Library

Chapter 7

Seven

We returned to the office on the Strand with the information we'd learned as well as those pieces of paper that I carefully laid out on the blotter at Brodie's desk.

"Can ye make anything of it?" Brodie asked after I had been at it for some time.

"It's a bit like a jigsaw puzzle with a good many pieces missing that were completely burnt to ash in the fireplace," I replied as I bent over the desk.

It was a tedious, painfully slow process as the note was handwritten and handling the fragile pieces caused the dry and brittle paper to crumble while the letters on larger pieces made no sense.

"It might it be useful to make a list of the letters and words on the chalkboard," he suggested.

We had often discovered a clue in that manner, standing back, looking at information we had gathered, attempting to determine what it all meant.

However, this time, he stood at the board while I attempted to read the letters on the bits and pieces of paper.

It reminded me how we had worked together in the past—trading ideas, my note-making, the way he looked at things with his experience from his work with the MET, and from the streets, combined with what I was able to contribute.

However, this might be the exception, I thought, as I looked up at the board at the random letters.

"Nothing makes any sense. It's like some other language," he commented.

I stood and came round the desk, then frowned as I stared at the chalkboard.

"What is it?"

"Something…" I replied. Yet I had no idea what it was.

He handed me the chalk and I began to rearrange letters.

I added one set of letters to another, then started all over again.

"Rue Miron."

"French?" he stared at the board. "Do ye know what it means?"

"It's a street in Paris, in the Montparnasse Arrondissement."

"And ye just happen to know of it."

I ignored the sarcasm. "Linnie and I did attend school in Paris." I didn't elaborate on that, as I had been to the district several times in my wanderings about Paris when I should have been at my studies.

"There appears to be a name," I added to distract any further questions about Paris.

"I suppose that ye recognize that as well."

"It's not French, possibly Hungarian—Szábo."

It meant nothing to me.

What more had been in the rest of that handwritten letter that had gone up in flames at Sir Collingwood's residence?

"It might have been an official communication, considering his position with Admiralty," I suggested. "Particularly if he was to depart for Sandringham for several days. But this is not the quality of official stationery. It's more the sort like my note pad. And why burn it?"

Brodie studied what I had managed to extract from those seemingly random bits and pieces of paper that had survived the fire.

"It would seem that Sir Collingwood didn't want to risk the servants or anyone else seein' it. That, along with the fact that he paid the servants a full month in advance..." he added.

"His housekeeper said that he told her not to make purchases at the grocers. Is it possible that he didn't intend to return?"

"It would seem so," Brodie replied. "Taking care of things before he planned to be gone. And there is that street name in Paris."

What did it mean? Perhaps someone he knew in Paris? Some time away? Or was it something else?

And what did that name mean? Who was Szábo?

There was someone who might know, someone who was deeply connected to the immigrant community in the East End—Herr Schmidt, owner of the German Gymnasium.

We had contacted him in a previous inquiry case and he was able, somewhat reluctantly, to provide valuable information. However, persuading him was a somewhat complicated endeavor.

Quid pro quo came to mind. A favor granted for a favor requested.

The two-story German Gymnasium was in St. Pancras, between the St. Pancras and Kings Cross railway stations. It had been built several decades earlier with contributions from the German community in the East End.

On the second floor was the area used for women's exercises and gymnastics. The National Olympian association used the gymnasium for training.

The ground floor contained a boxing ring along with an area for providing lessons with rapiers and swords.

I had brought Lily here for lessons, due to her insatiable curiosity for Montgomery ancestral weapons at Sussex Square. She had excelled in her training, surpassing several levels with at least three different blades.

Her favorite was the falcion . She had trained with it. However, the reality that it was too large and quite cumbersome as far as something she might carry with her when she was out and about was soon obvious.

I had recently learned that Munro had provided her with a folding knife and had proceeded to provide her lessons on the best use of it.

"I should probably have one as well," my great-aunt had commented when Lily had excitedly informed me about the lessons. "A woman can never be too careful, you know," my great-aunt had whispered. "Rapists. It seems there has been an increase in such attacks about the city."

Why was I not surprised?

I carried a knife in my bag that Munro had provided when I first set off on my world travels, along with lessons in the use of.

The thought was initially ridiculous. An eighty-six-year-old woman who was no taller than Lily taught how to use a knife?

Yet, this was a woman who had fought off a street thief with her umbrella and inflicted substantial damage until the constables arrived.

I did reason with her that she should forget the knife and rely on her umbrella in the future. My recommendation had fallen on deaf ears.

Merely the week before, she had showed me the blade that Munro had provided and she had already had several lessons. London thieves were not safe.

Brodie and I arrived at the gymnasium. As we approached the front counter with that display board behind that listed weekly classes I noticed they had added women's defense classes.

"That could be dangerous," Brodie commented.

I ignored the sarcasm. I was quite well accomplished in the art of self-defense and it had been quite useful in the past.

I asked the attendant at the counter if we might speak with Herr Schmidt. He picked up the handset with one of those speaking tubes, a new addition since we were last there.

There was a brief conversation in German. Brodie gave our names, and that conversation ended.

"You will please wait," we were told.

Herr Schmidt eventually made his appearance. He was portly with short greying hair that stood on end. A long, bushy handlebar mustache extended past his chin, while thickly muscled arms were evident beneath the shirt he'd tucked into rough work pants. Tall boots reached to his knees.

He had immigrated to London over thirty years earlier with his family and then established the gymnasium. In spite of his size, he was proficient with a rapier and several other weapons, and was rumored to have once been belonged to the Hessian military in Germany.

He was well-known in the German community, acquired information from others, and had been a source of valuable information in the past.

"Mr. Brodie and Lady Forsythe," he greeted us with that thick German accent that remained after all the years in London.

"I would ask what do I owe the pleasure, as you say? But I know it is not a social call. Yes?" He escorted us to his office at the back of the main floor of the gymnasium.

Rather than engage in lengthy conversation, Brodie laid the note that I had deciphered on the desk in front of him.

"What do ye know about this?"

The expression on Herr Schmidt's face changed. Not usually congenial, nevertheless he had been pleasant enough in the past. As I say, in the past.

He shoved the paper back across the desk, and sat back in his chair.

"I think you play a dangerous game, Herr Brodie, and dangerous for a lady," he added with a look over at me.

"Do ye recognize it?" Brodie insisted. "Is it a name? An organization? What can you tell us?"

"Szábo," he spat out with that heavy accent once again and in a way that said he recognized it. "It is a man. Not one you want to know."

"Then you know who he is," I replied.

"I know what is said about him."

"What would that be?" Brodie inquired.

Herr Schmidt didn't answer. Instead, he reached behind him and opened a cabinet door. He removed a bottle and uncorked it. He poured a glass, then a second one and pushed it across to Brodie.

"Drink, Herr Brodie. Then, we will talk." He downed the drink, what I assumed was very likely schnapps, a favorite in the German community.

Brodie did the same, then set the glass back on top of the desk somewhat sharply.

If the situation wasn't quite so serious, it would have been amusing. Two men, each staring the other down, in some ancient medieval male ritual.

"What else do ye know?" Brodie continued.

Herr Schmidt angled a look toward the door. Brodie closed it, then took the chair beside me. Herr Schmidt then filled the glasses once more.

"The Hungarian." He took a drink of Schnapps.

"Then ye do know him."

Eventually Herr Schmidt replied. "We will trade. I will tell you what I know, and you will perhaps provide something…"

Brodie nodded. "If the information you have is worth it."

"You would not have come to me if it was not worth it, Herr Brodie."

There it was again, that squaring off with one another.

"What is it that ye want?"

Herr Schmidt slowly smiled. "My wife's brother has been trying to come to England for some time. There has been some difficulty here. His name is Karl Schneider. He is a butcher in one of the northern districts in Frankfurt. He can be reached there."

Brodie nodded. "I will do what I can to help him."

"I will contact him and let him know," Schmidt replied, then continued. "Szábo left Hungary a long time ago. Now, his home is wherever he is well paid. You understand?"

"France?" I suggested.

Schmidt shrugged. "France, Spain, Germany, wherever there is money to be had. You understand, Herr Brodie?"

"A soldier of fortune?" I had heard the term before.

There was another shrug. "Not exactly a soldier. He does not command an army or a group of others like him. He puts people together for a price...a very high price."

"What sort of people?"

"Those who know things and those who want to know, those who have something that could be worth a great deal and those who would like to purchase."

"Secrets?"

"Ja, information, for those who are willing to pay a great deal of money."

I exchanged a look with Brodie.

"Who would be willing to pay such large sums…?"

The answer was there—any one of a handful of foreign governments where there had been unrest in recent years.

"What sort of information?" I asked Brodie as our driver pulled away from the sidewalk in front of the gymnasium. "For what purpose?"

My thinking had a tendency to go toward bank robbery, stealing of investment bonds, or perhaps even stealing the crown jewels as had been attempted in the past.

"Perhaps nothing as obvious as the crown jewels." I looked over at him. "A man of Sir Collingwood's position might have access to information that could be important."

And he had then been killed for it. We needed to find out exactly what had happened.

"Will you try to assist Herr Schmidt's brother-in-law?" I asked after we left.

"I will try. He didn't however mention what the difficulty was. I will need to be careful with that."

"Might Mr. Dooley be able to assist?" He had worked with Brodie in the past when he was at the MET, and had now achieved the position of detective.

He nodded. "Perhaps."

I heard the hesitation, and with good reason after his experience with former Chief Inspector Abberline during our previous inquiry case. Brodie's broken ribs had healed according to Munro, but he still carried the scar over his left eye from that encounter.

" Teuch , ye ken?" he replied when I inquired after my return from my travel with my great-aunt and Lily.

"He's tough," he translated the Gaelic word. "He's had to be with our time on the streets, and...other things."

He had not explained the last of it. There was no need. I heard it in his voice, those other things, the losses he'd been through.

As for the aftermath of the case? Brodie had not shared any of it with me. It was part of that distance between us after my return. Our exchanges were distant, polite, only marginally improved with the case we were now to pursue together.

Still, I knew that something had irrevocably changed.

I did, however, learn from Munro that, after the closing of the case, the Chief Inspector had been immediately suspended from his position over his treatment of Brodie. An official investigation was pending over the brutal beating Brodie received and his incarceration in Scotland Yard, as well as Abberline's interference in the inquiry case into the murder of Ellie Sutton, and Stephen Matthews ten years earlier.

Abberline was presently awaiting trial on multiple charges at Scotland Yard, the very same place where he had Brodie imprisoned. I personally felt there was no one more deserving.

As for a conversation regarding the case or our parting afterward, there had been no opportunity. Or at least none that he was willing to have with me.

He had been courteous, almost as it was in the beginning with the first inquiry case we shared. There was a distance between us now that I wasn't certain could be overcome.

I had spent the past months saddened, then angry that he could not understand the reasons I had continued with the previous case no matter the risk rather than see him unfairly prosecuted. He would have done no less.

In the past few days, things between us had almost seemed as they were when we worked so well together, even though there was still that distance. As if there were an invisible wall he kept between us. Although, more than once, I had sensed there was something he wanted to say, yet did not.

"I will send round a message for Dooley and see what he might be able to learn about Herr Schmidt's brother-in-law."

Our driver made our way across London toward the Tower.

Then he added, "Perhaps with the information we now have, Sir Avery will be able to continue with others in the investigation, and we may both carry on with other things."

There it was again, that barrier.

I had to admit that I wouldn't have minded being released from my agreement with Sir Avery—that other piece of Brodie's anger toward me. Although, it would also bring to an end our work on the case, and perhaps our personal relationship as well?

Comments

0 Comments
Best Newest

Contents
Settings
  • T
  • T
  • T
  • T
Font

Welcome to FullEpub

Create or log into your account to access terrific novels and protect your data

Don’t Have an account?
Click above to create an account.

lf you continue, you are agreeing to the
Terms Of Use and Privacy Policy.