Epilogue

We had been back in London almost a full month after returning from Frankfurt.

Brodie and I had met with Sir Avery and gave him our report about the case, emphasizing Karl Schneider's part in retrieving the documents. Brodie quite simply informed him that the least the Agency could do was to clear Karl to remain in the country. After all he was a skilled tradesman, and would be a loyal subject.

I had added that last part of our request, then informed Sir Avery that it was the least a grateful nation could do for someone who had acted selflessly and at great personal risk. In the end it was done.

"And the documents?" Sir Avery demanded with a look a Brodie.

That was the part of our report that did need some explanation.

According to what Brodie told him—and the story we had agreed upon—the design plans for an armed air ship that could rain devastation down on innocent people had been lost in a violent fire at the opera house in Frankfurt.

Only a slight embellishment. I had refused to see those documents, for what was obviously a weapon of war, handed over so the plans could become reality. Instead, I had convinced Brodie that they needed to be destroyed.

"If the bloody thing is not built now, another will take its place," he had pointed out. "Ye saw it yerself at the auction. All those very eager to have the plans, and with only one purpose for such a thing."

Precisely, I thought. But I was determined.

He was right, of course, and I knew it. It was the nature of despots, anarchists, and a past king or two. Power and greed.

Yet, I refused to be part of it, or to make such destruction any easier by returning the plans.

There was no need to explain further.

In the end, as we left the office on the Strand for that early morning meeting with Sir Avery that next day after our return. I had stopped at a steel barrel on the street where early morning workers in the East End huddled for warmth before starting their day. There, with Brodie's unspoken approval, I had tossed the entire set of documents into the fire.

I watched as the flames consumed them, with no small feeling of satisfaction, then explained that ‘tragic circumstance' to Sir Avery later that same morning.

"Are ye satisfied now?"

"Yes."

"What do you mean that the documents were destroyed?" Sir Avery had demanded when informed about the ‘fire.'

Brodie had explained the unfortunate ‘circumstances' with amazing sincerity, that the documents had been lost ‘in a fire at the opera house and it could not be prevented.' Most creative, I thought. I would have to be cautious with things he shared with me in the future.

"I would never lie to ye," he'd protested when I mentioned it. "Perhaps a wee stretch of the truth but only when necessary."

The little man who had attacked me in Brussels and accompanied Angeline Cotillard wherever she went, was the same one responsible for the murder of Sir Collingwood, and had stolen those plans. He was the one known as Szábo in that shadowy underground world.

The man Bruhl, whom no one had ever seen but was said to be responsible for stolen jewelry, a priceless artifact, and other documents—then sold to the highest bidder along with currency stolen from a French bank—was rumored in fact, to be a woman. Angeline Cotillard perhaps, posing as a man but never caught, when it suited the situation?

Most interesting. Although I was certain that she was very much a woman, evidenced by the portraits we had seen, an accomplished actress in disguise perhaps when it suited her. That might explain why Bruhl was never seen, or caught. Merely working behind the scenes.

She or he, as the case might be, had fled the auction that night after I stole the documents back. With nothing to sell, it seemed that she had simply vanished.

"The woman has apparently run to ground for the time being," Sir Avery had shared with us.

Her whereabouts were presently unknown, although it was thought that she would surface again to commit her next crime. And a warning that she would undoubtedly return to avenge Szábo's death.

"It seems the man was her brother. Hard to imagine," Sir Avery added. "But there you are and a word of caution."

Alex Sinclair was well on his way to full recovery from his wounds. He was particularly satisfied to learn that the little man whom we now knew as Szábo would not harm anyone else, as he had succumbed to his wound that night of the auction.

I should have felt some remorse. I did not.

There was understandably a scandal over the entire affair. Sir Collingwood had been highly revered among those in the military and with the royal family, in addition to his position as High Lord of the Admiralty.

His precise motive was not known. It was possible that he understood the very real danger of such a weapon and sought to balance the scales in some way, although that seemed contrary to his loyalty to the Crown.

Or perhaps, it was as simple as an affair. A man with no family who had dedicated his life to the military and then found it to be empty, and had found comfort as it were, with a woman who was an accomplished actress in every role she played and was able to persuade him to the dangerous scheme that cost his life.

We were informed that Sir Collingwood had been placed in an ‘ice coffin' after his body was brought back to London, in consideration of his position until the case could be resolved. Quickly it was hoped.

Now that the inquiry was closed, he was to be buried in a simple, unmarked grave, as befitting the traitor that he had become.

The Prince of Wales had expressed his gratitude to Sir Avery for a job well done, the Crown protected, and for our efforts as well.

The royal family had then proceeded to cleverly excuse the scandal as nothing more than an ‘unfortunate situation,' as they had done in the past with other indiscretions.

As for the artist, Dornay, who was murdered in Brussels, we had recently learned that Angeline has been his muse from a very young age. That explained the portraits in his studio.

It was possible that the relationship had become far more. It wasn't unusual for the artist to fall in love with or become obsessed with the subject of his paintings.

Having seen Szábo's skill with the knife and very nearly experienced it firsthand, it was obvious that he had murdered the artist. But for what reason?

Jealousy perhaps? Or I suppose it was possible the artist had discovered Angeline's darker side, perhaps even her part in Sir Collingwood's death and had attempted to dissuade her from involving herself in any other such things? We might never know.

What I did know was that my agreement with Sir Avery had been satisfied. I was no longer obligated to assist in one of his schemes.

With our return, I had been pulled into our great-aunt's plans for my sister's wedding to James Warren. She was determined that it would be a grand affair, while Linnie wanted a simple, private ceremony.

She had been married before and suffered greatly for the scandal when it ended. For his part, Mr. Warren, my editor for my Emma Fortescue novels, chose to remain uninvolved as much as possible. Over a recent meeting to discuss my next book, I had congratulated him on a wise decision.

The wedding was to take place just before Christmas holiday, which was not far away. However, Linnie had indicated that they might prefer a simple appearance before a local magistrate. I was not about to step into that argument.

As for Brodie, he had been unusually subdued of late in spite of our recent ‘resolution' of that very difficult situation between us that had me taking myself off on safari with my great-aunt and Lily. There did seem to be something bothering him.

I had arrived at the office on the Strand after spending the morning listening to my sister and our great-aunt discussing— bickering would be a better word for it—‘the wedding.' I had finally abandoned them and fled—yes that was the correct word—to the relative sanity of crime and inquiry cases.

Brodie had looked up as I entered the office, that same preoccupied expression of the past week on his face. I might have thought it was some point of disagreement between us, except for the fact that I had spent most of the past week at Sussex Square with Lily, hiding out in the Sword Room.

There had certainly been no difficulty between us when I returned at the end of day and we shared supper, and other things.

It was then I suggested that we return to Old Lodge in the north of Scotland, distancing ourselves from Sir Avery and his suggestions of the work he wanted Brodie to take on next, wedding planning, and the frenzy my sister had worked herself into.

He had looked up then, and I thought there was almost a sadness there.

"Old Lodge?" he repeated, then took my hand. "Aye."

So here we were, having made the long train trip, mostly in silence with Brodie staring out the window of the compartment, while I made notes for my next novel with Emma Fortescue stumbling upon stolen artifacts and a particularly handsome dark-eyed man.

I retrieved the bottle of whisky as he put another log on the fire in the hearth in the great room. I poured us each a dram, and then returned to the large sofa with down cushions that wrapped around one when they sat before the fire.

"There is something…" Brodie started to say, then stopped as he poked at the fire with the poker, sending sparks up the chimney in the large room with those large timbers overhead on the second floor.

I had always reminded me of some medieval hunting lodge, which it had been for at least a couple hundred years. Now it included that very lucrative whisky distillery in the adjacent long building.

"I want to tell ye…" He stood then and leaned against the timber mantel, staring down at the fireplace opening.

"About Rory."

I set my glass down on the side table.

Rory had been the young boy orphaned with the murder of his mother in that previous inquiry case. It had been a tragic affair, all the more so that it connected back to the ten-year-old murder of the young man she had an affair with. There was more however.

Brodie and the young woman had been together for a time before Stephen Matthews was found dead and the young woman accused of his murder. Brodie was certain she was not the murderer. With connections made over his time with the MET, he arranged for her to leave London to a place of safety.

Yet, when she returned all these years later, her life was in danger from that old case, and she had a child to protect.

When she was killed, Brodie had taken the boy, Rory, from the scene of the murder and, as he had ten years earlier, sent him to safety, to give him time to find the actual murderer.

It had been a most complicated inquiry case, made all the more so with Brodie's certainty that Rory might very well be his own son.

He never had a family, with the death of his own mother in Edinburgh when he was a child, and he was determined that Rory would have the family that he himself had lost.

Stephen Matthews' own mother, still grieving the loss of her son all those years before, had taken Rory into her home and cared deeply for him. In the time since that case, Brodie had been a presence in the boy's life, with Adelaide Matthews' blessing.

It was as if it was a chance to make a difference in the boy's life, rather than see him cast out to the streets as he had been and left to survive on his own.

Now, it seemed this is what had him preoccupied the previous week, gone much of the time which I understood, then finally returning with that strange, almost sad expression in those dark eyes.

I had not attempted to interfere or persuade him to speak of whatever it was that obviously bothered him. That was not my way, as it was with some women I knew. Instead, knowing him quite well by now, I waited for him to share whatever it was that had created a new distance between us.

He was, after all, a Scot, and I had learned that no amount of prodding or persuasion would move him to speak of something until he chose to speak of it.

And now…

"I told ye that Ellie Sutton and I were together for a while," he began in a hesitant manner.

I nodded but said nothing. I sensed this was not a conversation.

"Ye knew there was a chance that I might be his father," he continued.

Once again, I said nothing as he struggled with whatever it was that he needed to say.

"The past months I was able to spend a good amount of time with him...Ah, lass, he is such a fine boy and he's been through so verra much."

He picked up his glass and took a long drink.

"Ye know what I feel for the lad."

I did, and I would have expected no less.

"I know yer heart, the kindness in ye along with the stubbornness and that temper of yers. And God knows yer intelligent and brave. It's what the boy needs after what he's been through. And I know ye said it didna matter to you that his mother and I were together before I knew ye. Yet, it's the reason I need to tell ye now…"