Chapter 14

Fourteen

We rose early in the morning with several hours before the opening of the new art exhibit at the museum.

We ate, then I returned to our room to go over the notes that I had made the day before.

I sat tapping my pen on the writing desk as Brodie returned from meeting with Munro and Alex to set the plan for attending the exhibit at the Royal Museum.

When in London, I was used to various sources of information that included both known persons, acquaintances of my great-aunt—she did have a great deal of influence—and the archives of the dailies that had proven to be a source of helpful information in the past.

However, here in Brussels, I felt like a fish out of water, cut off from my usual resources and in a situation that had become far more than just murder.

There were now two murders to be precise, along with the information Alex and Munro had brought from London—that Sir Collingwood might very well have been involved in passing information regarding new military developments on to foreign characters.

But there were far too many unknowns. For what reason would he pass highly secret information onto to those foreign characters? What part did Angeline Cotillard play in this? Lover? Foreign agent, as Alex Sinclair had called her?

What of a man named Szábo, and Sebastian Bruhl? They lived in the shadows, Szábo associated in the past with anarchist groups. As for Bruhl? Virtually nothing was known beyond the information that Sir Avery had provided.

There had to be more. As Brodie had once said, even rats who lived in the shadows emerged from time to time. It was just a matter of knowing when, and then trapping the rat when it came out of those shadows.

Easier said than done, I thought.

"Wot are ye thinkin' now?"

"It could be helpful to see if there is other information about either Szábo or Bruhl that might be useful," I pointed out before he could point out that Sir Avery had access to more information than anyone else, perhaps in all of Britain.

"Lucy Penworth has been an incredible help in the past." I reminded him of Alex's fiancée. "She is intelligent and resourceful, and quite daring."

"She is also employed by the Agency."

I knew his meaning.

"This would be information the Agency might not think important—a rumor, reported sightings, gossip about a mistress perhaps...that might be accessed elsewhere."

"Angeline Cotillard?" he commented.

"It is possible. Templeton did suggest that she was known to have several affairs. And she was at Sandringham that weekend. Such things might not be found to be important at the time and mere filler for newspaper stories. However…" I paused.

"And there has been no sighting or information about Angeline since, that we know of. It could be important to find out where she is and perhaps what she knows."

"How do you propose to send Miss Penworth a message? If Avery were to discover it, it could go bad for her."

I had thought about that. "There is someone who has access to the Agency, who is above reproach, could be persuaded to take a message to Lucy. And, she is someone you trust as well, as I recall." I let that sink in.

"Good God, Mikaela! You cannot mean…! She is eighty-five years old, and not up to this sort of thing."

"Eighty-six years old her last birthday," I corrected him. "And she has grown quite bored since our return from Africa."

I was able to learn the nearest location of a telegraph office from the front desk manager.

We had made arrangements to meet Munro and Alex at the main entrance to the Royal Museum for the grand opening of the new fine art exhibit. We then went to the telegraph office to send off the telegram to my great-aunt.

Brodie accompanied me to a nearby counter in the telegraph office where I composed my message to Lady Antonia Montgomery. It was quite simple and yet there was a message behind the words I knew she would understand:

Please give Lucy my kindest regards.

She has been most helpful in the planning for the event.

Need her advice regarding the two gentlemen.

Send reply as soon as possible c/o the Hotel Castelon, Brussels.

With our regards. M.

"Ye believe that Lucy will understand yer meaning?"

"As I said, she's very clever and resourceful. Alex would do well to marry her."

"And her ladyship?"

"She will be thrilled to assist us. You know, she is quite fond of you."

I paid the attendant at the telegraph office extra to send the message off immediately.

"Planning a wedding is most exciting," I told him in French as an added element, to not stir undue curiosity.

" Oui , madame."

"I will have to remember that ye are given to a stretch of the truth from time to time," Brodie commented as we found a driver.

The Museum of Fine Arts had originally opened in the former palace of Charles of Lorraine, according to the slightly blood-stained handbill we had discovered in that apartment in Paris.

It had gone through several locations until 1881, when the first rooms of the new location were opened. It had since expanded, along with the other museums that dominated the site—five in total, with another soon planned, according to additional information we received as we were joined by Munro and Alex, and entered the museum.

"This is most impressive," Alex commented as we joined the queue with other patrons who had come to view the works of living artists.

"What are we lookin' for?" Munro asked.

It was actually a very good question. I had no idea, although we had explained how we had learned about the exhibition that had seemed important to Monsieur Dornay.

"Perhaps a conversation that is overheard," Brodie suggested. "With the names we spoke of and accents that ye dinna recognize. It might be useful to move apart. The event seemed to have importance for the man we found."

"A conversation, those two names, and an accent in a room full of accents," Munro commented. "Is there anythin' else?"

"I didn't realize that sarcasm was a Scottish trait," I commented in lowered voice as he and Alex both moved away from us as if casually inspecting the artwork on display.

"He's used to more obvious clues," Brodie replied.

"Stolen goods? The obvious criminal sort, with a mask, hat pulled low? Perhaps some blood?" I suggested.

"Let us say that art is not how he would choose to spend an afternoon."

"Nor yourself for that matter?"

"I leave the art to ye and yer sister," Brodie commented as he stepped across the aisle, while I continued in the line of patrons as we slowly moved through the hall, observing the works of living artists.

Living artists? The thought came back.

Was it possible that Monsieur Dornay's plans to travel to Brussels were in fact because he was to have one of his works on display?

I looked for Brodie as the thought persisted. While I was no expert in the works of artists, I did recognize genuine talent. And in spite of the circumstances in that apartment, it was obvious that Monsieur Dornay was quite talented.

We had received a list of artists whose works were on display as we arrived. I quickly scanned the list and found his name.

According to the brochure, he had two paintings on display. One was called ‘ Fin De Journée,' translated from French for ‘End of Day,' the second one was simply ‘La Fille , ' ‘The Girl.'

I looked again for Brodie but he had disappeared into the crowd. I then looked for either Alex or Munro, but had no success there. Unable to find any one of them, I continued through the crowd with a new urgency, quickly scanning the placards in front of each artist's works, then moving to the next.

I found the display I was looking for and stared at them. Both were in a similar style as Monet.

The first one, La Fille, was a portrait of a young girl standing in a garden with a bouquet in her hand. The second painting , Fin de Journée, was of a young woman with golden blonde hair drawn back from her face as she turned, dark eyes staring back over her shoulder at the artist, with a tentative smile on vivid red lips.

I glanced back at the first one, studying it. Then at the second one once more. The subject was the same, only painted perhaps a few years apart! As a young girl with a look of innocence upon her face, and then the somewhat older young woman. The expression on her face and in her eyes told a different story. The innocent young girl no longer existed.

In addition to the fact that the two were obviously the same person, what was I looking at?

Artistic talent to be certain, a beautiful young model...I then realized what it was.

The young woman in both paintings was identical to the model in that painting at Dornay's studio! In both paintings, at the studio and the young woman I now looked at, the subject wore bright red lipstick! A shade I had seen before, on that cigar and in Collingwood's bedchamber, at Sandringham.

Was it possible they were one and the same?

"Miss Forsythe!"

There was only one person among my companions who still called me that, force of habit I suspect. I turned as Alex Sinclair came toward me through the crowd of people.

Two things then happened almost at the same time. A figure darted toward me. He was short, no taller than a child, a knife clutched in one hand.

He was extremely quick. As instinct took over, I side-stepped, thrust my foot under, sent him sprawling to the floor, and pulled the knife from my boot.

Quick as a cat, he rolled, sprang back to his feet and lunged at me.

"I've got him, Miss Forsythe," Alex called out as he charged to my defense.

The little man grinned as he spun away from me, somersaulted, then slashed at Alex as he rolled back to his feet, tossed a look back at me, then disappeared through the crowd of stunned, screaming bystanders who were only just becoming aware of the assault among them.

I ran to Alex. He looked up at me with a startled expression.

"Are you all right, Miss Forsythe?"

"Yes, of course…" I assured him, then saw the blood on the front of his shirt.

"I tried to stop him…" He was quite pale and unsteady on his feet. "Oh, my…"

He swayed toward me and would have gone down if Brodie hadn't reached us. He caught him about the shoulders, then looked at me

"Ye have blood all over ye."

I heard that sound low in his voice that I had heard before—calm but with that edge.

"It's not mine. I'm all right."

"Are ye certain?"

"Yes, I'm afraid it's poor Alex who's been badly wounded."

He nodded then. "We need to get him away from here," he said in that same low voice as those around us stared while others simply moved on as if it was an everyday occurrence to attend an art exhibit in the museum and have a man slashed in their midst.

Munro had joined us by now, and quickly assessed the situation.

"I'm all right," I assured him as that cold blue gaze swept over me.

"Did ye see who did this?"

"A small man, no taller than my waist, dressed in everyday work clothes, boots," and something that came back as shock gave way to anger.

"He had a tattoo on the side of his neck."

Munro nodded and he was off, pushing his way through the crowd as Brodie supported Alex, barely conscious, and I led the way from the exhibit hall.

Munro joined us outside the museum.

"I lost him in the crowd. How bad is he wounded?"

"Bad enough," Brodie replied as Munro waived down a driver, that well-known gesture that needed no translation.

We were fortunate that most of the people were still arriving for the exhibit, as Munro held open the door of a coach as the passengers disembarked, then assisted Brodie getting Alex inside.

They climbed in after, then Brodie held out a hand to me. I climbed in as Munro gave the driver the name of our hotel.

Alex sat propped up against Munro as I lifted my skirt and tore a length of muslin from my slip then folded it.

"Open his shirt," I told Munro. I then pressed the folded muslin low on his stomach where our attacker had slashed him.

"Ye've a steady hand for such things," Munro commented. "For a lady."

I exchanged a look with Brodie as our coach lurched through late afternoon traffic toward our hotel. That dark gaze held mine.

"I had a good teacher." I reminded him of the lessons he had given me before I set off on my first adventure. "And I've had a bit of practice," I added as I recalled a cut or two that I'd bandaged for Brodie. However, nothing like this.

I took a deep breath and steadied my fingers as I tied the loose ends of his shirt across the thick bandage.

It seemed to take forever to reach our hotel. But in truth we returned rather quickly.

Brodie paid the driver as Munro assisted Alex from the coach. I smoothed my bloodied skirt and followed. Brodie closed the front of his jacket over his equally bloodied shirt.

"A bit too much of the drink," Munro explained to the startled desk manager as they assisted Alex to the stairs. The manager merely nodded and smiled.

Out of sight of the front desk, Munro hoisted Alex over his shoulder much like a sack of grain, and continued up the stairs to the room they shared on the third floor. Brodie and I followed.

Munro deposited Alex on the bed in the adjacent chamber as I set aside my travel bag and then removed my hat and jacket.

"I will need the rest of that whisky from our room," I said as I sat at the bed beside Alex. He was conscious although still very pale.

I untied the tail ends of his shirt and carefully lifted that impromptu bandage.

"I will need towels," I told Munro. "And my shift from our room," I told Brodie.

"Your shift?" Alex replied incredulously as he craned his neck to see the extent of the damage his knife-wielding attacker had caused as I removed makeshift bandage that had once been a portion of my slip.

His head fell back to the bed, the effort exhausting him after the loss of blood.

"Is she always like this?" he whispered.

"Aye," Brodie replied with a look at me as he headed for our room. "Best get used to it."

When he returned, I used a small towel from the bathroom to clean the blood from slash marks as best could be done.

"I will need his razor," I told Munro. While Alex wore a neatly trimmed mustache, it was obvious he used a razor for the rest of his grooming.

His pale expression turned a bit green.

"What do you need my razor for?"

Munro had retrieved it from the bathroom and I proceeded to cut the chemise that Brodie had brought from our room into manageable strips for a new bandage.

"I've never worn a lady's shift," Alex quipped, remarkable under the circumstances.

"It looks quite charming on you," I teased him right back as I doused one of the towels with the last of the whisky, then gently applied the towel to the three slash wounds.

Alex gasped and sucked in a deep breath of air. "Bloody hell! Beg your pardon, Miss Mikaela. Dear God, that hurts…"

"It's quite all right," I assured him. "I've heard far worse."

"And she's said far worse," Brodie commented.

Alex looked up at me. "Am I going to die? If so, I do need to write a note for Lucy."

How touching, I thought.

"I've seen worse, aye," Munro looked over at Brodie who nodded in agreement.

"Ye'll live fer certain. No need to write a note. But ye will need a physician."

I agreed. "I do wish Mr. Brimley was here. He would be able to apply one of his antiseptic tonics, perhaps even apply stitches to close one of these."

"Stitches?" Alex exclaimed. "With a needle?"

"Nothin' to it, lad. Just a wee prick of the skin," Munro explained. "Pullin' the thread through is the worst of it."

Alex paled even further now with a green tinge about the mouth. So much for the brave young man who had chased down a bomber in a previous case.

I was in agreement. Two of the marks had ceased bleeding and in Mr. Brimley's educated opinion in past situations would undoubtedly heal on their own with medicinal salve that I was familiar with. The third cut, however, was deeper through the skin to the tissue below and continued to seep blood.

"It could be risky to seek out a physician here," Brodie said with a nod from Munro.

"Too many questions that might bring on the local authorities."

I understood. Two people were dead, Alex had been attacked by that little man, whom I now realized I had glimpsed before at the rail station. A coincidence? I was now doubtful.

And there was the matter of the man called Szábo and another named Bruhl who were somehow connected to the murder of Sir Collingwood.

The last thing we needed was for the German authorities to become involved. It was more important than ever that we be able to continue our investigation of the case.

Brodie and Munro often communicated with a look or a few words, from their time since boyhood. I caught the look Brodie gave him now.

"Aye," Munro agreed. "I will see him back to London."

"The sooner the better," I told him. "Before infection sets in."

"There's no need," Alex weakly protested.

"You've done what you can here by bringing us word from Sir Avery. You must now look to your own injury. You can trust Munro."

He nodded then closed his eyes as he laid back on the bed.

The plan was set. Munro was to see Alex to the same rail station they had arrived at. From there they would travel on to Calais, and then Dover, retracing the route we had taken. It was a trip of a full day and more, depending on the connections they were able to make.

Yet there was the possibility that Munro would be able to get word to Sir Avery once they reached Paris. With the connections Sir Avery seemed to have on the Continent, Alex might be able to get medical attention there before continuing on to London.

Brodie made inquiries about the rail schedule through the front desk manager. A train was leaving early the next morning from the Brussels rail station, arriving in Paris just before noon. Munro would be able to contact London from a telegraph dispatch office there.

We would accompany them to the Brussels station and send a message off to London with the information about their arrival in Paris, and an update that we were continuing on with the case.

Munro would be able to provide additional information regarding the recent developments when he and Alex were safely back in London.

With a little help from my great-aunt's whisky, Alex spent a quiet night. Munro changed his bandages when needed, while Brodie and I returned to our own room.

"I recognized the man who attacked Alex," I told him as I sat at the writing desk and made the new notes about the day's events. "I'm certain of it now. He was at the rail station in Paris. And he fits the description Templeton gave me of the man who travels with Angeline Cotillard."

Brodie nodded. "With what has happened, it would seem that the man followed us here and is responsible for the attack that was meant for ye."

I had thought about that as well. It was obvious that I was the intended target, and then Alex had intervened. I waited for all the reasons that I should return to London with them.

Somewhat to my surprise there were none. Instead, Brodie opened his valise and took out that revolver that was usually in the drawer of the desk in the office. He handed it to me.

"If ye wore trousers I would tell ye to put it in yer pocket. Since ye dinna wear them, put it in yer bag. It's loaded. If ye have another such encounter, yer to use it to protect yerself."

"The authorities here or in Frankfurt might object to that," I pointed out.

He nodded. "Then they can deal with me. I won't have ye in danger if it can be avoided."

I took the revolver and tucked it into my bag. I was quite proficient with it after lessons he and Munro had both provided, and the fact that I had been around hunting weapons as a young child. I had a healthy respect for them, a weapon of last resort that I had been forced to use in the past.

"You're not going to tell me that I'm not to continue with you to Frankfurt?"

There was that look, that dark gaze meeting mine.

"Would it do any good to tell ye what I want is for you to go back tomorrow with the two of them?"

Rather than a blunt answer he already knew, I decided on a different tactic.

"You don't speak German," I pointed out.

While my own familiarity with the language was limited to the usual sort a tourist would speak, still I knew several places including the rail station along with the hotel where I'd once stayed, and I was convinced I could be of help.

Frankfurt was a modern city that included international banking as I had discovered on my travels through there. As with Paris and Brussels, it was very possible that English was spoken as well.

Brodie retrieved supper for us from the dining room, along with a couple bottles of wine, all which we shared with Munro. Alex had no appetite. Munro gave him the last of the whisky and he dozed fitfully, waking groggy from loss of blood and no food, then dozing once more.

Brodie explained to Munro that I had seen the attacker before in Paris, and according to that information from Templeton, the man was known to travel with Angeline Cotillard.

"Best take necessary measures in case the man followed us from the museum today. He won't want to be caught.

"I would like very much for him to come here," Munro replied and took out the knife he always carried. He ran his thumb along the sharp edge, his meaning quite clear.

I sat at the desk after we returned to our own room, and made a few additional entries into my notebook. A fire burned in the fireplace, but I couldn't seem to get warm.

It would have been a lie to say that the day's events hadn't affected me. While I constantly shifted about to get comfortable or startled at a sound at the hallway outside our door, Brodie was calm if a bit distracted as he sat in that overstuffed chair before the fire and smoked his pipe.

He eventually moved about, checking that the lock was set on the door, then took off his suit coat and laid it over the back of the chair.

I made the last of my notes, then sat back at the desk.

Since working with Brodie, I had learned a great deal about the criminal mind. Those three words came to mind.

Motive, means, and opportunity.

According to the information Alex and Munro had brought from London, the motive seemed to be providing military secrets to someone willing to purchase them.

In this particular instance, that would be someone who had used Angeline Cotillard, and took advantage of her close relationship with the Prince of Wales and his inner circle. Most particularly Sir Collingwood.

There was the question if she was not only his Royal Highness's mistress, but also Collingwood's.

Sir Collingwood most certainly had the means in his work as Lord of the Admiralty, and the opportunity. Never mind that the opportunity had gotten him killed.

I did suppose that was one way to avoid the hangman's rope.

I felt Brodie's hands on my shoulders.

"Come away, lass. There's nothin' more that can be done tonight, but plenty enough in the mornin'."

I tucked my pen inside my notebook and then slipped both inside my travel bag.

Preparing for bed was somewhat simpler than before. I stepped out of my skirt and shirtwaist, then my long slip which was now missing several inches around the hem.

My night shift had been used for bandages along as well.

"Dinna bother." He removed his trousers and shirt. "I'll buy ye a new one. And no one will ever know that yer not wearin' one."

I shivered as I removed the pins from my hair. The fire had burned low. I shook my hair loose then slipped under the blankets on the bed. Then Brodie was there.

"Ye did well today, lass." His arm went around me and he pulled me back against him. "Alex may well owe ye his life."

"The bleeding has stopped. Now the worry is infection. But he should be all right when Munro gets him back to London." I waited as we lay together.

Alex had made no secret of the fact that the attack at the museum was obviously meant for me.

I braced myself for the usual objections, that it was too dangerous, and that he wanted me to return to London as well, even though we had already discussed it.

"Aren't you going to tell me that it would be best for me to return to London?" I waited again.

Then, "No."

That one small word, with enormous meaning. I turned so that we were facing one another.

I traced that scar that sliced through his left brow, so very close to the eye, an encounter in our last case. He wasn't the only one who worried over someone, the risks he took, other injuries that eventually healed.

"It would do no good. I know that. And I trust that ye are strong, and wise, although ye do have a bit of temper from time to time.

He picked up a thick strand of my hair from my shoulders.

"Are ye certain there isn't a fierce Viking among yer ancestors with all that fine red hair?"

I shivered slightly, though not from the cold. He did have that effect on me.

"Very possible," I replied, then curled against him.