Chapter 18

Eighteen

MIKAELA

I arrived somewhat late at the Theater Royal where the cabaret was to be held for that one-night performance.

My friend, Templeton, no stranger to theatrical performances, was to join us, for hopefully a performance that was to be as the playbills about the district had advertised—an evening of music, with the ladies and gentlemen of the cabaret troupe providing an exciting and oftentimes bawdy entertainment.

Aunt Antonia had dressed the part.

"I have attended such performances in the past, in Paris," she had explained when we first made plans to attend. "Of course, that was some time ago. Quite entertaining and risqué."

The evening promised to be quite remarkable for more than the sort of entertainment that it provided the people of London, including several well-known members of polite society. And also, for a reunion, if it could be called that, between my very good friend and Mr. Munro.

They had shared a somewhat fiery relationship in the past—that was the only word for it.

Any doubts in that regard disappeared completely at the discovery of a particular piece of furniture at Templeton's country home quite by accident.

It was in the matter of a previous inquiry case, and the circumstances had taken Brodie and me to Surrey. It was in the course of that case that we discovered the rather bold painting on the headboard of her bed.

There was no mistaking the images of the two persons painted there. The artist, whoever it was, could have rivaled DaVinci.

As I was saying…

I heard someone call out and was immediately seized about the shoulders and pulled into a heavily perfumed embrace.

"He assured me that you would be here, tonight," Templeton exclaimed. "It has been too long with you and Mr. Brodie off and about on the Continent."

Considering that greeting, he could only be Sir William, William Shakespeare that is, her muse.

"And he has shared the most amazing rumor!"

I could only imagine what that might be.

"Her ladyship and a young woman arrived some time ago…" she continued, looping her arm through mine and drawing me to the line of attendees who were eager to enter the theater.

"You could have told me that Mr. Munro would be accompanying them," she said in a somewhat peevish tone.

"I would have thought that Sir William would have provided that information," I replied.

She gave me a sideways look. "There was not a word before. I have discovered that he can be quite mischievous at times. I have come to the conclusion that he likes to play tricks on me."

"Oh my," I commented. "A bit of discord from the spirit world?"

"You know it's true. He has been helpful from time to time in your inquiry cases."

That was open to question. However, the timing of those two particular incidents did make me wonder about the truth of it.

"Has he been well?" Templeton then asked.

I assumed it was not Sir William she was inquiring about.

"You might ask him yourself," I suggested as we joined my great-aunt, Lily, and Mr. Munro.

"This is verra exciting," Lily exclaimed as she grabbed me by the hand.

I thought that rather an understatement as I saw the looks that passed between Mr. Munro and my friend.

Explosive might have been a word to describe it, or possibly cataclysmic , as there was a violent crash of thunder overhead. The sky opened at that exact moment, and what had been a steady drizzle turned into a downpour just as we entered the theater.

The cabaret performance was an enormous success, if response from the audience was any indication, including Lily.

There was music, a troupe of dancers, short theatrical performances played for humor, and a bit of scandalous teasing among the characters of a pantomime, along with a bit of magic performed, and a daring burlesque that I thought might set proper London society on its ear.

Throughout, my great-aunt hooted with laughter and exchanged looks with me, and Lily was rarely in her seat as she clapped and cheered the performers along with a good many in the audience.

I thought of Brodie. I do believe that he would have enjoyed it, quite different from opera or the usual stage performances in London theaters.

More than once, I caught the stolen glances between Templeton and Munro, along with bits and pieces of conversation impossible to hear over the music and singing.

I had thought everything quite finished between them some months earlier over some matter that might have had to do with Ziggy, her iguana.

Yet, apparently not by the heated glances that passed between them. By heated , it was by no means angry, but more of the smoldering sort that I had written about in one of my novels.

I suppose it did one good to smolder from time to time. I thought of Brodie again, and wondered if it ever went away, that feeling that was almost like a longing.

I wished that for my friend, who in the time I had known her, had entertained the company of others, including the Prince of Wales, if rumors were to be believed. And then simply left, never looking back, according to what she had once told me. Tonight she had looked back, several times.

I returned to Sussex Square with Lily and my great-aunt. Upon arriving, Mr. Symons informed me that a courier had brought round a message.

I opened the note from Sir Laughton.

Through my clerk's efforts I have learned that John Mortimer Esq. was the attorney for Simon Harris, and still is for the Harris estate, including the Harris Trust.

Through somewhat creative negotiations, I have acquired the trust late this evening. I look forward to you calling on the office in the morning.

Somewhat creative negotiations? I could only imagine what that might mean.

Still, it was good news, and I was hopeful the details of the trust might reveal something important to our inquiry case.

I looked up from my aunt's desk in the library of Sussex Square at a sound and discovered Lily peering tentatively around the edge of the door.

It was late when we returned and my great-aunt had immediately gone up to her rooms.

"So much excitement this evening!" she had exclaimed. "I do wonder if we might have such a performance for Linnie and James's reception after the wedding."

Oh, my. That could be most exciting.

My sister had declined to attend the evening with the excuse there were too many details of the forthcoming wedding to see to. I had my own suspicions, of course.

What details, I was tempted to inquire, could be handled of an evening and not left to the morning?

No doubt, one of those details that needed ‘attending' was James Warren, her fiancé, who just happened to also be my publisher. But who was I to remind her of proper pre-wedding behavior, when Brodie and I…

As I was saying, Lily now looked at me with a most serious expression, quite the opposite of her excitement through the evening.

I invited her into the library. I did hope this was not one of those serious conversations that girls who are rapidly becoming young women are curious about. With the memory of my own curiosities at very near her age, I was not prepared for those conversations quite yet.

Still, I reminded myself that Lily had far different experiences than I had by the age she was at now. Being raised in a brothel could give one a particular view of things.

"I've been meanin' to ask ye somethin', and I wanted to speak with ye before ye left this evenin'."

She sat on the chair at the end of the desk.

"It's about Miss Lenore's wedding."

I could have sworn I heard a sigh of relief from ‘someone' in the room.

"What would you like to know?"

"I heard from one of the house maids that it's most usual for people to give gifts to the bride and groom at the wedding."

I continued to listen.

"I have money from my work at The Church before I came to London. I want to buy a gift for Miss Lenore and Mister Warren. Problem is I don't know what might be right, or where I might purchase somethin'."

Dear girl, I thought. She had come from nothing, living on the streets as a small child, taken in by the madam at a converted church in Edinburgh, where she worked as a maid with the usual prospect of working in a brothel when she was old enough.

Only the fact that The Church had burned down had changed that prospect, after which I invited her to come to London.

Still, when she arrived, she had only the dress she wore and another one that was already too small, along with those few coins that she had earned from the ladies, doing their laundry and helping with other maid services.

I knew what those few coins meant to her, and yet she sat before me quite serious about purchasing a wedding gift. It was unlikely those few coins would be enough for the usual sort of gift.

"I see," I replied, and I did.

The girl was proud and spirited. Not the sort to be coddled or lied to. Still, I saw the look on her face and in her eyes. This was obviously something that was very important to her. And something that Brodie had reminded me of even as he agreed to bringing her from Edinburgh.

"I know ye and I know yer not the sort to take on something without thought. But ye need to understand that her life has not been easy. It will be up to ye and meself to help her find her way in this new life, much like havin' a child.

"And for all her boldness and spirit, there's a fear underneath it all that she might be thrown away again. Be certain that this is for her and not for yerself."

I was certain then, and now. I suppose it might have come from my own early experience, that feeling that my sister and I had been thrown away. Whatever it was, I wanted Lily to have an opportunity for a different life than the one she'd been handed.

I gathered my thoughts. There seemed to be only one thing to do under the circumstances.

"Then we should go shopping for a gift."

"Where?"

She had been to the dressmakers and the shoemakers with my great-aunt; however, those things were necessities, and quite boring truth be told.

"We shall go to Harrods," I told her. I then described the department store that offered everything from exotic food to perfume, jewelry, furniture, and included a lady's salon.

"The ladies at The Church wore a lot of perfume when they were entertainin'."

I could only imagine.

"We will go after Mr. Brodie and I have completed the inquiry case," I told her then. That was most important now, and I was hopeful that we might be able to conclude it. She understood.

"Then we will make a day of it," I promised her. "We will have lunch in the restaurant and see what we may find for a gift." I was confident there would be no difficulty there.

She nodded. "Will Mr. Brodie come as well?"

I could almost hear his response, something very colorful about ladies shopping.

"Probably not. Now, you must tell me how you are coming along with your reading lessons." My great-aunt had mentioned that Lily attempted to claim the book in question, a rather cumbersome historical volume, had somehow been misplaced and she had no idea where it was.

"Your tutor will be returning tomorrow and will expect a progress report."

Even as I said it, I couldn't believe the words that came out of my mouth. By the expression on her face, Lily obviously felt the same as I had, reading stuffy old books written by stuffy old men, when I preferred Jane Austen and Mr. Dickens.

"I'm reading another book that her ladyship assured me would be all right," she added, avoiding a direct question about the ‘missing' book. At the excited expression on her face, I was almost afraid to ask.

"It's an adventure story written by a lady by the name of Emma Fortescue. It's real excitin'."

Well… that was most interesting.

"Which book?" I inquired. "I hear that s he has written several," I did hope that it was not the one with the adventure in the Greek Isles.

"It's the one about a long train trip across Europe and the dangerous people she meets in a place called..." She tried to pronounce it.

"Istanbul?" I suggested.

"That is the one, right enough. Have ye read it?"

"I have heard of it."

That particular novel was one of the less ‘adventuresome' sort. At least as far as handsome strangers were concerned.

"I suppose that will be all right," I added, knowing full well from my own reading experiences that it would do no good to ban her reading other books. She would undoubtedly find a way to read them anyway.

I sighed. We were no blood relation, yet as both Brodie and my great-aunt had pointed out, we were very much alike. It did seem that now the shoe was very much on the other foot.

Brodie went out onto the landing of the office.

It was late, verra late, and still no word from the Mudger. He had told the man to return no later than nightfall, as the chances of finding Thomas Brown or any of his people would run afoul of the weather. And now it was well into the night.

He cursed as he returned to the office. Wot was keeping the Mudger? Had he encountered Brown and several of his men?

He could handle himself well enough with one or two. Brodie had seen it himself. Or had there been an accident of some sort?

With the weather anything was possible, the man navigating that bloody platform about as if he had a death wish. And wot of the hound? That bloody, smelly, vagrant.

Did the beast know enough to return to the Strand if there was a difficulty?

He had before, but then it was possible that something had happened to him as well, given Brown's reputation… if the Mudger was able to find the man.

He heard both sounds almost at the same time—a frantic scratching at the door of the office and the bell clamoring out from the landing. When he opened the door, the hound charged past and shook himself off in a puddle of water on the floor of the office.

He could have sworn the beast grinned up at him. Mikaela had taught him to do that, he was convinced of it. She had a bond with the beast from the beginning, feeding him biscuits and sponge cake.

He went out on the landing and then down the stairs where the Mudger waited on the sidewalk.

"I told ye to take care not to be out late o' the night. Was there trouble?"

"You also asked me to find someone," the Mudger pointed out.

"Ye found him, then."

"One of his men first, on the street, then the man himself, holed up in an old tenement like the king himself—beg pardon to Queen Vic."

The Mudger grinned up at him and Brodie could have sworn there was a resemblance to the hound.

"Had to persuade his man. Between me and the hound we got the message across just who we wanted to speak with, and not one of Brown's other men."

"He agreed to meet?"

He nodded. "It seems the two of you have had some dealings before. He said you were to come alone. For some reason he doesn't trust you."

That worked both ways.

"Where?"

The Mudger gave him the information. If he failed to show within the next two hours, there wouldn't be another opportunity.

Not the best of situations, Brodie thought. Still, a man like Brown with his fingers in several different pies, might have information about the fire and the man whose business had once rivaled the other trade companies.

"Aye."

He returned to the office and grabbed his coat, a patched and worn piece that looked as if it might have been pulled from the charity bin, then pulled his cap low. He checked the revolver in his pocket and the knife sheathed down the side of his boot. When he reached the bottom of the stairs, the Mudger was waiting. He looked up from under the brim of the derby hat.

"I'm goin' with you."

Brodie shook his head. "He told ye that I was to come alone."

The Mudger squinted up through the driving rain that created halos around the street lamps and filled the gutters.

"There's some that say I'm only half a man, with me legs gone."

"No," Brodie was firm in his decision. "Ye've done well enough for the night, just findin' the man. If there's trouble, I'll handle it."

"Alone?"

"I was raised on the streets," he reminded the Mudger. "There isn't anything the man can try that I havena seen, or done myself."

"That may be so, but I wouldn't want to have to answer to Miss Mikaela if anything was to go wrong. The woman has a temper."

That she did, Brodie thought with a faint smile as he waited for a cab or possibly a drayman still out in spite of the weather.

"He didn't say nothin' about the hound," the Mudger pointed out with a sly expression.

Brodie looked down at the hound. The beast had followed him back down the stairs and then dragged something long dead out of the alcove. He knew the animal was good in a fight, and he had found Mikaela in the course of a previous inquiry. Still…

"That one?"

"He'd serve you well, Mr. Brodie. With just a word or two."

"A word or two?"

The Mudger hooked a thumb over his shoulder in the direction of the hound.

"He knows three words that Miss Forsythe taught him. The first is ‘ stay ,' the second one is ‘ come ,' and the third one is ‘ kill .'"

Some men's wives kept docile cats to take care of mice. His taught the beast commands that rivaled what a man might use. And then there was that whole argument about his ability to find someone.

He had insisted that it was an accident or luck. She had proceeded to prove him wrong with an example of the hound's fine hunting skills.

"He mostly ignores the first command," the Mudger continued. "But he's sharp on the second one."

"And the third?" Brodie asked.

"Ah, well, He gets a bit excited with that one. You only have to say it but once, then don't get in his way."

He caught the sound of the horse-drawn wagon, then sight of the coal man retuning from his last stop.

"The hound will do you well, sir," the Mudger continued. "And knows his way through most of the East End if there should be trouble."

"Come along, then," Brodie told the hound as he waved down the coal man and asked for a ride to the end of the Strand, where he would be able to find a cab. He climbed aboard the seat and the hound clamored after, tail wagging.

It took the better part of an hour to get from the Strand to the location where Brown had told the Mudger he would meet with him.

More than once, he was certain the man lied. Payback, perhaps, for that previous encounter, and then Brown's men would remind him of it in their own well-known way when he arrived.

Brodie had looked the other way once before when he was with the MET, a decision at the time to save what mattered most—more than fifty barrels of wine that had escaped the tax man, or the life of a young boy badly injured in Brown's scheme. Verra likely he would have died if Brodie hadn't gotten him to Mr. Brimley.

Afterward, Brown kept his contraband barrels of wine for a hefty profit, the tax man lost out on substantial revenue, and the boy recovered. And Brodie knew that he'd made the right choice.

The way he figured it now, Brown owed him. However, the man's memory might be short in that regard.

He left the wagon after they crossed into Holborn and continued afoot, the hound loping along beside him. More than once, he considered it a fool's errand to bring the animal.

He'd grown up on streets like this, lights from single lanterns burning dim in most windows, the sudden scurrying among the shadows, both man and beast. And he'd learned what it took to survive.

It hardened one, forced them to close off things that might have mattered, and search out those things that could ease the pain for a few hours, a night, and then back out on the street. And he had learned those lessons well—stay, come, kill.

They served him well when he was with the MET because, unlike many of those who patrolled the streets, he knew what was out there, what waited, what mattered and what didn't.

Until a woman, who wasn't like the others out there, wasn't afraid of the dirt and filth, and didn't turn away from the hard reality of the streets… didn't turn away from a man like him...

He found the street the Mudger told him to look for, then that tenement with the light that glowed in the third window from the right on the second story window.

He checked the revolver, then moved the knife from his boot to the back waist of his trousers.

"Stay," he ordered the hound, then crossed the street.

He avoided the main entrance of the tenement and instead circled around to the back. There, he caught a movement in the shadows, waited until the man moved and circled round to the front, then climbed the stairs to the service entry and slipped into the building.

Brodie glanced both directions in the dimly lit hallway, then at the stairs. The sound of voices guided him to the flat with that third window that he'd seen from the street below.

He didn't knock then wait for permission to enter. Instead, he opened the door, catching those inside by surprise. Two men nearby scrambled and would have drawn weapons, while the man he had come to see slowly recovered his surprise, then grinned.

"Mr. Brodie, we meet again."

They exchanged careful greetings, much like two men in an arena circling one another, taking each man's measure, and attempting to decide when to land the first blow.

"The Mudger tells me that you are looking for information." Brown smiled. "I am flattered that you would think of me."

Brodie kept a watchful eye on the other two men, as well as the one in front of him.

"Keep both hands where I can see them," Brodie told him.

Brown slammed both hands down on the table and let out a roar of laughter.

"What is it that brings you here, Brodie?"

"A favor that ye owe me in the matter of fifty-odd barrels of verra high priced wine that ye saw a good profit from," he reminded him.

There was a slow nod. "Perhaps. That depends on the favor."

"Information about a fire some years ago at a warehouse at St. Katherine's Docks."

Brown nodded. "Harris Imports. A large loss that would have made a nice profit if I had been in charge."

"The story is it was an accident, a horrible tragedy, with Harris dyin' in it that night."

"That is the story."

"And his man, Mr. Carney, who worked for him then, and still does, all these years later."

Brodie saw the change in Brown's expression, the way his eyes narrowed and sharpened, even as he casually asked. "And what might your interest be?"

Brodie took the piece of burnt wood from his pocket and laid it on the table. Brown picked it up, rubbing his fingers along the wood then smelling it, much as Brodie had. He shrugged.

"That piece of wood tells a different story," Brodie commented.

Brown motioned both of his men out of the flat. But undoubtedly no farther than a shout away. It was what he would have done.

"Harris Imports," Brown commented. "I heard about it at the time. A pity to be certain, all that cargo up in smoke. And now you have this piece of wood.

"You ask yourself why would a successful and wealthy man set fire to his own warehouse, and then die in it as well, his daughter murdered and then the death of his wife shortly after. I suppose grief can be a powerful thing."

For some, Brodie thought. But the man before him? That was highly questionable.

"And now your suspicions about that fire, and the two murders of those young women."

Brodie's gaze narrowed. The idea that there might be a connection had been there from the beginning, that single rose left behind connected them. However, both he and Mikaela felt like they were stumbling about in the dark with nothing that made any sense.

Yet, as he had learned in his work for the MET, there was always something, even seemingly random, that connected things. It was just a matter of digging deep enough and learning what that flower left behind meant.

Brown nodded as he continued to inspect that piece of wood. "There is a smell about it, even after all this time. A bad smell I would say, particularly when Carney has built up a sizeable side business."

"What sort of side business?" Brodie inquired.

"The sort that avoids the larger docks and the tax man, and brings a right smart profit."

"For whom, with Harris dead these long years?"

"That would be the question." Brown replied. "I encountered the man on a trip regarding interests of my own. Seems it is a regular occurrence at Queen's Dock, and he's made an arrangement with the owner of the warehouse next to the those burnt ruins to store the goods when he moves them.

"The man is not what you would consider honest, nor intelligent, but he is loyal to a point, and greedy, and therefore dangerous," he added.

"It's hard to find a trustworthy man, one who can think for himself when the situation requires it," he continued while Brodie put together the pieces of what he was telling him.

"I wouldn't trust the two I sent out into the hallway farther than I could throw either one," Brown admitted. "Or the one you obviously made it past downstairs. Then there is yourself." He smiled.

"You're just the sort I need. You have worked both sides. You know how the system works, the sort of people I deal with. You have the reputation for being straight up and not afraid of anything or anyone."

Brodie watched him, the way the man stretched his legs out, hands still on the top of his desk, and that smile.

"Yer offering me employment?" he asked simply because it seemed ridiculous.

"I would call it a partnership," Brown replied. "I want to expand my business interests, and it occurs to me that it could be profitable for both of us. And it's not as if you are still with the MET. Barrels of wine would be considered only the beginning."

A man with ambitions. He wanted to laugh, but didn't.

"I have my own business, and it suits me well enough."

"You haven't asked me what I might know about the two murders—the Rose Murders, that fool at the Times called them."

Brodie didn't care to be indebted to the man. He preferred it the other way around. But if there was something the man knew about the murders…

"What do ye know?"

"I know that one was the daughter of the magistrate, Sir Mallory, and the other the daughter of Judge Cameron. And then the flower that was left on each body. No common street criminal would waste time on such a thing. A reasonable man might ask himself what do they have in common?" He smiled.

"You have what you wanted now?"

Brodie nodded. That and more, he thought, the meeting obviously at an end.

"It now seems that you owe me a favor," Brown casually mentioned as he sat back in his chair.

There was that smile, but not the sort that anyone who knew him would want to see across a table.

"There is a man, Carstairs, who has worked for me in the past. He got caught by a young constable eager to make marks for himself and unaware who he was dealing with."

"Go on," Brodie told him.

"He's in the Old Bailey under a sentence of five years. I hear that you know people in certain places who can assist with a word or two from you."

He was speaking of Sir Avery with the Agency—the man did know things. A favor then, for the information he'd just learned.

"I will see what can be done."

It was as far as he was willing to agree, with the certainty that it would require another arrangement with Sir Avery, something he had hoped to avoid.

Brown nodded. "I'm curious," he then added. "Do you still carry the knife yer partner in crime gave you?"

Brodie didn't bother to respond.

"I thought as much," Brown answered his own question. "I warned my men and while I am fairly certain they could eventually take you down, not before losing a leg or an arm. You have the reputation, Brodie."

He stood then, a tall, broad-shouldered man, with tattoos down the length of both arms, and cold, hard gaze.

"You know where to find me when you have word about Carstairs." He held out a hand.

It was like shaking hands with the devil.

Brown nodded. "And that offer for work stands."

Brodie was cautious as he left the building the same way he had entered, with revolver in hand. The only surprise was that the man at the back entrance was no longer there.

He crossed the street. The hound was still there and looked up at him expectantly.

"There'll be no fight tonight," he told him.

The hound whimpered. He could have sworn the beast was disappointed.

It was well after midnight as he left Holborn, the hound beside him, and found a driver on his way back to the service yard. He climbed aboard and the hound followed.

He nodded to the Mudger as they returned to the Strand and the hound leapt down from the coach. Then he climbed the stairs, still carrying the damp and cold from the past hours on the back streets and a past that he had left behind, but not far enough.

He didn't expect her to be there. She had left a note and then gone to Sussex Square. Still, there she was, stirring now under the covers of the bed as he set the bolt on the door, then hung his coat.

"Are you all right?" she sleepily asked, then he saw the faint glow of the bedside lamp as she turned up the flame.

A simple enough question that they'd each asked each other before when out and about on an inquiry case.

He didn't immediately reply as he returned the revolver to the drawer in the desk, then pulled the knife from the waist of his trousers and placed it there as well.

Then he went into the bedroom with its bare floor, simple furnishings, and the shade pulled low on the window with the sound of icy rain upon the glass.

He took off his boots, laid his trousers over the back of the chair beside the bed, turned the flame down on the lantern, then slipped into bed and pulled her to him.

Her warmth drove back that cold, empty feeling deep inside that had been a part of him for so long, and was there tonight as if he couldn't escape it.

"Aye," he whispered against her hair.

Now, everything was all right.