Chapter 8

I satin at the threadbare overstuffed chair in the flat in Drury Lane, and studied my new notes after our adventure at Charing Cross.

We had purchased food from a street vendor who had set up his cart near the theater, and brought it back to the flat.

The hound was quite content, asleep at my feet after all the excitement and devouring a sandwich of his own, then the remnants of mine.

Brodie sat across from me in the wood chair at the table, glass in hand. I had poured us both a dram of my aunt's very fine whisky that I had brought to the flat earlier.

"I know a man who might be able to tell me about that mark from the boot heel," Brodie commented.

Me? As in himself, as if he was the only person involved in this now. The man could be most irritating.

I took another swallow of whisky and, for now, chose not to comment on that.

I had explained Rupert's encounter the previous night at the town house. Brodie listened, unusually quiet, his mane of dark hair still wet after making thorough use of the washbasin, a cloth, and the soap he found there

"Aye," he commented. "Abberline, havin' ye watched."

There was a weariness about him I had not noticed before, in the way he pushed a hand back through his overlong hair. I caught a glimpse of grey among the dark waves.

Now, he took another sip of whisky, stroking that piece of dark blue wool between thumb and forefinger, thoughts hidden behind that dark gaze.

"Tell me about the boy," I said then.

That dark gaze met mine as I paused at the notes I was making.

He didn't reply right away, and I saw the shift of expression on his face, the frown line between those dark brows deepening. He took another drink.

"I received a telephone call from her that night from the hotel where she worked. She was about to leave after her shift and saw a man waiting...she had seen him before and after everything that happened years ago, it frightened her."

"Ellie Sutton," I commented. He nodded.

"I told her to stay at the hotel, but she refused because of the boy. He was alone at the flat on Charing Cross."

He continued to explain that he had gone there, but arrived too late. Ellie Sutton was already dead. And the boy?

"It had just happened, the police hadn't arrived yet. He was hiding there."

I tried to imagine what that was like for the boy, the horror of what he must have seen.

"I needed a safe place for him, and took him with me," he continued.

I waited, yet he didn't say where that safe place was. He seemed to know my thoughts.

"It's best ye not know, lass." He fingered that piece of wool. "Ye can see that Abberline willna stop to get at me, even through you. Not even you can stop him. Where the boy is now, even if I shouldna return for him, he will be safe enough."

That could have only one meaning—if he was unable to return.

"And his mother?" I asked.

"She was verra young when I first encountered her on the streets, near Lily's age," he continued.

"There was a difficulty with her father, and the mother turned her out." The frown deepened. "Not uncommon on the streets," he added, then paused.

"A woman I knew took her in, then found her work in one of the taverns."

According to Brodie, that same woman worked in one of the private gentleman's clubs—the Clarendon Sports Club. Ellie Sutton soon went to work there.

In the way that a pretty young girl might quickly be noticed, it was not long before she came to the attention of one of the club's prominent members, Stephen Matthews.

"I didn't see her for some time, and then she appeared at the flat that I had at the time." He stared into his glass as he swirled the whisky.

"There had been some difficulty with the young man, and she was forced to leave the club. She had a little money, but no place to go. She stayed for a while, then I returned from my shift one night and found a note.

"The young man had come for her with the promise of marriage."

"Stephen Matthews," I replied and explained the article about the first murder that I had found, written by Mr. Burke.

As I had learned from our inquiries such promises rarely came to pass, particularly if the young man was from a wealthy family, and the young woman was not. The scandals of the rich were swept under the carpet. She had returned with him to his private apartment at the club with devastating consequences.

She had witnessed his murder and fled, terrified. She went to the one person who had helped her before. She swore that she had nothing to do with Matthews' death, however she had seen the man who had murdered him.

Brodie was called in to investigate the murder. There were employees of the club who saw Ellie flee that night.

Rumors and speculation mounted. There was no other suspect. It was obvious that Ellie Sutton was going to be arrested.

Brodie needed time to find the murderer. He knew only too well what she would face if she was jailed.

"And she was going to have a child." I concluded the obvious.

"Aye."

Brodie refused to give her up to the police and helped her leave London. He left the MET shortly thereafter, amid accusations that he had tampered with evidence, namely the only person who saw what happened that night. Equally important, Abberline's efforts to solve the case and receive that coveted promotion disappeared as well.

"What about Inspector Morrissey, who was also part of the case?" I asked of the name I had read in the archives.

"Was he able to learn anything more after you left?"

"A good man." He poured himself more whisky. "With a family." He looked at me.

"When a man has a family, those he cares about, it changes things."

Was it possible that Inspector Morrissey had been threatened as well?

"He left the MET some time after and went to work with his wife's brother at a tobacco shop near Piccadilly Circus. I havena spoken with him since. I thought it best to leave the man be."

"Why did Ellie return after all this time when she was safe?" I asked.

He hesitated, then tossed back the rest of the whisky in his glass.

"There was no life for her where she was, and she felt it was important for the boy to know his family, though I warned her against it."

I sensed there was something more he might have said, but then decided not to speak of it. He picked up that piece of dark blue wool again and studied it.

"The hound?" he commented.

"He does have a particular dislike for the police. My guess would be there is a constable with a sizeable wound that needed a bandage," I replied.

Rupert was presently on the floor beside the chair, snoring. Although there was twitching and a sudden movement of the legs as if he was chasing down some victim in his sleep.

"There was someone else at the townhouse after ye left," Brodie said.

"I saw him across the way. I couldn't see him clearly, but enough to know it was not the police. He wore a suit with a bowler hat, and he was there long enough to smoke several cigarettes."

A description that might have been anyone, except that it also fit the description of the man Maisy told me about.

Sent by Abberline after the encounter of one of his men with Rupert? Or, by someone else?

I made a note of that.

"I want to speak with the writer for the Times who wrote the original newspaper article about Stephen Matthews' murder ten years ago," I said then. "There might be something that he learned afterward, or some piece of gossip from that night that could be useful now."

Before he could object, I continued. "Might Sir Avery be able to intervene in the matter now? So that you're not arrested?"

He shook his head. "I willna involve him or the Agency."

I tried again. "What about staff at the club? Other guests that night," I suggested. I assumed they were questioned at the time as well.

"I spoke with them at the time," he replied. "And as for other guests…"

I knew the answer to that. Most would have responded as far as it didn't involve them in the scandal of the young man's murder.

"Did Ellie describe the person she saw that night after Stephen Matthews was murdered?"

"No. She was young, terrified by what happened, as if she was in shock when she found me."

There was more I wanted to ask. Where had he been the past days? Where was he staying at night, was anyone helping him? How could I reach him if I found something important…?

All of that had to wait as Rupert suddenly leapt up, fur up on his back, his head cocked, as he went to the door.

When I would have said something, Brodie warned me to silence as he came out of the chair and followed the hound to the door.

"What did ye tell the landlady when ye came here?" he whispered.

"Nothing...I gave her a false name."

"Wot name?"

"Emma Fortescue." Perhaps not a good idea, as I now thought about it. Yet, I hadn't wanted to use to my real name, which would only have brought undue attention

"Emma...?"

Then he nodded. "Aye, and it seems that she must have said something to someone...the police are here. We need to leave!"

Wherever he had been, he was exhausted. We both were. None of it mattered as I grabbed the jacket and my bag.

Brodie continued to listen at the door. He shook his head, then glanced past me to bedroom and the window in the far wall that faced out to the back of the building.

"This way," he whispered. I followed with the hound right behind me.

He was able to force the window open, check the alley, then grabbed my hand. He gave me a leg up and I was scrambling out the opening with Brodie immediately after. Then he grabbed my hand. I caught a glimpse of Rupert as he leapt out the window and followed as we ran down the alley.

I did hate that we had to leave what was left of my aunt's very fine whisky.

Just beyond the theater, Brodie waved down a coach.

"Do ye have the fare?"

I nodded and he pulled the door open as the coach pulled alongside. I climbed inside, the hound just behind me. However, Brodie did not follow.

"Where are you going?" I asked.

He shook his head, he would not say.

"Ye need to go—you know where," he said then, that dark gaze intense. "And dinna give the driver the address until yer well past the district."

I did know where—Sussex Square, and very badly wanted him to come with me. We would find a way through this together. But I knew just as well that he would not.

"How do I find you if I should learn something important?"

Again he shook his head, then reached for my hand. His was warm, while mine was icy cold. I was afraid and I hated being afraid. Not for myself, but for him.

"I will find ye. Trust me." He gave a signal to the driver and the coach lurched away from the kerb.

Damn bloody stubborn Scot!

I knew exactly his meaning when we parted, he wanted me to go to Sussex Square.

I had not wanted to involve my great-aunt. Still, I knew that he was right. Sussex Square was almost a fortress, occupied by a woman whose ancestors included one of the first kings of Britain. And in spite of her age, she was quite formidable. If one of her own was threatened, I would not have put it past her to meet the ‘enemy' at the gate with a sword.

It was late in the evening when I arrived, the driver slowing to a stop at those massive gates.

"Are ye certain, sir?" he called down from atop the coach.

Sir? I almost laughed, and then assured him that this was the address. He then swung the coach through those gates and up the drive to the front entrance.

Sussex Square had been our childhood home for my sister and me after the deaths of both parents. To say being raised by our great-aunt was somewhat unconventional was a mild understatement.

My sister and I were provided with the finest of private educations, a year in Paris, summers at Old Lodge in the north of Scotland, as well as winters at our great-aunt's chateau in the south of France.

In between, there were the adventures that included hunting in the woods; masquerading as pirates, complete with a pirate ship on the green at Sussex Square; horse-back riding; and participating in our great-aunt's somewhat eccentric adventures. Those had included card readings and séances, with an odd assortment of friends and acquaintances that included several peers of the realm, the Queen's favorite cousin, and a notable admiral or two.

We thought it all quite normal. Didn't everyone have a pirate ship in the garden?

As a result I had learned long ago to expect almost anything when returning to Sussex Square.

That included her preparations for safari, which she was embarking on the following month.

As a young girl, our aunt had also lived for a time in the West Indies, as her father had been appointed governor of one of the islands for a time. There had been countless stories of her adventures on the island. Hence the pirate ship from our own childhood.

She had been ridiculed for it in one of the dailies, called eccentric, which I thought was a compliment. She didn't care a fig what other people thought. As Brodie had pointed out, that was undoubtedly where my view of certain things came from. I took that as a compliment as well.

My aunt's head butler, Mr. Symons, greeted me at the entrance to Sussex Square.

His stoic gaze took in my trousers, shirt, and jacket, and then the hound. There was only the slightest lift of one eyebrow.

"I will be staying for a few days," I informed him.

"Of course, miss," Mr. Symons said with a nod. "I will inform the staff to prepare a room."

That was hardly necessary.

"Saints preserve us!" greeted us as Rupert followed me into the great hall. If it involved saints, it could only be Mrs. Ryan.

She had appeared at the sound of my arrival—unusual for that time of the night, along with several servants, Munro, and my aunt.

"Hello, dear!" My aunt greeted me with a kiss on the cheek, as if she took no notice of my clothing. "It is always good to see you."

As if this was a social call for afternoon tea, cards, or perhaps a séance with her medium.

She glanced down at my bag and immediately told one of the servants to take it to the guest room in the west wing.

"Have you eaten, dear? We had a splendid bit of roast partridge for supper. And what of Brodie?"

What indeed?

The less everyone knew the better. Except for Munro. I did keep my answer brief.

"He is quite well, and off on a new aspect of a case."

That seemed to satisfy Munro. He nodded to me, then told my aunt that he would make certain the front gate was secure. I did notice then that he was carrying a rifle, the sort of weapon that might be used for hunting animals.

"Come along, dear," my aunt told me. "You look exhausted. I'll send up one of the girls with a nightcap. You do look as if you could use it. A bit of the whisky will help you sleep."

It was going to take a great deal of it, I thought. Tired as I was and worried about Brodie, I needed to think what was to be done next, if I was to help solve Ellie Sutton's murder and prevent him going to prison.