Chapter 1

"Mornin',Miss Mikaela," Mr. Cavendish greeted me as I arrived at the office on the Strand.

I smiled. It had been ‘Miss Mikaela' since our first meeting and still was, in spite of the change in my relationship with Brodie. And I was quite all right with it.

Before stepping down from the cab, I handed him the wrapped package that contained cakes as well as biscuits with sausage from breakfast that Mrs. Ryan, my housekeeper, had sent.

Food was always a good strategy to prevent my clothes from being muddied when Rupert the hound grinned a greeting at me from the sidewalk.

Others, Brodie in particular, would of course have argued that what I considered a grin was in fact a snarl. Nevertheless, Mr. Cavendish, keeper of the alcove and the latest word on the street, knew better, and so did I.

The hound and I had a special bond, although those same ‘others' who claimed to be such experts would have called it my imagination.

We had our own language which he usually obeyed. Usually, because there had been times when he was not of a mind to obey, most particularly in taking down an attacker on the street, for which I was most grateful.

There had been an extra basket of cakes for him after that episode, most particularly my housekeeper's sponge cakes which he was particularly fond of.

And, despite Brodie's argument against it, he had proven himself to be most capable in tracking down people—namely those of a criminal sort—in our inquiry cases.

He had also warded off other potentially dangerous situations when I was out and about London on my own—Rupert's presence a precaution Brodie insisted upon, despite his criticism of the hound's investigative talents.

"He's a bloody animal with a brain no larger than a walnut," Brodie had argued in one of our conversations.

"He has excellent instincts," I had replied in the hound's defense.

I had then pointed out that according to Mr. Brimley, who had studied medicine before opening his pharmaceutical shop, some of the human species—notably men—seemed to possess a brain no larger than a walnut.

To say that had not gone over well is an understatement. In his usual way after one of our conversations with differing opinions, Brodie had thrown up his hands, declared that there was no arguing with me, and had immediately changed the subject. I did so enjoy our conversations.

As for the previous day and several more before, Brodie had been deeply involved in our most recent inquiry case, regarding counterfeit currency that had been found circulating at several business establishments in London.

I had left him with his report to Sir Avery the previous afternoon, while I had followed up on an appointment with my great-aunt's personal banker, Aldous Trumble, at the Bank of England.

My great-aunt was also a stockholder of the bank, so our inquiries had a dual purpose, and I attended on her behalf.

"Not that I'm concerned about the matter," she had told me. "If the entire English currency was worthless, I always have the family jewels."

The familyjewels were a collection of gems, gold baubles, and other valuable pieces from over the centuries, and also included several pieces of armor and weapons that her lawyer insisted belonged in a museum rather than the game room at Sussex Square.

Her family included William the Conqueror, along with a list of other noteworthy and notorious persons, one well-known highwayman, and a pirate who had done some rather nasty business in the Caribbean.

I didn't ask how the family jewels had been acquired. Possibly best to leave that part of our family history just that—to history.

She did have a particular affection for Scotland, that wild, untamed place, just as I did, and was in favor of self-rule. I had visions of family treasure hidden in some cave near Old Lodge in Scotland.

"The English tried to conquer Scotland," she had once told me over one, or possibly several, drams of whisky produced at Old Lodge, her estate in the north.

"But they will never conquer that spirit. Take Mr. Brodie for example, or Mr. Munro."

Mr. Munro was manager of her estates, and had a somewhat shadowy past that included Brodie.

The short version of their boyhood together on the streets of Edinburgh had included working odd jobs to get by until they found their way to London.

The somewhat longer version, that I eventually learned from Brodie, had included a bit of petty thievery—mostly food, occasionally a coin or two someone had dropped on the street, and running numbers for gambling.

And then there was murder, most particularly in the case of Brodie's mother, that had left him to the care of his grandmother for a short time.

As for Munro's history before he joined Brodie in that life of crime, that was, as they, say a somewhat blank slate.

His background, dealing with all sorts, made him the perfect manager of my great-aunt's estates. There was never a farthing or a keg of whisky unaccounted for, or the party responsible was made to account for it. I didn't ask how that was done, only that the party involved was not seen again, according to my great-aunt.

"He takes care of the matter," she had once explained. "I don't ask the details."

And in consideration of my great-aunt's somewhat eccentric life, from rumors of a wild girlhood, three marriage proposals—none accepted—and the ‘love of her life,' who had disappeared under somewhat mysterious circumstances and about whom little was known, I didn't pry.

It was my aunt's connections and long history with the Bank of England that facilitated my meeting with the stockholders of the bank regarding the counterfeit currency that had surfaced about London.

The currency had first been discovered some weeks earlier, through banking made by a reputable merchant, and then several other subsequent incidents.

It appeared that it was not a crime of some low-level amateurs as first thought. The counterfeit notes were of extremely fine quality that had been difficult to recognize unless one was familiar with such things, and always the same in twenty- and fifty-pound notes.

That had prompted the bank's president to contact the Agency. In the weeks since, counterfeit hundred-pound notes had begun to appear. The total, as far as could be determined, could have a devastating effect on the economy and in trade abroad. It was a most serious affair.

I had not seen Brodie since the previous afternoon and wanted to update him on my meeting with the stockholders.

He previously resided at the office on the Strand, where I stayed over from time to time in our past inquiries. Of late, he had been spending more and more time at my town house in Mayfair even though I knew that he was not comfortable with the arrangement.

"I will not have people thinkin' that I am livin' off ye," he had commented over a supper of my housekeeper's Irish stew—a favorite that had persuaded him to stay at the time.

I pointed out that I could just as easily move to the Strand, which had not gone over well either.

"And have people thinkin' that I canna take care of ye?"

Take care of me? It was something that I found amusing. The question of where to live had not resolved itself.

For now, I had the town house in Mayfair and he had the office on the Strand.

"Is he about?" I now asked Mr. Cavendish.

He shook his head. "Not since late the evening before, miss. He left real sudden. Didn't say where he was going. He hasn't been back."

That seemed somewhat curious, although it wasn't unusual for Brodie to be out and about on some matter or another, particularly with a new case, and most particularly for Sir Avery at the Agency.

It was possible that he had returned later and decided to stay over at the office, unnoticed by Mr. Cavendish, who was in the habit of frequenting the local taverns until quite late of an evening.

I gave the hound a scratch behind the ears and headed for the stairs that led to the office on the second-floor landing. I unlocked the door and stepped into the office.

It looked much as it had when I left the previous afternoon. A pot sat on the coal stove, the contents quite cold. A file folder had been returned to the cabinet, obviously somewhat hastily, part of the folder protruding from the edge of the drawer.

A note pad lay on the desk where it appeared that Brodie had been making notes. And the adjacent bedroom was empty at a glance, the bed neatly made. Whatever the reason, it did appear that Brodie had not returned the previous night.

I looked at the blackboard where it had become a habit for me to make my notes when we were working on a case.

To his credit, Brodie found it to be useful and had taken to adding his own notes. If there had been a development in the counterfeit case, there was nothing new written on the board to indicate that.

Whatever reason, he had obviously left the office quite suddenly, as Mr. Cavendish described. However, at a glance, there was nothing to indicate what that was.

I removed my gloves and laid them on the desk. I had received a message this morning from Mr. Trumble, president of the bank, that a man with an account for his business had made a deposit that had contained a good amount of counterfeit notes.

He claimed to know nothing about the fifty- and hundred-pound notes. Still, Mr. Trumble thought it might be important to speak with him.

I had sent round a note to the customer who owned the well-known leather goods shop just near St. James's, and hoped to meet with him later in the day.

With the intention of adding the man's name to the board, I opened the right-hand desk drawer that contained Brodie's pouch of tobacco, an assortment of bits and pieces of paper with notes scribbled on them that he was in the habit of writing down, and a box of chalk.

Still, two items were very obviously missing—his revolver, and the hand-held lamp he carried when out and about at night.

It was a habit to carry both since his time with the MET, encountering all sorts of criminal types on the street as a police inspector, and then in his own inquiry business.

He had also provided me with a small revolver that I carried in my travel bag, along with a particularly impressive knife Mr. Munro had given me when I set off on my first travel adventure some years before.

"I almost pity the man who makes the mistake of approaching ye," Mr. Munro told me at the time. Then added, "Almost."

Since Brodie was not at the office, there was nothing to do but make my notes, then leave a message for him before I departed for my meeting with the owner of the leather goods shop.

I spent the next hour at the chalkboard, making notes that included my most recent conversation with Mr. Trumble at the bank regarding the other counterfeit notes that had now surfaced across the city. That also included a significant amount of counterfeit notes found at City Bank, Barclay Company, and Westminster Bank, in addition to the Bank of England.

It was very near midday when the service bell on the landing rang, an invention by Mr. Cavendish, installed to let us know when someone arrived.

I barely had time to set down my pen from the notes I was making on my notepad when Constable Dooley entered the office.

He was not wearing his uniform. Instead he was plainly dressed, in the trousers and jacket that he wore when working on some matter for Brodie. He looked quite flustered.

"Pardon, miss. I called round to Mayfair this mornin' and was told I might find you here. Have you heard from Mr. Brodie? There's somethin' I need to let him know," he added, quite urgently.

Constable Dooley had worked with Brodie when he was with the MET. He'd remained a good friend since, as well as being an ‘inside' source for information, as Brodie called it, in past inquiry cases. And neither of them had any regard for Chief Inspector Abberline of the Metropolitan Police.

The Chief Inspector was a political animal, as Brodie referred to him, far more keen on becoming the next Commissioner of Police than solving crimes, unless it could advance his career. I had encountered just that side of the man in the matter of my sister's disappearance two years before.

And he had a particular dislike of Brodie. Their enmity went back to the last investigation he had participated in just before he left the MET, some issue which Brodie chose not to speak of.

"The past is the past," he had told me, when the matter came up during that first case to find my sister. Abberline had been less than cooperative in the matter, trivializing her disappearance as undoubtedly a ‘marital disagreement.'

It was the first inquiry case where I joined Brodie, refusing to be set aside by a bureaucratic imbecile with the intellect of a centipede—the Chief Inspector, not Brodie. Although I will admit that Brodie had been reluctant to have my participation.

Actually, reluctant was a bit of an understatement. He had initially refused to allow me to join the search at all, and then had conceded only when I informed him that I would carry on by myself.

During that investigation, I had eventually convinced him that I had something valuable to contribute, in addition to the fact that I could take care of myself in most any situation. That was still a point of discussion that came up from time to time. I was working on that.

Now, it seemed that something serious had most definitely happened. Had Brodie gone off to pursue some piece of information in the counterfeit case and then found himself in a bad situation?

Granted, that was not like him. Brodie was thorough, careful, and far too experienced in matters of crime to be caught in a dangerous situation.

An accident perhaps?

"Do you know where Mr. Brodie is?" Mr. Dooley repeated. "It's important."

"No," I replied. "What is it? Is there a message I can give him when I see him?"

Mr. Dooley was exceedingly uncomfortable.

"I need to warn him. It's most urgent, miss."

An uneasy feeling tightened my stomach as he twisted his cap in his hands, obviously reluctant to tell me. Yet, I have been known to be most persistent.

"Warn him about what?" I demanded. He was still reluctant.

"Since I may very well be the first one to speak with him, you must tell me what this is about."

I had to admit that he looked quite distressed.

"It's the Chief Inspector…he has a warrant for Mr. Brodie's arrest, and a good many of the men in the department searching for him. He has a man on his way here now."

Arrest?

"For what?" I demanded.

Mr. Dooley shifted uncomfortably, and the uneasiness tightened in my stomach.

"For murder."