might have something to do with recent events.

"He didn't discuss the specifics of his cases with me," Mrs. Bennett replied. "However I do know that he was frustrated by what he referred to as antiquated practices that often left someone maimed from an injury when additional care might have prevented a patient from losing a limb."

I thought of Mr. Cavendish who maneuvered about incredibly well considering his previous injuries that had resulted in the loss of both legs. However I did wonder what new treatments might now be done for such wounds that would restore the use of the legs or arms.

What more did this tell me about Dr. Bennett?

That he was devoted to his profession, driven by the tragic loss of his brother, perhaps brilliant as his wife insisted, and then frustrated by the restrictions placed on him by others of his profession and the Medical Society?

"Did he perhaps mention a specific case that he was particularly concerned about or had assisted with?" I then asked.

"Anything at all that might provide a clue to what he was working on? Perhaps a recent patient with a difficult injury, a new treatment that might not have been looked favorably upon by others at St. James?"

"There was a case some months ago," she hesitated.

"Please continue."

"A young boy. Joseph is so partial to children. We cannot have children, but he has always been particularly taken with them and anything he might do to help them. The boy was injured quite severely when he was attacked by one of his father's hunting hounds. It was an accident to be certain, the child was teasing the animal and it had lunged at him.

"According to my husband, the boy's face was badly injured, however, it seems that he was able to repair most of the damage."

I wondered what the boy's parents might be able to tell me about the injury and the child's recovery.

"I understand that Dr. Bennett has published a book about some of his cases and his work. Publishing can be such a daunting process. Might I see it?" I inquired.

She looked at me with some surprise and for the first time I caught a faint smile.

"Of course, although I don't know what you hope to find. I tried to read it once and gave up— all the medical terms and that sort of thing that meant nothing to me. I'll get it for you."

She rose and briefly left the parlor. She returned a short time later.

The book was impressive in size with embossed leather binding.

"Might I take it with me?"

There was a look of surprise.

"I suppose there is no harm… if it will help in any way."

She was obviously doubtful in that regard.

"Of course you may take it. I understand that you are published as well."

I didn't go into that, as my efforts were somewhat different than a medical procedural text. I then inquired about the name of the little boy's family.

"I have no idea how that might be useful, but of course." She wrote down the name of the family and handed it to me.

"Do you believe that some accident may have befallen my husband?"

I knew from Brodie that it was often better not to mention possible theories that often only had the effect of causing more distress for families.

"I have some additional inquiries that I want to make," I replied and thanked her for meeting with me, along with the name of the young patient and his family as well as the doctor's book.

What more might I learn?

The hound had disappeared during the time that I met with Mrs. Bennett. He returned abruptly as I left the building at Belgrave Square with something suspicious in his mouth.

I absolutely did not want to examine it any closer to determine what it might be.

"Drop that! Or you are not coming with me." I ordered, with absolutely no idea how much he understood, or cared to for that matter.

However, he did drop the object which I did hope was not some possession of someone at Belgrave Square, or something more personal such as a hand or foot which I thought unlikely at a second glance.

He sat upon the walk as I waited for the cab that Mrs. Bennett had called for me. I ignored more than one curious glance of those who passed by. I had to admit that the hound was hardly the small, fluffy sort that might be carried along in my arms or my bag.

"Is everything all right, miss?" asked a woman who looked to be someone's housekeeper by the bag she carried with wrapped packages that might have been from the grocer.

"Yes, quite." I replied. "He's a companion of my… husband's and occasionally follows along." I thanked her as I contemplated that word that had popped in. Husband.

Hmmm. And that of course, led to the next thought— wife!

Of the different titles I'd had, that seemed the strangest, quite simply because I had never considered it before.

I was niece to my great-aunt. I was sister to Linnie. At one time I had been my parents' daughter. I was an author. I had been described as an adventuress, whatever that was supposed to mean.

And then there was the title I had inherited from our father, Lady Forsythe, which I found to be cumbersome and somewhat off-putting, but there it was. And now… wife! How very strange!

The driver arrived and I climbed inside, the hound leaping in after. He was getting quite good at that, and without the usual warning snarl at the driver which had a way of putting some ill at ease.

I gave the driver the address of the office on the Strand. There was information I wanted to add to the chalkboard.

Sir William Pettigrew was the father of the young boy who had been injured and had then sought the services of Dr. Bennett. I would send round a message and inquire if it was possible to meet.

I also wanted to meet with Munro regarding inquiries he was making among those he knew, and that would give me the opportunity to see how Lily was doing with her lessons, particularly after that somewhat unusual piano recital.

I have learned not to be surprised where my great-aunt is concerned. She had lived long enough that she had seen or experienced most things a woman might in life.

A member of the ton, she had been born to her title of Duchess, however she rarely used it. According to family archives she was a direct descendant of King William— William the Conqueror that is, almost a thousand years earlier.

There was a rather antiquated sword in the sword room that had been documented to have been used by the Conqueror. And in consideration of that man's exploits, some rather colorful to be certain according to history, it did perhaps explain certain traits.

My aunt had never encountered a man, high-born or low for that matter, whom she couldn't persuade to her way of thinking. I had been told recently that I seemed to have inherited that particular quality.

I had spoken with my sister earlier. She had shared a familiar comment.

"You really must do something with her… "

The call had ended abruptly and I could only imagine who she was referring to. In the past, it had been my aunt, referring to her plans to go on safari in Africa which had been set aside due to an ankle injury.

I had my suspicions about that as my sister was in residence at the time following her divorce. However, I would not want to think that she might have gone to such extremes to waylay our aunt from her plans… which had only been temporarily delayed.

Then there was Lily. It was very possible that Linnie was referring to her and some peccadillo she had committed.

I did brace myself for what I might encounter as my coach pulled through the gates of Sussex Square.

I was met at the door by my aunt's head butler.

"Good day, Mr. Symons."

"Lady Forsythe," he acknowledged. "Or should I say Madame Brodie?"

Madame?

I shuddered at that. It did sound quite ancient. And as for the other part of it? I was still adjusting to that.

"Mr. Symons, you have known me since I was in nappies, and then after Miss Lenore and I came to live here. You have certainly witnessed some of my more colorful adventures as well as a few of my transgressions."

"Quite so," he replied in that very proper way of a head butler.

"Including that rather unforgivable incident when I appropriated the pot of glue from the coach barn and glued your trousers to the kitchen chair when you sat for evening meal," I reminded him.

"A memorable encounter, miss."

"An encounter that required your trousers to be cut away from the chair, and then a new pair of trousers." I recalled.

"Which her ladyship was most considerate of, and most generous," he replied. "Although she did suggest that I inspect any chair before sitting in it from that day forward, miss."

"Exactly," I told him. "Therefore in recognition of my past transgressions, you should continue to call me Miss Mikaela, and not Madame. It reminds me of Madame Lucretia Vandervere." I leaned in close.

"Between you and me, a dreadful woman." I could have sworn there was a sudden quirk of a smile, that was quickly gone, considering his position.

"I quite understand, miss. You will find the ladies in the small salon. I believe her ladyship called it a spa treatment, although I have no idea what that might mean. I do believe that it includes vegetables."

Spa treatment? Oh, dear.

Along with my sister's comment in that earlier telephone conversation, I nodded and proceeded toward the small salon that adjoined the garden room that had been transformed into the replica of a jungle during my aunt's safari planning.

I was grateful that the monkey had found its way back to the zoo after being on loan to my aunt. However, it most certainly would have provided entertainment for Lily. Not that my aunt's household had ever been lacking in that regard.

There was always something exciting or at least interesting. I suppose it accounted for our childhood that had been regarded somewhat unusual.

It wasn't everyone who had the adventures of running loose about the highlands of Scotland or exploring ancient places. According to one of my great-aunt's friends, it undoubtedly accounted for my wild and unpredictable nature, whatever that might mean. But there you are.

In retrospect, I was grateful that my adventures hadn't been limited to museums and art galleries and wouldn't have changed a thing.

I now stopped at the entrance to the small salon and stared at the scene before me. My aunt lay across one of the settees, my sister upon the other, while Lily lay on the carpet on the floor.

Anyone else coming upon this scenario might be inclined to panic, or a shout-out to the household staff to summon the family physician. Anyone else, that is.

Behind me, Mr. Symons announced my arrival with a not-subtle clearing of the throat.

"Miss Mikaela," he announced, which immediately brought Lily upright, followed by my sister.

"Oh, miss!" Lily exclaimed as she scrambled to her feet. Then in true Lily fashion exclaimed, "I've lost the damned vegetables again!"

"A lady does not curse," my aunt reminded her. It was admirable on her part, however her efforts had fallen short with myself at that age.

The loss of the "damned vegetables" sent Lily scrambling to retrieve said vegetables that had scattered across the carpet— slices of cucumber by the look of it.

I assisted, having previously been through this particular ritual of my aunt's, who was still reclined with slices of said vegetable in place upon her eyes.

"Is that you, Mikaela dear?" my aunt called out.

"Yes, I'm here to see Mr. Munro," I replied. "If he's about."

And without moving a muscle. "He returned some time ago… then out and about again on some matter or another again," she replied without dislodging a single cucumber slice.

Was that some matter or another the inquiries I had asked him to make regarding Dr. Bennett?

Lily leaned in close. "Her ladyship says as how the vegetable is good for the skin and eyes," she explained. "I ain't never heard of that before," she exclaimed as we gathered scattered slices of cucumber.

"Anything like this always went into the cook pot at the Church. Mrs. Erditch, wot cooked for the ladies, was real particular about that. Nothin' was wasted."

And most certainly not for placing slices of cucumber over the eyes and cheeks, I thought.

"I heard Mr. Munro tell her ladyship that he wouldna be back for evenin' supper, he had someone he needed to see," Lily added. "Seemed right important."

I did hope that he might have learned something important regarding Dr. Bennett's disappearance.

"Mikaela, dear," my aunt called out, once more with every slice of "damned" vegetable securely in place.

"I am hosting a bit of a soiree tomorrow evening in celebration of Sir James' return to London. I do hope that you will be able to attend, and Mr. Brodie of course. You and Sir James shared those earlier adventures and he must have new ones?"

Though the invitation was more or less in the form of a question, there was actually no question involved. When my aunt extended an invitation it was assumed that it would be accepted.

Not that she commanded attendance. However…

"Of course," I replied.

"Eight o'clock, dear," she added, then went back to her cucumbers.

After retrieving several slices, Lily and I removed to the library with the excuse of learning more about her progress with her lessons. As soon as the door closed I retrieved a deck of cards from the drawer in the game table.

"Lessons, indeed!" Linnie commented as she found us in a heated game of poker and announced supper.

I tallied up the sum I had lost to Lily and promised to pay her when I returned to Mayfair as I rarely carried anything larger than cab fare. The girl had an incredible talent for the game.

We had just finished supper and dessert was to be served in the formal salon when Mr. Aldrich, my aunt's footman, announced that Munro had returned and requested to meet with me.

I excused myself and met with him in the office off the kitchen.

"You've learned something?"

"Aye," he replied.

He had removed the black wool jacket that now hung on a hook on the wall across from the desk. At a glance it was damp from the weather.

"This afternoon, I spoke to a man who provided the name of someone who made unusual deliveries to a tenement in Aldgate, just across from the ironworks. After a good sum and several pints, he provided the name of the man, a fellow by the name of Darby."

"What was unusual about the deliveries?"

"In the first place, that part of Aldgate isna the sort of place where others make deliveries. Those who live in that part of London are poor and the best they can afford are the scraps left from market and handouts. As for the rents…"

"I see your point. What about the items that were delivered?"

"According to the man I spoke with, the deliveries weren't food or cast offs that might be the usual for those in that part of the city. They were instruments and some sort of medical supplies."

I might not have thought anything of it, except for that last part; medical supplies. While it seemed a remote possibility that a location in Aldgate had anything to do with Dr. Bennett, still…

"When was this?"

"The first delivery was three months ago, then several more after. It was a lucrative connection for the driver."

"Have you been able to make contact with the driver? A name of the person to whom the deliveries were made?" I then asked.

"No. The driver worked independent as opposed to one of the usual companies one can hire about the city for such things."

His expression indicated there was more.

"He died in a stramash outside a tavern some six weeks ago, stabbed through the heart."

A coincidence?

Another crime among many across the city, and particularly in the East End where there was so much poverty and few enough of the Metropolitan Police. And then, as I had learned, there were those who simply looked the other way. As I had also learned from Brodie, there was no such thing as a coincidence.

"Do you know where the tenement is in Aldgate?"

"I can find it well enough by the description from the man I spoke with. It's across from a leather shop. I came back for this."

He opened the drawer of the desk and retrieved a revolver, very much the same as Brodie carried.

"I'm going with you," I announced. "I can be ready immediately."

"No."

I had heard that before, and suspected that it was something most particular to Scots, a simple word that was more like a command.

"Brodie would not approve."

"I most certainly will go with you or on my own, if need be. I'm certain that I can find the tenement you described. Or someone on the street who can assist."

How difficult could it possibly be? A tenement across from a leather shop in Aldgate.

Munro swore under his breath, quite colorfully actually. But then I had heard that before as well.

And where the devil was Brodie?

Brodie met with Herr Schmidt at the German Gymnasium.

They knew one another from a previous inquiry case, introduced by Mikaela Forsythe.

It was a surprise in the least to discover that the woman who was a client at the time had some expertise in certain sporting disciplines as it was called. More particularly in the use of a sword— a rapier she had called it— and had then proceeded to provide a demonstration.

He needed the man's assistance in the matter of rumors that the anarchist, Soropkin, might be in the country or more precisely in London, according to different reports Alex Sinclair had deciphered.

Schmidt was German and the men and women who frequented the gymnasium encountered those from different immigrant communities about the East End.

It was like a pot where every sort was thrown together no matter how much they attempted to keep to themselves— a name overheard; a rumor passed along at the open stalls on the street. A man like Soropkin wouldn't go unnoticed no matter how much he kept to the shadows.

It was possible that someone knew something, and that it would eventually find its way to Herr Schmidt.

Brodie had dressed in rough cambric trousers, a turtleneck sweater, and long wool coat of the sort the seamen wore, all in black, along with a worn black cap that he wore when he wanted to move about unseen or at least where no one would give him a second glance.

"Don't use my name," Schmidt had told him. "It would be bad for business for others to know that I was helping one of the Met."

He had reminded Schmidt that he was no longer with the Metropolitan Police, but in private inquiries now.

"And Fraulein Forsythe?" Schmidt had inquired. "She is well?"

Brodie assured him that she was. He had been in contact with Munro. He knew that she had been making inquiries on behalf of the case she had been working on. That should keep her occupied until he could obtain enough information to hand this particular matter over to Sir Avery.

"She is well," he assured Schmidt. "Currently on other business."

He didn't explain further. There was no purpose in it, so long as the man would assist in the matter.

Schmidt had nodded. "If I was not already married to my Anna," he had looked across his desk, his meaning unmistakable.

"Then again, with Miss Forsythe's skills, and her spirit…" He shook his head. "I think it would not be wise. But it would be most exciting. No?" he asked with a hearty laugh in that way of men.

Most definitely, Brodie thought at the time. He knew that well enough.

Schmidt had given him a name— Heilman, another German, who worked at the Thames Ironworks and Shipbuilders at the Victoria Docks. He was a sort of self-appointed mayor over the German community. People heard things and passed them along to him in a place where their safety might be in keeping watch over others.

"Tell him I sent ya and that it's in the matter of Soropkin. He'll help ya if he knows anything. The anarchist is a bad sort. There's many of us who have had experience with the man or know those who have and would as soon be rid of him."

Along with the information he had from Alex regarding the man, the sooner he was able to determine what Soropkin was doing in London, the better.

After his meeting with Schmidt, he set off for the ironworks. The day shift was about to end, and he wanted to speak with Heilman and find out what he knew.

He caught the tram out to the Victoria Docks at Bow Creek on the Thames.

The ironworks was a sprawling beast of a place on the east bank, a railway to the Thames wharf on another with direct access to the river for ships under construction.

It was very near the end of the twelve-hour shift when he arrived and caught a trolley to the main gate where workers arrived and departed. From there he was directed to the supervisor's office where he was told that Heilman might be found as he had not yet left for the day.

Brodie was accustomed to the reserve, even outright hostility, of those among the immigrant communities against outsiders from his work for the Met. It was no different with Heilman, who at first appeared to speak very little English, a common response.

"I'm looking for a man by the name of Soropkin. Or he might go by another name." Brodie gave him the only description that Sir Avery had, taken from a photograph that was several years old.

"Herr Schmidt said that you might be able to provide information about him."

There was that long stare as Brodie stood in the doorway of the small office that was no more than a storeroom with a desk and a chair, and were covered with the grime and iron tailings, fine as powder, that sifted through from the bank of furnaces in the massive building.

"Soropkin?" Heilman repeated as if he had only just heard the name. He continued to stare at Brodie. Then as if he had decided something, he gave a jerk of his head toward the door. Brodie closed it.

"Soropkin," Heilman repeated. " Der hurensohn ," he spat out. "What you English call a son of a bitch; a cold-blooded murderer— men, women, children, it doesn't matter in the name of his cause." Then, "Sit down, Mr. Brodie, and tell me what you know about Soropkin and the reason you are looking for him."

It seemed that Heilman spoke very good English when he chose too.

Over the next hour, Brodie explained the information the Agency had come upon, that Soropkin was somewhere in London.

The fact that he was there was not something to be ignored. If he had something planned against the British government, then he had to be stopped.

"You are not English by birth," Heilman pointed out.

"No," Brodie replied, a situation that many Scots refused to accept— the English authority over Scotland, a centuries old battle that some insisted was not ended, merely waiting to rekindle.

And yet here he was, on behalf of protecting the very crown that had held Scotland under the boot for centuries. But Soropkin was another matter, and it was here and now.

"What can ye tell me about him?" Brodie brought the conversation back round to the reason he was there.

"What have ye heard through yer people?"

"Why should I help you?" Heilman demanded.

"If he succeeds in some plan, then this," Brodie made a gesture to the vast cavern of the ironworks beyond the office, "may be burnt to the ground like most of the city along with the jobs of those men, and yerself. If ye survive.

"Ye claim to know of the man's brutality, the deaths he has caused. I ask for yer help. If ye refuse to give it, ye are no better than the man ye hate so well and will have the blood of those who die because of it on yer hands. Yer own family perhaps as well when ye came here for the chance at a better life."

"What do you know of a better life?"

"I know about fighting to survive on the streets, and to my way of thinking, wot I have now is worth fighting to hold onto."

For several moments, Heilman merely looked at him. Then he slowly nodded. "I will tell you what I have heard."

What he knew was only rumor, but he trusted where those the rumors came from. Soropkin was in London. But no one had actually seen him.

It was safe to assume that he was there for one purpose as Brodie and Sir Avery feared, to instigate a situation that Europe had seen in no less than a half dozen cities over the past two years.

It might be demonstrations in the streets, attacks on certain people in positions of power, or possibly as in Munich months earlier— a bomb set off at a prominent place or event.

It was impossible to know, but the rumors had people in the German community uneasy, watchful, yet as he said, the man hadn't actually been seen by anyone on the streets. He was like a ghost, there one minute, gone the next.

The last word Heilman had about Soropkin was that he was rumored to have been seen in another part of London. But it made no sense. It was far from anything that might have been the sort of target the anarchist preferred— areas of power and influence.

"You will find him?" Heilman asked as Brodie thanked him and stood to leave.

He nodded, then left. He had the name of the man who heard where Soropkin was last seen.

Munro cursed for what must have been the dozenth time since leaving Sussex Square as the driver of the cab we had taken across London collected his fare then snapped the reins and disappeared down the street.

We had returned first to the office on the Strand after Munro insisted on placing a telephone call to Brodie. There had been no answer, nor had he been there according to Mr. Cavendish.

Munro left word for Brodie, then reluctantly agreed that I could accompany him after the threat I had made earlier.

We set off on foot in the direction he had described for the tenement in Aldgate, just across from a leather shop. The driver had been most accommodating in finding it. Imagine that.

"Damned stubborn woman," Munro muttered.

I had been called that in the past and considered it a compliment.

"Ye'll do exactly as I say," he added.

Of course.

I had seen such buildings before in the inquiry cases Brodie and I took on, in other parts of London and Edinburgh as well. It was always disconcerting to see the poverty, the cramped conditions, sometimes two or three families to a flat; rats that ran the streets searching for garbage, a beggar who loomed up out of the shadows, only to disappear again as Munro warned him to leave off.

I couldn't help but think of Lily and what might have awaited her in a handful of years, spirited as she was. Here, I saw firsthand what destroyed one's spirit; the lights of the tavern where a young woman might be purchased for the night for the cost of a pint of ale, with no opportunity to survive much less change one's life.

Munro snapped at me, no translation needed, and I hurried to keep up with him.

"Ye have the revolver Brodie gave ye?" he asked as we crossed the street at the leather shop.

I assured him that I had, my fingers brushing the cold steel barrel of the weapon in the pocket of my skirt.

"There doesna seem to be anyone around," he nodded toward the two-story building. "Could be the tenants were turned out."

I knew it was a possibility. With the winter there were fewer jobs. Fewer jobs meant less pay, or none at all. If there was no pay a family might persuade the landlord to extend them a month, but no more. Then they were out on the street.

This was the world where Munro and Brodie had lived, and by the darkened windows over the first floor it seemed that might be the situation.

There were many abandoned buildings in London crumbling into disrepair. Some were claimed by the city as it expanded roadways and thoroughfares.

Others, some built more than two centuries earlier, were either torn down or left to the rats and people on the street who might sleep there for a night or two before being turned out by the neighborhood watch.

Some stayed longer and built fires to keep warm. The fire brigade was kept busy with buildings thought to be abandoned that turned into an inferno. In most places like this there was nothing to be done but to let it burn, and try to prevent it from spreading to other buildings.

"Ye're to stay behind me," Munro told me as we approached the main entrance of the tenement.

It hardly seemed possible as he shone a handheld light at the front doors. They had been chained shut with a sign posted— Do not enter by order of the London Magistrate.

Munro's source of information had been certain this was the location. I laid a hand on his arm and gestured to the sagging railing along the walkway that led to a lower level. We followed the railing to the steps that descended to a doorway below.

The door was slightly ajar. He pushed me back to what he undoubtedly considered a safer distance, then turned toward the door, revolver in hand.

It would have been wise to simply wait for him to make a cursory inspection. However…

I followed him into the lower level below the tenement that the Magistrate's people had obviously failed to secure. Or possibly not if one went by the splintered frame of the door. Munro slowly swept the handheld light across the walls, floor, and door that obviously led deeper into the below street level basement of the building.

Munro moved on ahead, his light playing across the door. He slowly pushed it open.

A putrid smell swept toward me and choked my throat, bringing back a vivid memory from my travel years before on the Nile when a man's body was trapped in the water against the dock while the flies swarmed.

The smell was the same, of rotting flesh. Munro shouted and the handheld torch flew out of his hand, hit the floor and then went out. I had no idea where he was as I was thrown back against the door.

The air momentarily knocked out of me, I did the only thing that came to mind and reacted instinctively. I pulled back my fist and sent a blow as hard as I could in the direction of whoever had shoved me.

With only the light from those stained windows at the street level, it was admittedly not my best move, but it was enough to bring a startled curse.

I took advantage of our assailant's surprise and swept his feet from under him. He hit the floor with a groan and another curse as I thrust my hand into my bag and retrieved the revolver.

"Mikaela?!"

That stopped me as I pulled back the hammer and prepared to defend myself and Munro if necessary.

"What the bloody devil are ye doin' here?!" the "assailant" on the floor demanded in that broad Scots accent that I knew quite well.

"I think ye broke my nose!"