Chapter 13

It wasimportant to remember that I was with someone who had made a career of eluding the police along with Brodie as we slipped out the back of the manor.

There were no lamp posts or torches to light the way, only the hint of a moon and the faint crunch of our boot steps as I followed Munro to the green, following along the track my aunt had used earlier with her motor carriage.

We then passed the stables, with a faint nickering sound from the horses within, then beyond to the line of the forest I had explored countless afternoons as a child.

Munro switched on a hand-held light and guided the way through the twist and snarl of old trees and undergrowth that might have tangled around our ankles as we moved deeper through the wood.

As a branch scraped my cheek, I was thankful that I had changed into the trousers and jacket Templeton had provided.

I had ventured into the forest as a child but never this far, often returning from my adventures covered with mud, burrs, and scratches from brambles. However, it did seem that Munro knew precisely where he was going.

That ancient stone wall that surrounded the wood and the manor suddenly loomed up in front of us in the beam of the hand-held.

I had heard the stories about the manor and that ancient wall from my great-aunt. The original stone fortress had been built by none other than the Conqueror as a place to get away from the main fortress that became the Tower of London. Here, he could undoubtedly consort with all sorts, hunt, undoubtedly with debauchery included. The sort of things past kings had been known for.

The manor had been rebuilt with the original stones some centuries later by another ancestor. Yet, the wall that had been built to keep certain people out and others in, remained and provided those great adventures for me as a child.

It was impressive in height, well over ten feet, much taller here where the centuries had hidden it and others had not removed the top rows of stones over time, as they had done with the wall near the front gates.

The edges of the stones had been worn over time. There wasn't a foot-hold to be found. There didn't appear to be any way to climb up and then over it.

"Is there some other place?"

He shook his head and then moved low-hanging branches away from the wall to reveal a large iron ring embedded in a stone. He took hold of the iron ring and pulled. A portion of the wall slowly moved and then opened a gap in the wall.

"The smuggler's gate," he said, standing back from the portion of the wall that he had just opened.

I had heard stories from my aunt and had visions of swarthy adventurers in tricorn hats, brandishing flintlock pistols to anyone who might have discovered them, and could only wonder what those smugglers—no doubt an ancestor or two—might have taken through the gate.

Whisky perhaps?

"Where does this go?"

He said nothing, but stepped into that opening. I followed the beam of his light and stepped out onto what appeared to be a carriage path. Light from the sliver of a moon gleamed on an expanse of green on the other side of the path.

I had seen an old map that my aunt's father had made that included Sussex Square and a handful of estates that surrounded it in this part of London. Unless I was mistaken, the carriage path lay between the boundaries of Sussex Square and the estate of the Earl of Rossmore.

From past holiday events, I remembered the present Earl of Rossmore as a craggy old fool with bad teeth, who once thought to combine the two estates through marriage to my great-aunt. She was the one who called him a fool.

"As if I had need of someone who merely wanted the family fortune," she once said. "And the old fool has bad teeth. Nevertheless, I feel sorry for him at Christmas holiday. He has no family left. I believe they all fled in spite of his money. I wonder why?"

The Rossmore residence sat in darkened shadows, like an old woman. At the thought of those bad teeth, I shuddered, most appreciative that Brodie had excellent teeth.

"There doesna seem to be anyone about, and the roadway is just beyond," Munro said in lowered voice. He then looked up at the sky and that crescent moon still quite low. "We should be able to find a cabman there."

I nodded and we set off. It was obvious that he knew the way quite well.

The roadway led to the main thoroughfare that I had taken countless times to Sussex Square and then to the town house, and farther on to the office on the Strand.

We eventually were able to find a cabman.

"St. Giles," Munro told him.

"That's out of me way," the driver replied.

"There will be extra coin in it," Munro told him, and we climbed aboard.

St. Giles was the perfect place for someone who wanted to disappear. So dangerous even the police dared not patrol its streets.

It was a place of crumbling tenements side-by-side with doss houses, a beer hall, and any number of taverns where numbers were run and other transactions made by women with no other way to support themselves.

Munro jerked my cap even lower over my face.

"Keep yer head down, speak to no one, and stay close. Do ye ken?"

I nodded.

How we could possibly find Brodie here, among the shadows of buildings and other shadows that moved here—men, women, even children who appeared with thin grimy faces in the flickering light from a tavern, then disappeared just as quickly as we passed?

Then a hand clamped over my shoulder. Munro was there, even as I slipped my hand to my pocket and the revolver I'd slipped in there before leaving Sussex Square.

"Leave off!" he threatened, and the light from the tavern glinted off the blade of the knife in his hand.

Just as quickly as the man had appeared, he disappeared once more into the shadows.

"Come along," Munro said in a low voice. "And keep to the street, away from the buildings."

I nodded as we continued toward the glow of lights from a tall building at the end of the street. Laughter, music, and wild shouts spilled out onto the street in front of a beer hall, the lights inside hazy with smoke.

Munro climbed the steps and I followed. A man of equal size with a badly scarred face immediately blocked our way.

"That will be a quid to go inside," he informed Munro, then added, "Each." He held out his hand.

Munro shoved that hand aside, even as I saw the blade in his other hand, held low at his side.

"I'm here to see MacGregor."

"Who's here to see ‘im?"

"Munro, with a friend. Stand aside, or I'll cut ye from yer bollocks to yer gizzard."

The man grunted. "I've heard that name, along with another."

"Then, ye know well enough to stand aside," Munro replied.

"Wot is the trouble here?" another man asked as he came up behind the man at the door.

"This one says that he knows you. Don't know about the other one." He gestured to me.

"I know ‘im." The second man nodded to Munro. "Let ‘im pass, the other one too," he added with a look in my direction.

The beer hall was loud, raucous, and teeming with customers as we followed MacGregor to a long bar where he shouldered his way through, then stepped behind the counter.

"He's not about yet. What will you be havin'?" he asked Munro.

Munro nodded. "Beer."

I shook my head at the look the man then gave me.

Whether or not he saw through the disguise of my clothes, I had no way of knowing. There was no comment made. MacGregor, a fellow Scot by the name, simply accepted it.

"He's been gone since before noon. No way of knowin' when he will return," he informed Munro as he returned with a stout mug of beer.

"Anyone else about askin' for ‘im?"

MacGregor shook his head. "Only one of the gals wot has her eye on him." There was another look in my direction. "Not that it done her any good, if ye get my meanin'. He's only come back for a couple of hours each night in one of the rooms upstairs."

This with a glance toward a door which I assumed led to a stairway.

"Then off again, and with a look o' the devil about him. Not that Miss Mable is put off, ye ken?"

Munro angled a look at me, then told him, "We'll wait."

"Another pint?" MacGregor asked with a glance at the one that was now half empty.

"Aye."

As we waited, I kept the brim of my cap low, and looked about the crowded hall. Was Miss Mabel there, waiting for Brodie's return? I hoped not, and force back the twinge of anger at the thought.

That brought the next question—would he return that night, or remain somewhere out on the street, following yet another clue in the search for Ellie Sutton's killer?

I caught the rap of knuckles on the bar in front of Munro. MacGregor then angled a look toward the entrance.

Brodie. His head was down, his jacket buttoned to his throat as he made his way into the hall, past the man we had encountered. I then caught a sudden streak of movement toward him.

The woman was shorter than myself, with light brown hair piled atop her head. She wore a long gabardine skirt, stained about the hem, and a shirtwaist that was too small, with sleeves rolled back to her elbows.

There was obvious familiarity as she greeted Brodie with a hand laid against the front of his coat. His expression was one I had seen dozens of times when encountering someone on the streets—intense, a quick nod, then the brush aside of her hand, and the obvious disappointment at her face.

Miss Mabel, no doubt. And truth be known, I could hardly blame her for trying. Brodie was handsome, those dark eyes, the dark beard, and that intense look that gave him the appearance of someone who might be dangerous. His dark gaze fastened on Munro, and then me beside him.

To say that intense expression suddenly changed is an understatement. There was surprise, followed by what could only be described as anger as he recognized me with my coat and cap pulled low.

"What the devil?" The question aimed at Munro. "Have ye lost yer mind bringin' her here? And you!" he snapped, glaring at me.

"Best not here," Munro calmly replied with a jerk of his head in Mabel's direction. "Before there are too many questions."

It took all of Brodie's control not to say something, most likely very colorful. But there was something else there, something behind the anger.

"I have information," I told him, cutting off any further comment that would most likely have been a curse.

With a look about, he nodded. "This way."

We followed him to that door just off the bar. It opened into a short hallway, another door that possibly led to a storeroom, and a dimly lit staircase.

Brodie moved ahead, shielding me as a man passed by, adjusting his clothes. At the landing we heard muffled sounds and encountered a man and woman in the shadows who hadn't waited to reach a room. We quickly moved past to the stairs that led to the next floor.

He stopped at a room, unlocked it, and removed a sliver of paper that had been lodged between the edge of the door and the door frame. A clever precaution. If it fell, he would know that someone had entered while he was gone.

The room was dark and musty with a small window so badly smudged that a curtain wouldn't have been necessary. I heard the sound of him moving about, then the slow glow of a single electric light over a scarred table and a bed in the corner.

"I'll wait downstairs." Munro stood in the doorway behind me.

"I'll hear the reason ye brought her here," Brodie snapped.

"I made him bring me." As soon as the words were out, I realized how ridiculous that was. I doubted anyone had made Munro do anything.

He closed the door. "There are things she needs to tell ye, and other things ye need to know."

It was said in a way, with a certain sharpness, undertones I was certain had been formed years before by two young boys.

Brodie pulled a chair out from the table for me and I sat. He shoved the other one toward Munro with a single word, "Talk."

This was someone I had glimpsed, but didn't fully know; someone hardened by the streets, loss, and the things that he had done, and that were done to him. I saw it in his expression and the sharpness in that dark gaze at a sudden noise on the other side of the door. Just as suddenly, the noise was gone.

And I wondered about the other Brodie, the one I had stood beside in that simple ceremony in Scotland, who had comforted me countless times, and challenged me. He had opened his heart a small piece, and I had stepped in, when I had never needed or wanted someone in that way.

I had seen him take down a criminal, and gentle an injured child on the streets. He had shared a glimpse of his past with me, what made him who he was. And I had wanted more.

He could be maddening, overbearing, impossible to reason with. At the same time, he had only to say that one thing to me—"I will not have ye hurt, lass."

How did he know precisely how that melted my own anger, stubbornness, and whatever point it was that I was trying to make him understand?

I felt the weight of the medallion he had given me, where it lay against my skin under my shirtwaist—a simple token that meant more to him than anything else—and I wondered, who was he now?

I was about to find out.

He knew that I intended to pay a visit to the newspaper archive, and then with the writer who had covered the story about Ellie Sutton's murder.

"I spoke to Theodolphus Burke," I began. "He wrote about the case ten years before as well. Burke gave me the name of a man who worked at the Clarendon Club the night that Stephen Matthews was murdered. An usher by the name of Iverson. There is a possibility that he is still employed there. It will be simple enough to find out. It could be helpful to know if he saw anything the night Stephen Matthews was murdered that might be helpful now."

I paused, but Brodie said nothing.

"I then had Mr. Brimley inspect the tumbler I found in the flat in Charing Cross." I caught the sudden change in his expression, however I had no way of knowing what it meant.

"I also had him look at the toy locomotive that we found. He made several interesting observations—most particularly that the metal was stamped on the bottom. It seems that toys of that quality are often registered. I then went to Hamley's toy shop. The locomotive was purchased there and registered to the person who purchased it."

For the first time that dark gaze met mine.

"The entire train set of ten pieces, including the locomotive, was requested by Mrs. Adelaide Matthews—Stephen Matthews' mother. It would seem that she reached out to her grandson with that gift."

"Aye."

"Ellie Sutton was a witness the night Stephen Matthews was killed," I continued. "She left London to protect her child, then returned just over a year ago.

"It seems reasonable that after the death of their son and Ellie's disappearance, Mr. and Mrs. Matthews wanted a relationship with the child now that Ellie had returned to London. It's possible that she might have told them something. It could be useful to speak with them."

When I would have pursued it further, Munro asked, "What have ye learned about the man who was seen outside the town house in Mayfair?"

"I spoke with Dooley and Conner." Brodie shook his head. "They made inquiries with those they know who take on outside work from time to time. Men who provide private protection for those who want it."

"Whoever it was that I saw watching the town house isn't part of the MET."

Someone else then. But who? I thought. And what did it mean?

"What about that boot print we found at Charing Cross?" I asked.

"According to a bootmaker near the Strand, the boot is expensive, made of Italian leather. The sort usually worn by a gentleman or someone of means."

"What about Morrissey? Was he able to tell ye anything?" Munro asked of the former police inspector.

He shook his head. "I spoke with his wife. She was not pleased to see me, and she was scared. It seems that he had a visit from a man right after the news about Ellie's murder broke." He exchanged a look with Munro.

"He refused to discuss the man with her, only saying that it was regarding an old case."

"Did she see the man?" I asked. "Was she able to describe him?"

"She didna recognize him, but she did say that he wore a finely made suit and a bowler hat."

I thought about that. "Do you believe that he might have been sent by Abberline?"

That dark gaze narrowed on me, then went to Munro.

"Has something happened?"

"Abberline made a visit to Sussex Square earlier tonight," Munro told him.

Brodie was quiet, too quiet, watching me as Munro explained the conversation that had taken place at Sussex Square.

"He left two of his men at the front gates to watch for anyone who might arrive or leave. I made certain we were not followed when we left."

Brodie looked at him. "How might ye have done that?"

"Her ladyship's family has a most interesting history."

"And her ladyship?" Brodie asked with a frown.

"If Abberline was smart, which he is not, he would have been concerned for his neck instead of concerned about his future. A gowk to be certain." There was a faint smile.

"I would not want to wager against Lady Montgomery in a fight," he continued. "There is steel, aye? Beneath the satin and fine manners—sharp steel," he added with a look over at me.

Brodie nodded. "Aye."

Another look passed between the friends.

"I think I need another beer and food, if there's any to be had," Munro commented as he went to the door.

"Abberline interrupted supper." He let himself out.

"Gowk?" I asked, the word Munro had used to describe Abberline. It was one I had not heard before.

"It means fool, a simpleton."

"That perfectly describes Abberline," I replied.

"Aye." He was thoughtful. "Ye shouldna have come here. Munro could have brought word about what ye learned."

"We had that conversation," I admitted.

"And ye still took a chance."

"Munro found another way to leave Sussex Square."

"Without climbin' over the wall, even though yer dressed for it?"

I had missed this, our discussion about clues in a case, the conversation that went with it, the sound of his voice. And the way he valued what I had to say, even if he didn't always agree with me.

"There is another way out," I continued to explain our escape. "Munro called it a smuggler's gate, at the edge of the property."

"Aye, used in the past to avoid the tax man, most usually over contraband whisky." He shook his head. "I am not surprised."

Nor was I, considering one of my aunt's most lucrative business ventures.

"And then ye come here." He shook his head as he reached out and removed my cap. My hair fell to my shoulders. He shook his head.

"Mo lu uy," he said in Gaelic, thoughtful as he took a length of my hair in his fingers and stroked it.

I looked at him in question.

"Ye shouldna have come here...this place. If ye had been followed, yer fate might be the same…"

"But we weren't followed. And I have been in worse places," I replied. "The Church and the Vaults in Edinburgh."

He nodded. "Ye seem to have a penchant for such things. But it's no place for ye."

And where was my place, if not with him?

"And the people here…" he continued.

"Such as Mr. MacGregor?" I suggested. "And the man at the door? We might have been more welcome if I had worn a gown."

"Not a welcome ye would care for. The women here…" He hesitated again.

"Like Mabel?" I suggested. "She did seem to be most welcoming when you arrived."

He shook his head. "She is a good soul, but not one that I fancy. Do ye ken?"

"What sort might that be?"

He tugged at that handful of hair. "One that argues and doesna listen to what I tell her; with her notes and crazy notions; one who takes risks enough to drive a man insane…" He tugged again, pulling me closer.

"Someone who is not shy about tellin' me when I'm wrong about something or bein' foolish; one who is honest, and true, and good-hearted most particularly when it comes to others..." His fingers brushed my cheek.

"A lass with red hair..."