A Deadly Game (Angus Brodie and

Mikaela Forsythe Murder Mystery Book

3) Carla Simpson
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PUBLISHER'S NOTE: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's
imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is
entirely coincidental.
Copyright © Carla Simpson
Published by Oliver-Heber Books
0987654321
 A Deadly Game
ANGUS BRODIE AND MIKAELA FORSYTHE MURDER MYSTERY
BOOK THREE
CARLA SIMPSON
 Contents

Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Epilogue
Author’s Note

Preview: Deadly Illusion

Chapter 1

Also by Carla Simpson

About the Author
Prologue
 JANUARY 1, 1890, BANKERS’ HOLIDAY LONDON

THE BOY RAN.

Brush and low branches struck him, stinging sharply at his face and arms as he plunged deeper
into the forest, terrified, the sounds behind him closing in.
He stumbled in the darkness, fell, then rolled down an embankment, water soaking his already wet
clothes. His heart hammered and he struggled to draw a deep breath as he pushed back to his feet.
The moon was obscured by the thick blanket of clouds and the rain that had set in, making it
almost impossible to see where he was going, except for a light that seemed to reach out from across
the water. Those sounds were closer now.
Those sounds—the men and the hounds—closed in on him. If he could only reach that light.
He plunged into the lake even though he'd never learned to swim, then forced himself into deeper
water that soon reached to his waist then his shoulders. That distant light beckoned him on. If only he
could reach it...
 One

I DON'T BELIEVE in coincidences. And my work recently with Angus Brodie, Private
Investigator, bears that out.
My very good friend, Theodora Templeton, however, believes that these occurrences are actually
games played by those who reside in the spirit world. She is convinced they're offering up advice,
that has been useful in the past, specifically in solving a crime. More specifically, murder.
I recently had the dubious experience of her communications with the dead upon offering up my
residence in Mayfair where she might recover for a time from the dreadful circumstance of a crime
that she had been accused of committing.
As I am not frequently in residence, having other most interesting accommodations recently, it
seemed the least I could do for someone whose company I enjoyed immensely in spite of those
unusual communications from the spirit world that included William Shakespeare. I had, however,
drawn the line when it came to accommodating Ziggy, her four-foot-long iguana that was now
receiving the royal treatment at the London Zoo as the star attraction.
Templeton had recently taken a flat closer to the theater where she had a new engagement and was
quite occupied with rehearsals, the better to recover from her recent experience. And it seemed that
her host of spirits had departed with her. Or possibly at the suggestion of my great-aunt, who
participated in tarot readings and séances from time to time, and had sent a handful of chess pieces to
be distributed about the townhouse to encourage said spirits to depart.
At the time, Templeton had taken it upon herself to set them about in one place or another. "You
just never know who might drop by..."
However, we had fared quite well without rumblings or spiritual appearances. I say “we” as in
my housekeeper, Mrs. Ryan, and myself.
In the world I now ventured into from time to time, private investigations of some very difficult
cases including murder, I had learned there was no such thing as a coincidence. People did not go
about creating a coincidence simply for having something to do.
Life was far too complicated, even at its simplest, where most people were often far too busy
struggling from day to day to survive to even notice the coincidences that existed around them—the
contents of a disabled cart spilling food into the street that is quickly set upon by starving children of
the East End or cast-off rags from one of the workhouses that clothe a woman selling flowers at
Covent Garden.
These and many more random occurrences that somehow occurred at the same place and time, by
accident or as my housekeeper, a very devout Irish woman, would say, divine intervention, a miracle.
As I am not a religious person, I tend to avoid those conversations with Mrs. Ryan.
But I digress.
I had spent the early hours of the morning reading the early issue of the Times newspaper,
specifically the crime page. More specifically, an article written by L. Penworth, full name Lucy
Penworth. While she had recently been given assignments, they dealt with low level crimes and
misdemeanors in the East End of London. The more high-profile assignments, such as the unsolved
murders of prostitutes in more recent years, were given to other reporters of the male persuasion.
Lucy had assisted in an investigation that I pursued with Mr. Brodie, Private Investigator and a
recent partner in crime solving, and I was excited to see her name as the writer of the article.
"I've found another one," my housekeeper, Alice Ryan, announced as she brought the daily mail on
a tray along with the very strong coffee I preferred and a clay chess piece—the queen this time.
I had discovered the strong brew after my adventure to the Near East during one of my earlier
travels.
As my great-aunt had said upon sampling the Turkish blend after my return, "That could put hair
on one's chest!" Never let it be said that my great-aunt was hesitant with her comments.
Unmarried by choice, she had raised my sister and me after the deaths of both parents. At the age
of eighty-five, I considered that she was entitled to her somewhat colorful comments. And I'd been
known to borrow one or the other of them from time to time.
I set the chess piece at my writing desk beside the others that had been found so far.
My housekeeper pointed to the stack of mail. "There's also a note that was delivered by courier,
just a while ago."
My name, Miss Mikaela Forsythe, was written across the front of the envelope.
I recognized the bold if hasty scrawl, although it had been a several years since I had last seen it.
Time did have a tendency to slip away when traveling, writing my books, or chasing down criminals.
"No profession for a lady!" as Brodie had said more than once, and which had precipitated more
than one lively discussion between us during our past investigations. However, as we had
discovered, reconciling our differences proved to be most rewarding in the murders solved and...
most stimulating in other aspects.
But I digress once more.
The envelope was embossed with a crest that I immediately recognized. I slipped the letter
opener under the wax seal. The note was brief and most urgent:

I must see you at once. It is a matter of grave importance.

Please meet me at my office today, 1:00 pm
Jeffrey.

I usually ignore messages sent on such short notice, a solicitor for some charity or other, or the overly
ambitious newspaper reporter with no manners and little intelligence, L. Penworth being the
exception.
However, this was neither. This was a message from someone out of my past, as we were once
engaged to be married, a member of Parliament now, and not a person given to casual or random
invitations.
 Two

I HAD NOT SPOKEN with Jeffrey, more specifically Sir Jeffrey Carsten, 4th Lord Annandale,
in some time, due to the decision I made to end our engagement. It was not well received to say the
least, Jeffrey proclaiming his undying devotion in an attempt to persuade me otherwise.
At the time, and even now, undying devotion, along with other nagging doubts, it seemed best that
I end our engagement. I had persevered and then taken myself off to Egypt, on the first of three tours
over the years since as it became one of my favorite places to explore.
When I returned from that first trip, there was a brief missive from Jeffrey's representative, an
odious little man, requesting the return of the ring Jeffrey had given me on the occasion of our
engagement. Said token of his undying devotion was a grotesque, overdone piece with precious
stones that had once belonged to his mother, Lady Annandale. I returned the ring along with a personal
note wishing him well.
Within six months he was married to the next Lady Annandale, with their first child born the
following September. It was everything I knew that he valued most—an obedient wife to hang on his
every word and make appearances at society events, and the requisite son and heir.
We had not spoken other than polite acknowledgements at events that we both happened to attend,
most of which I usually avoided like the plague due to my travels, my publishing commitments, or
solving the latest murder with Brodie.
I bore Jeffrey no ill will whatsoever, and had realized on more than one occasion that I had
escaped a very dull and boring existence.
His request to meet with me now was most unexpected and sounded quite urgent, out of character
for him, but in good conscience not something I could refuse. The cab arrived and I set off with
questions in my head regarding the urgency for such a meeting as we no longer had any personal ties.
As a member of Parliament, Jeffrey had an office at the Palace of Westminster, that had been built
after a fire at the old palace many years before. The old palace had dated from the time of the Norman
Conquest. The only buildings to survive the last fire were Westminster Hall, the Cloisters, the Chapel
of St. Mary, and the Jewel Tower.
In that way that London went about doing things, architects were brought in after the fire to
interview as it were, for the task of designing the new buildings that were to be built. There were
stories of arguments among them, egos producing some interesting concepts for the rebuilding of the
Palace incorporating the old buildings that had survived. A chief architect was eventually selected,
and he set about the design and reconstruction of the Palace along the river.
The new buildings were in the Gothic Revival style that was quite impressive, incorporated with
the remains of the surviving buildings, except for the Jewel Tower. It now contained more than eleven
hundred rooms that surrounded a series of courtyards.
I often wondered how it was possible that the persons who occupied those eleven hundred offices
couldn't come together on matters of importance. Perhaps because there were eleven hundred of them,
members of Parliament and support staff. For myself, I would have studied the matter at hand, made a
decision, and sent everyone else home.
That was my opinion, of course, along with the observation that women are often far more
accomplished that we're given credit for in settling arguments, and matters of importance. One day, I
predicted, there would be a lady prime minister.
Jeffrey's private office was not far from my townhouse in Mayfair—in consideration of other
parts of London, and very near the Strand where Brodie had his office. However, midday traffic was
quite congested due to the weather.
We passed the mall, then very near Trafalgar Square, then St. James Street and the skyline of
Parliament came into view.
Jeffrey had an office in Parliament, one of the eleven hundred, but had kept his family's private
offices at Arlington Street. I wondered the reason for meeting there instead of his office at the Palace
as I stepped down from the cab and opened my umbrella.
In spite of the weather and congestion in the streets we had made good time. I paid the driver and
sent him on his way as I had no idea how long I might be.
I rang the bell at the entrance to the Georgian style building, with a brass nameplate that
announced simply the address, Number 20 Arlington Street.
I was met at the door by a middle-aged man with a cool demeanor and a bad hairpiece that I could
have sworn moved. An assistant, I presumed as I announced myself and the purpose of my being
there. He nodded as he had obviously been informed that I would be arriving and escorted me into
what appeared to be Jeffrey's private office. I was informed that Lord Annandale would be with me
presently.
Presently was one of those responses that could mean anything from five minutes to an hour, and I
found it annoying. If it was five minutes, then say five minutes. But I digress.
Rather than sit politely waiting, definitely not my nature, I remained standing. I was curious about
Jeffrey's life now. I was well aware of his position in Parliament, but since I hadn't seen him or
spoken with him at any length other than polite exchanges, I had no idea how he had fared over the
past several years.
I slowly took in the furnishings that included his desk, the books that filled the bookshelves—none
of my books were there, two paintings at the walls of scenes of London, another of a sailing vessel,
and a portrait of Lady Anne with a boy approximately seven or eight years old, still in short pants
with a jacket.
I studied the portrait. Young Andrew was a handsome boy. I saw both parents in his features.
I continued my casual inspection of Jeffrey's office, noting objet d' art, some of which I
recognized, others which might have been collected by previous Annandale ancestors, including a
curious bronze object that sat at his desk. It looked quite old by the dark brown tones of the object
with tinges of green. It was approximately the size of the palm of my hand, a skull with crossed
swords.
"Mikaela!" Jeffrey exclaimed looking both agitated and relieved as he finally joined me, then
more formally at his assistant's raised eyebrows.
"Miss Forsythe. It was good of you to meet with me this morning."
 Which struck me as a bit odd, as if this was a social call in spite of his urgent message, but very
likely for the sake of propriety.
"Please, do be seated." He indicated that one of two chairs across from his desk.
"Will you be wanting tea, sir?" his man inquired.
"Perhaps later, Hastings. I will let you know." He waited until Hastings had gone, closing the door
behind him.
"So good of you to respond to my note," Jeffrey said. "I do apologize for the short notice, not
precisely how I would have liked our next encounter to occur."
He seemed quite distracted as he rounded the desk then took the chair behind it. "I would imagine
that you’re curious about the cause for my contacting you."
I replied that his message seemed quite urgent, and made several observations as I waited for him
to get to the matter at hand.
Jeffrey was a pleasant enough looking man, at least he was during the time of our previous
relationship. He had sandy blond hair with intense blue eyes, very much the image of his father who
had a been an acquaintance of my great-aunt.
He had been educated at the requisite private schools which had included Harrow and Eton, and
had traveled extensively afterward.
He was intelligent with a keen sense of humor, and someone who was destined to go far as they
say, possibly in foreign service. We had been introduced at a state function my aunt insisted that my
sister and I attend with her. She was expected to represent her family name before a crowd of boring
foreign dignitaries most of whom spoke no English.
Jeffrey had just returned from the Far East. He was younger than most in attendance other than my
sister and me, quite worldly, and I will admit that I was fascinated by stories of his travels.
I was seventeen years old at the time, had just returned from my last year in Paris. I will admit
that I was impressionable, though not naive. I had, after all, been educated in France, which our great-
aunt was later certain accounted for my more liberal penchant in certain things.
I enjoyed the evening and our conversation about his travels that undoubtedly fed my own
wanderlust spirit. And that seemed to be the end of it. Afterward, he sent round a formal note and
requested permission to call on me which I found somewhat surprising as there were other young
women who I had learned were eager to make a more informal acquaintance with him.
"He seems most congenial," my aunt said. "And he is from a good family, if a bit dull. I don't
believe there any scandals there, but one never knows what goes on behind closed doors."
That of course, very possibly was a thinly disguised comment about my sister's and my
unfortunate circumstance of losing both our parents and the notoriety surrounding it over our father's
gambling debts. Debts that would have left the two of us homeless if not for our great-aunt who had
raised us and was determined to protect us from ne'er do wells and fortune seekers.
At the time I thought her assessment of Jeffrey a little lacking in enthusiasm, however she gave her
consent for him to call on me which consisted of a wave of her hand and a brief lecture about the
nature of men in general, which I was already aware of courtesy of my school years in France.
I was quite taken with his stories of his travels and adventures. Throughout, he was a perfect
gentleman as we attended the opera, museums, art exhibits which would have thrilled my sister but I
found to be quite boring, and an assortment of society functions. At the end of that season, it was
widely speculated that there would be a forthcoming engagement.
Jeffrey was attentive and courteous, but there wasn't so much as a kiss on the cheek after he made
his formal proposal. I had begun to wonder if he might be of the persuasion of a man shown in a
Greek sculpture at the Louvre in Paris with another man in a very intimate pose, and I was beset by
the nagging doubt that Jeffrey was possibly performing his duty to family by proposing marriage.
The kiss eventually came. He performed it adequately upon presenting me with that grotesque
ring, however it gave me another insight as to what my life would be as Lady Annandale—chaste
kisses, a pat on the hand, and a vague comment that I looked quite nice in the gown I had worn.
Congenial, from a good family, and a bit dull, as my great-aunt had described him.
I had been fond of Jeffrey, but he didn't set me on fire as my friend, Templeton would say. I
envisioned my life playing out through the years with boring social functions, garden parties, perhaps
a child or two along the way—not that I was opposed to children. I had, after all, once been one. I
thought then it was more to fulfill my duties of presenting him with an heir or two.
I saw myself becoming my mother, a sad, pathetic creature, forced to live a life she couldn't have
imagined with a man who was weak and threw away his family's future for evenings at his private
club and gambling that eventually led to his ruin.
Whether it was an epiphany, Templeton's spirits, or the shadow of our father's disgrace, I had my
moment of clarity. I simply could not marry him.
My aunt, who had never married, was most supportive. "He has beady eyes," she observed in one
of her more forthcoming moments. "I knew a man once with beady eyes, quite a bounder, and ended
up in a duel. But of course, that was several years ago."
Duels were rare after all, frowned upon by the authorities, and beady eyes? I wondered if the duel
had been fought over my great-aunt. Once she mentioned beady eyes, I had to agree with her on that
one.
As we had learned growing up in our great-aunt's household, she had a somewhat colorful
upbringing, then became a woman of independent means with companions over the years along with
several marriage proposals. More recently of course—Mr. Munro, her estate manager.
But I digress.
I called off my engagement with Jeffrey for lack of enthusiasm on both our parts, those niggling
doubts about what the future held, and other things. To say it caused an uproar is an understatement.
The church had been selected, invitations had been sent out, and my gown purchased. Looking
back now, I had to admit it was most definitely not to my taste—an over-the-top design with layers of
taffeta that made me look much like a flower in bloom. I didn't care for the simile on that one. And
then there was the bridal trip that Jeffrey had planned to Paris for after the wedding. I had been to
Paris, and much preferred the idea of Egypt or Istanbul.
As the uproar over our broken engagement churned and spread across the gossip columns in the
daily papers, my aunt was very supportive, and I set off for Egypt on my own. Freedom, glorious
freedom!
I was gone for several months, the first of my many adventures. When I returned, most of the
uproar had died down as those prone to uproars and scandals discovered other things to whisper and
gossip about.
Jeffrey's solicitor had contacted my aunt shortly after my departure for Egypt regarding the return
of Lady Annandale's grotesque ring, and Jeffrey's engagement to Miss Anne Devereaux had been
announced the month before my return.
I knew Anne from social functions. It was a perfect, boring match. I returned the ring, sent an
obligatory note of congratulations, and set off on my next adventure.
Now, as I watched Jeffrey and waited for him to explain the reason for his note and our meeting
after all these years, I noticed the receding hairline with longer strands wrapped around his head as if
to disguise his impending baldness. Lines about his mouth drew into a deep frown framed by mutton-
chop whiskers.
I didn't care for mutton-chop whiskers. They had a tendency to look like an Irish wolfhound, and
not in a complimentary way, whereas Brodie has a full beard now... It was the beady eyes that were
most different, I thought forcing myself away from thoughts of Angus Brodie.
Yes, definitely Jeffrey's beady eyes, and realized once again that I had made a brilliant decision
some ten years earlier.
"I'm quite impressed by what you've accomplished, Mikaela—your travels and your publishing
endeavors," he began although it seemed somehow more perfunctory than complimentary.
I would have asked if he had read any of my novels, however I was already fairly certain of the
answer. They were read mostly by ladies who would have liked those adventures for themselves,
considered somewhat risqué by some—by men of course—and often read with a newspaper or cover
wrapped around. The books had caused more than one exclamation I had been told of, such as Oh,
my! or Good Heavens, I didn't know that was possible.
Jeffrey was still pacing, pausing briefly before a set of leaded windows, his head down,
obviously deep in thought.
"And your recent involvement in matters of investigating crime," he added, finally turning around.
The last, of course, was reported by L. Penworth in the matter of the French Ambassador. It had
been heavily edited to protect certain individuals, but it had noted the efforts in solving not one but
two high-profile crimes by Angus Brodie and M. Forsythe. He finally turned, a much older man than
his years, I thought.
"It is that which I need your assistance with, Mikaela."
He crossed back to his desk and picked up a bronze piece. He stared down at it, then set it back
most carefully at the desk.
I have acquired the habit of watching people—their mannerisms, gestures, a look, the movement
of their body, all of it like an open book as to their mood, and possibly their thoughts. It has been of
great benefit in writing my novels and tracking down criminals, of course.
Jeffrey was most agitated, to the point of being quite worked up about whatever it was that had
caused him to request our meeting. But obviously he was having a great deal of difficulty in
discussing it.
"It might help if you would tell me what it is that you need assistance with?" I suggested.
There was a faint nod. "Yes, of course," he replied. "And naturally, it is a matter of urgency and
requires the utmost discretion."
"Of course," I replied so that we might get on with it.
He picked up a framed photograph and handed it to me.
"It's in the matter of my son, Andrew."
He handed me the photograph of a young boy, somewhat older in the photograph than in the
portrait—Andrew Charles Carsten, 5th Lord Annandale, beady eyes and all. But a child might be
forgiven that as he stared into the camera.
"A handsome young man," I commented.
"That photograph was taken on his tenth birthday," said the proud father.
"Please continue," I replied.
"Yes, of course," Jeffrey said. "As you must know, this is most difficult."
I was certainly in agreement with that, and wondered the reason he had contacted me when he no
doubt had others he could have called upon.
 Were we possibly talking about something the lad had been caught at, or some other equally
harmless act? I had hoped that we might arrive at the issue still today, although the afternoon was
rapidly disappearing.
"Something has happened," he began again, and made a sound, somewhere between a cough and
what might have been a sound of distress. His face had gone very pale as he tried to maintain a stiff
upper lip as they say.
He was quite distressed now as he suddenly sat back in his chair, his head in his hand, and I
feared that he might go down to the floor.
I was immediately out of my chair. I seized the water pitcher at his desk, poured a glass and held
it for him. When he had recovered somewhat, I returned to my own chair.
"I do need your assistance, and the utmost discretion," Jeffrey said, somewhat in control of
himself once more, although his manner was most distraught. "It was Anne who suggested that I
contact you."
That did surprise me. In the past she had been most critical of me—one, for how I handled the end
of our engagement; two for rumors of an incident on the island of Crete; and three, over my books
about my travel adventures. Which of course, raised the question, how did she know about them
unless she had read one of them?
Another pause and I thought I might seek the door if he didn't get on with it.
"My son has disappeared," he blurted out and looked over at me, his beady eyes filled now with
concern.
We spoke at great length, his words halting at first and far more emotional than I had ever known
him to be. I asked the usual questions that might provide information that would help in finding young
Andrew Carsten.
When had he disappeared? The name of his school and headmaster? Was there a school chum he
might have gone off with? And any other information Jeffrey might be able to provide.
"Has there been any sort of difficulty?" I approached the subject somewhat diplomatically. I had
no practical knowledge of the personal relationships of husbands and wives, other than my
association with Brodie which was hardly the same.
As Jeffrey continued, I was quite surprised to learn that the boy had apparently been missing for
two days and I was only now being made aware of it.
Had he considered contacting the Metropolitan Police and then thought better of it?
I agreed that Brodie and I could make inquiries—most discreetly of course as he reminded me of
his position in Parliament. Still, I doubted this was anything more than the sort of boring mischief
children were prone to.
That is one thing I could never say about Linnie's and my upbringing in our great-aunt's household,
thank heavens. Life was never boring. A bit odd at times, but never boring. We were forever losing
ourselves in one of the vast rooms at Sussex Square, exploring, rummaging about in over seven
hundred years of artifacts, or hiding out in the wilds of Scotland. Admittedly, I was the one more
prone to hiding out while my sister pretended to look for me, only to abandon the search with an
intense fear of the deep woods there.
I then asked if there was anything else Jeffrey could tell me—changes in the boy's manner,
something that had upset him.
"He was at school at the time, of course," he replied. "Only home for holiday."
How touching, that tradition of sending boys off to a private school or academy, where they were
expected to excel in their studies and establish life-long associations with other boys of their class, a
sort of brotherhood.
I rose to leave, with the information he had given for Brodie and me to begin the search for young
Andrew. Jeffrey rose from behind his desk.
"Mikaela..."
I turned at the door. He took my hand and held it for what seemed longer than that of casual
acquaintances.
"I do so want you to know that I admire what you've done. I've always admired your spirit. And
I'm so very grateful that there are no difficulties between us and that you're willing to help in this
regard. Naturally, discretion is important."
"Of course," I replied.
We parted then with my assurances that we would be in contact regarding the progress of our
inquiries.
Instead of returning to my townhouse in Mayfair after leaving, I directed the driver to Brodie's
office on the Strand to discuss my meeting with Jeffrey. It was not unusual for those of certain rank or
title to seek private inquiries rather than the Metropolitan Police. I had done so as well, hence my
partnership with Brodie.
It seemed we now had another case of a rather serious and delicate nature.
 Three

I ARRIVED at the office on the Strand with the information Jeffrey had provided regarding his
son's disappearance and stepped down into the middle of a confrontation between the Mudger, local
resident and occasional contributor to our investigations—and a man well over six and a half feet tall
and nearly half as wide.
The Mudger is one of the colorful street persons I have met in my association with Brodie, along
with Rupert the hound.
After the loss of both legs at the knee in an accident, the Mudger was confined to a rolling
platform. But I had learned never to consider him to be handicapped as he didn't seem hindered by his
circumstance at all.
With that gap-toothed smile, full beard, and an odd assortment of clothes pulled from a charity
box or provided by someone, he was quite a sight as he fearlessly navigated the pavement, paddling
his way along with the hound loping along beside him, dodging cabs, carts, and coaches with
terrifying agility.
They were a familiar site on the Strand, and I had to admit a particular fondness for both.
However, at present, the Mudger was outmanned so to speak by the behemoth towering over him.
In the past I would have been concerned. However, as I said, Rupert the hound was a constant
companion. They shared food, accommodations in the storeroom at the public house or under the
shelter at the entrance at Number Two Hundred Four on the Strand. Not to mention shared attitude.
Hardly intimidated, the Mudger took advantage of his closer proximity to the pavement and
whacked the man standing over him in the knees with a club, aided by Rupert as the hound latched
onto the man's backside.
"Afternoon, Miss Mikaela," the Mudger greeted me with his usual grin as he set upon the man's
other knee, Rupert still in possession of a good portion of the man's backside as he set up a howl—the
man, not the hound.
"Good to see you,” the Mudger continued. “Mr. Brodie is in his office with Molly Tibbets, poor
thing."
At this point the poor stranger, whatever his argument might have been with the Mudger, was set
upon by both man and hound. He shouted at the top of his lungs as he tried to escape. I stepped wide
of the confrontation, and entered the alcove that led back to the stairs to Brodie's second-story office.
I let myself in to the sound of voices low from the main office along with the distinctive sound of
weeping.
It had been several weeks since the conclusion of our last case, although I had seen Brodie more
recently, necessary when providing information at the request of the new foreign secretary and the
temporary head of the new Special Services.
We had provided our case information in that previous undertaking, and then had returned to the
office on the Strand to celebrate our success over late supper, a bottle of my aunt's very fine Scottish
whisky from her distillery in the north, and then...
I digress.
I had met Molly Tibbets previously. Poor thing, indeed. She was like so many in the East End, the
only place she could afford housing for herself and her five children, near enough to the workhouses
where she labored long hours to keep a roof over the heads of the younger children.
Her son, Kip, at twelve years of age, worked for the telegraph office delivering telegrams about
the city. When he wasn't delivering telegrams for compensation of two pennies each, he could be
found at Piccadilly Circus, in the early hours of the morning or evening, selling the latest issue of the
dailies.
Kip was a bit of a rascal, but he had a good heart, and much reminded me of another rascal I had
made the acquaintance of. Although I suppose rascal no longer applied once the boy became a man.
The word curmudgeon came to mind, although a bit old-fashioned.
I glanced over at the curmudgeon in question, Angus Brodie, my partner in private investigations
who had once been with the Metropolitan Police then departed under somewhat mysterious
circumstances which he chose not to share.
For a man who could be short-tempered and stubborn at times, he was quite a figure of a man.
Well over six feet tall, he had a well-muscled body that I could personally attest to, a full head of
dark hair that curled invitingly at his collar, a full beard he had grown recently, and that dark gaze that
I found to be most fascinating, particularly when he wasn't being a curmudgeon.
That gaze met mine now, moved over me in a manner that I had become familiar with—not at all
short-tempered, quite the opposite—which then softened slightly around the edges, before it returned
to the woman seated across his desk.
Molly could have been anywhere between the years of twenty and forty. The fact that she had once
been a pleasant looking young woman was evident in soft blue eyes that were now filled with
shadows, possibly with the responsibility of five children twelve years and under.
The last man in her life had been crushed to death under a coal wagon after the loss of the wheel.
Mr. Tibbets seemed to account for the two youngest children who resembled him according to Brodie.
The older ones were an odd lot, but I was not one to criticize. In my investigations with Brodie, I had
become well acquainted with the poverty of the East End where man and woman alike eked out a
living in the workhouses, at the docks, or in taverns and brothels as best they could.
After Mr. Tibbets' death some years previously, young Kip had taken to the streets to find work
any way he could to help support the family. I was aware that, more than once, Brodie had contributed
to the monthly rent or food. He was more than aware of their dire circumstances, having been forced
to survive on the streets of Glasgow and Edinburgh as a child.
That was one aspect of the curmudgeon who sat across from Molly, listening with the patience of
a man who knew well what she spoke of. It was just one of the things that I admired about the man
who could be kind and most considerate, contrary to others of the male species. He listened when I
had something to say and valued my contribution to our partnership.
"I'll look into the matter," he told Molly. She nodded and gathered herself to leave. Brodie stood
as well.
"What do you need to see you through?" he asked.
 For her part, Molly shook her head. "We'll get by."
He frowned as he reached inside the waist pocket of his trousers and pulled out several bills.
"No, Mr. Brodie," she protested. "I can't be takin' yer money. You have bills to pay as well."
He took Molly's hand and folded her fingers over the bills. "A loan then," he told her, not even
bothering to count the amount he'd given her.
"Pay when you can. In the meantime, take care of the other bairns, and I'll see what I can do to
find Kip."
"Thank you, Mr. Brodie. I don't know what I would do without you and Miss Mikaela." She gave
me a nod and a sad smile.
In the past I had prevailed upon my great-aunt to provide funds and clothing through one of the
charities that she sponsored, and I had donated as well. Molly smiled at me. Charity was always
welcome, but I saw by the expression at her face that it grieved her to accept it.
It was very likely that even when Kip was found along with whatever funds he was able to
contribute, daily life would continue to be a struggle for Molly and her children.
It was a failing of the stewards of the Crown that so many struggled while others had adequate
food and shelter and lived quite well in other parts of London.
It was not lost on me that I fell into that latter group even though I worked for my living. However,
if not for our great-aunt when we were children, my sister and I might very well have ended up on the
streets of London. Along with the poverty I had seen on my travels, that possibility was not lost on
me.
"Kip has taken himself off again?" I commented when Molly had gone.
"So it seems," Brodie replied.
It was not unusual. Kip was a clever lad, often into other means of earning money, some which
were undoubtedly illegal. I wondered if he might have gotten himself caught up in some way with the
Metropolitan Police with whom Brodie had a past relationship that was frequently not amicable.
Inspector Abberline came to mind. However, there were many among that brotherhood that
considered Brodie a brother among them still who was much respected. They had often contributed to
other investigations unbeknownst to Abberline who had a tendency to not be forthcoming from time to
time.
Having experienced his reluctance to be cooperative or forthcoming, I had other words that would
have better described him, even if they were not acceptable to those in polite society. I did not
consider myself to be one of those.
My travels, worldly experiences, and most certainly my publishing endeavors set me apart from
that often-judgmental part of society, along with our great-aunt who was somewhat unconventional,
but who was reported to have more wealth that the queen.
As she had been known to say in the aftermath of some misadventure I had gotten myself into in
Paris or on the Isle of Crete and other instances she was not aware of—the apple had not fallen far
from the tree.
"The usual places?" I asked now where Kip might be found, or at least some information where
he had been.
He nodded. "I'll have the Mudger make inquiries, and Tommy O'Rourke. He has information from
time to time from the street gangs." Brodie looked at the me then.
It was a look far different from the one he gave me when I had first been in need of his services
some months before and had sought him out at the recommendation of my great-aunt.
"You've been away for a while."
 A while was precisely eight days during which I had been seeing to the demands of my publisher
and attending my great-aunt. She had taken a bad turn, literally, twisting her ankle when walking about
in her knee-high boots in preparation for departing on the safari that she had planned for herself and
my sister.
To my sister's great relief, they were forced to postpone their trip. Our aunt had been prescribed
bed rest with said foot elevated, which she refused to do. When last I left her and my sister at Sussex
Square, she was hobbling about, cursing like a sailor.
With everything well in hand at Sussex Square some days before, I had returned to the townhouse
in Mayfair, confident that my sister had everything under control. She had pointed out that I owed her
a debt that undoubtedly could never be fully repaid for the situation.
"She is just like you," she had pointed out, the door slamming somewhat more forcefully behind
me than usual as I left.
The look now on Brodie's face had a familiarity to it, with a touch of something far more
personal. His mouth turned up at one corner, surrounded by that magnificent beard sprinkled here and
there with a gray whisker or two, and I made a mental note to investigate that more thoroughly later.
For now, I needed to discuss our latest case with him.
"We have some other inquiries that we need to make," I began. It seemed there was difficulty with
more than one young lad, and I wondered if it had to do with being closed in by the weather. I know
that I had felt it recently, thinking then of the island of Crete.
"A friend contacted me about his son who has apparently taken himself off in some fit of temper or
other."
"A friend?" Brodie inquired, returning to his desk, and picking up his pipe. He proceeded to fill
the bowl with fresh tobacco, then lit it, fragrant smoke that recalled other such moments...
"An old acquaintance," I explained, keeping to the conversation. "The boy has been gone after an
outing with schoolmates and seems to have wandered off. Jeffrey is quite concerned, since it is
completely uncharacteristic of the boy."
"Jeffrey?"
Brodie had no use for long drawn-out conversations when a single word would do. In the past I
had been able to expand our conversations, over said whisky from time to time. However, it seemed
we were back to one-word or name responses.
"Jeffrey Carsten,” I clarified.
A dark brow angled sharply. "Lord Annandale, member of Parliament?"
"The boy is only ten years old and not given to wandering off. The circumstances, such as they
are, are most confusing and a little disturbing. He has asked us to make inquiries, with the utmost
discretion of course."
"Of course."
I noticed a hint of something different in his reply as I stepped to the chalk board at the wall
across from Brodie's desk where I usually wrote my case notes.
Much like plotting out my next book, I found it useful in keeping track of information and clues
about our investigations. Brodie, of course, kept everything tucked away inside his head with an
amazing ability for detail that I found intriguing and more than a little irritating.
As for myself, I began a new list with the information from my meeting with Jeffrey, and much like
plotting out a novel, the list was a good starting place for our investigation.
"When did he contact you?" Brodie asked.
"This morning. We met this afternoon at his private office," I replied, a vague comment that
sounded very much like a grumble turning me around.
"We do need to make inquiries as soon as possible," I pointed out, ignoring the grumble as I found
the remnants of lunch on a plate at the coal stove.
I had not had time to eat and much appreciated the last of the meat pie. Never let it be said that I
didn't have a good appetite. I then went to Brodie's desk and retrieved a bottle of my aunt's very fine
whisky, distilled and bottled at her estate in the north of Scotland.
We had much enjoyed the liquor in the past and I had a case of it sent to Brodie at Christmas only
to discover that my aunt had done the same. To say we had a substantial supply was an
understatement.
The bottle I retrieved had been previously opened as Brodie and I had celebrated the Yule
together, a most memorable occasion. Now, I poured a glass for each of us.
In the past we had shared whisky in chipped mugs, the office in need of new ones. There were
new mugs for the strong coffee we both preferred as well as the glass tumblers, courtesy of my aunt,
along with a new area rug in the main office, and other additions to the adjoining room that served as
Brodie’s bedroom, including a pair of my walking boots that the hound had not yet confiscated and a
few other items.
"His name is Andrew," I said returning to the chalk board with glass in hand. "He disappeared
while at school, Harrow where Jeffrey attended."
"Jeffrey," he replied, the name hanging there between us.
I ignored his somewhat confusing response.
"However, we should pay a visit," I continued. "Jeffrey was quite naturally upset, of course, and
there are possibly other questions to be asked."
"Of course."
That was two of courses in the past few minutes and completely unlike Brodie who usually
offered suggestions along the way in our discussions about a case. I wondered what else was going
through the curmudgeon's thoughts.
"Jeffrey is prepared to pay quite handsomely for information about his son's disappearance and
safe return. I chose not to discuss that further in our meeting as it seemed inappropriate at the time."
"Hmmm."
"It seems that you'll be occupied making inquiries on Kip's behalf," I pointed out. "I would like to
pay a visit to the headmaster, and I would like to speak with Lady Annandale as well."
I was aware that even in these times when I had managed to establish myself as a published author
with success and my contribution to our previous investigations, women were usually well received
in some quarters and parts of society—an exclusive boy's school being among them.
There were instances when the presence of a man—Brodie—would persuade someone who was
being hesitant to be more forthcoming with information, and that might include a meeting with Lady
Annandale.
Brodie's presence, providing questions that I hadn't thought of, might go far in acquiring additional
information from the headmaster, even though Jeffrey had assured me that he would make the man
aware that we would be contacting him.
"Has Lord Annandale inquired among the other boys' families?" Brodie suggested. "That might be
a place to start."
I took another swallow of my aunt's very fine whisky. "That is next on the list." I indicated the
board behind me.
"Then you are quite determined that there is a case?" Brodie commented, which was his way of
saying that he had his doubts.
I heard the unspoken skepticism. "Of course, even if it is as simple as a boy wandering off in a fit
of temper. Andrew has not returned to the school, nor his parent's home. They are most concerned, as
I would be."
Brodie downed the full contents of his glass, then looked at me. "I suppose that is only to be
expected."
What was that supposed to mean?
He usually listened and contributed to our conversations. It was a reason I valued our partnership
so highly—at least one of the reasons. However, it seemed that we were in new territory here, and I
had no idea what the reason might be unless it was his concern for Kip that had him distracted.
"Then, by all means," he continued. "You should proceed."
I had noticed in the past that when Brodie was preoccupied with or put off by something, the
Scots accent had a tendency to creep into his speech. I had no idea what might have caused it now
other than his concerns over Kip.
Possibly it was something else, as Brodie usually had more than one case on his mind, and then
there was the recent offer he'd received from the office of Special Services to join their organization.
He had handily turned it down with a comment about preferring to do things his own way without
interference or someone looking over his shoulder—a holdover no doubt from his days with the
Metropolitan Police.
However, this was now my case? Not that I wasn't confident in my abilities. I had more than
proven myself to be most resourceful and capable.
"Very well," I replied. "You are obviously occupied with other matters. I will continue on my
own." I drained my glass and set it down a little more forcefully than necessary.
I continued to copy my notes from the board into the notebook I kept. When I'd finished, I snapped
the notebook closed.
"Do let me know about Kip," I told him, possibly with a little more starch than perhaps necessary.
"I am fond of the boy."
With that I replaced the stopper in the bottle of whisky, returned the bottle to the bottom desk
drawer, and closed it rather sharply.
"Miss Forsythe..."
That stopped me at the door. Miss Forsythe was it? Were we back to that? After everything that
we'd shared? Two previous cases of course, rather dangerous and important cases I might add, and...
other things.
"Yes, Mr. Brodie?" Two could play this game.
There was a different expression at his face, one that I had not seen before.
"You should remember that it's not unusual for someone—a child in this case— to take themselves
off in a fit of anger or some other such thing."
I gave him a cool look. "I'll try to remember," I replied.
He nodded. There was obviously something else he wanted to say, but chose not to.
"I'll let you know about Kip," he said then in a manner that could only be described as dismissal.
I seriously thought about slamming the door to the office on my way out, but thought that to be
over-doing it a bit. I had no idea what had Brodie in a bit of temper.
Rupert the hound sat at the foot of the stairs, his tail thumping in greeting as I reached the
pavement. I gave him a friendly scratch behind the ears and received a sloppy lick of a tongue at my
hand. He stood shoulder to shoulder with the Mudger at his platform.
 The Mudger, whose real name was Cavendish, was wearing a coat and neck scarf that I had
provided him some months back. The hound wore a congenial expression. They were a perfect pair.
Much like Brodie and myself? the thought occurred. I pushed that thought back.
"Miss Molly seemed relieved when she left," the Mudger commented.
"Yes, quite," I replied as I waved down a cab.
"Ye'll be assisting Mr. Brodie?" he asked as the driver pulled to the curb.
I folded my umbrella in order to step into the cab.
"He will need your assistance," I hedged, since I had no idea whether or not I would be included.
"Take care," I added, knowing how precarious life could be on the streets. I was very fond of him
and the hound. I then bid him good-day.
Rupert the hound followed the cab for some distance as was his habit, then stopped and sat in the
middle of the Strand, omnis, hackneys, and other cabs forced to navigate around him. I might have
been mistaken, but he looked rather sad and forlorn.
In spite of my determination not to be put out by Brodie's response—or lack of one—I couldn't
help feeling that there was something about all of this that bothered him.
 Four

I HAD the driver take me to Sussex Square. I had promised to look in on my aunt during her
convalescence and had even arranged to have several books sent round so that she would have
something to do as she recovered.
Admittedly, her taste ran more to card games that she enjoyed with her ladies, a club of a half
dozen women of her acquaintance that now included my sister as she was presently living with our
aunt. However, a good novel might be in order.
Instead of Mr. Symons, my aunt's head butler, my sister met me at the door, a somewhat flustered
expression at her face.
"You really must do something about her," she whispered in a tone that could only be described as
determined. Or possibly desperate.
I had barely enough time to deposit my umbrella in the stand inside the foyer and nod a greeting to
Mr. Symons as Linnie seized me by the arm.
"She has beaten me four hands this afternoon! Poker, for heaven's sake. And," she leaned in close,
"she insists on playing for real money. I'm at least a hundred pounds gone."
Not that my sister was impoverished. Far from it. After the recent settlement of her affairs, she
could be considered quite wealthy. I suspected it was more the idea that an eighty-five-year-old
woman who should have been in her dotage had beaten the knickers off her.
My sister could be quiet and seem quite shy, but beneath that quiet exterior beat the heart of a
woman who was fast becoming a force to be reckoned with due, no doubt, to recent circumstances.
She was determined to acquire new accommodations and as recently as two weeks prior, in the
middle of the holiday season, had commandeered me to tour her prospective future accommodations
—a stately home in Kensington, some distance from our great-aunt's residence, but near mine.
The new accommodation was the one she had just signed a contract for upon the sale of the Litton
Estate manor at St. James Square, a dreadful reminder for her. But she had sold it for an incredible
sum that would at least put her in the top dozen wealthiest, unmarried women in London.
"It serves you right for betting against her," I pointed out. "You know how ruthless she can be
when it comes to winning."
"She reminds me of someone else!" Linnie fired back at me.
I let that go.
"Obviously she's feeling quite herself," I commented. "Has she planned any new trips yet? That
could keep her occupied," I suggested and received a very unladylike snort from my very proper
sister.
 "Not as yet. She's in the library."
"Has she had the plants cleared out yet?" I asked of the jungle she had installed in preparation for
the safari, so that she could get the feel of the jungle.
"Not yet; she claims it is a great diversion as she has only postponed our trip. Really Mikaela,
you must do something about all of this. You're the one who seems to have some influence over her.
And to make matters worse, I've heard strange sounds coming from the jungle... rather the library. Do
you suppose she's become senile?"
Hardly, I thought. She wouldn't allow it. Eccentric came to mind.
"What sort of sounds?" I asked.
"Peculiar sounds. I wouldn't be surprised to discover that she has a lion or tiger in there." No
doubt a sly comment about my friend Templeton and Ziggy.
Oh, dear, I thought. "How is she able to navigate the jungle in her wheelchair?"
"She refuses to use it," Linnie informed me. "She's hobbling about on crutches, when not directing
everyone about, and in danger of causing further injury."
We had arrived at the library/jungle entrance. I handed my sister my hat and coat, and prepared
myself for what I would find among the ceiling-high trees and assorted jungle plants. I stepped inside
the room and called out when I didn't immediately see her.
"Over here, dear," came the reply. "By the waterfall."
Waterfall? I didn't recall that there was one in the library, however this was my great-aunt. That,
however, might account for the strange noises my sister heard.
I found her near the far outside wall of the library. A portion of the wall had been opened then re-
built with a wall of rocks. Water tumbled over the rocks into a pool that had been built into the floor.
It was most impressive if very odd, the spray of water from the falls misting the air and coating the
Italian tiles.
"Do be careful, dear, the floor can be quite slippery," she added.
I had a moment where I considered that we might be a tad bit beyond eccentric as I finally saw my
great-aunt, in full safari costume, her ankle well wrapped, standing on her head against the wall
adjacent to the waterfall.
"It improves circulation and possibly aids in the recovery of my ankle," she explained, no doubt
in response to the expression at my face.
"Isn't Victoria Falls marvelous?"
A somewhat smaller version than I remembered from my own travels.
"And most relaxing," she added from her upside-down position. "I had it installed just a few days
ago to aid in my recovery, and give me something to look forward to when Linnie and I are able to
depart."
It was at this point that I was certain my sister would have commented that rational, common
sense, and possibly sanity had definitely departed. But that was my sister. As for myself, I thought
Victoria Falls was quite ingenuous.
"So good of you to drop by," my aunt added.
"I wanted to see how you're faring," I explained. "I hear that you relieved Linnie of a substantial
amount of money at cards."
An upside-down smile followed. "Shameful of me, but she bets carelessly and then gives herself
away with the expressions on her face."
Add another aspect to my aunt's reputation—ardent gambler. And apparently an accomplished one
at that. She proceeded to lever herself away from the wall with her good leg and ankle. I assisted,
determined to prevent another injury, mindful of my footsteps across the tile.
When she was once again firmly planted upright so to speak, I provided her crutches that had been
placed nearby, and we proceeded to her jungle encampment with chairs, table, and some of her very
fine whisky.
"I shall of course return her funds," she commented, having poured a healthy portion for both of
us. "But I'll let her think about it for a while."
She smiled to herself with what could only be described as cat-like satisfaction. It was definitely
time that Linnie moved into her new accommodations, for both their sakes.
"And how is Mr. Brodie?" she asked.
"Quite well," I replied, as best I knew, considering his somewhat peevish attitude I had
encountered. "He has a new case that he's pursuing and he's quite distracted." I explained.
"Distracted? That doesn't sound like him at all. Has there been a disagreement?"
Always direct with her comments, I could only shake my head.
"Let us just say that he was less than enthusiastic with the inquiries I wanted to make on behalf of
Jeffrey Carsten."
"Jeffrey? What the devil does he have to do with anything after all these years?"
I was always circumspect when it came to discussing my recent investigative endeavors with my
aunt for several reasons.
One — She often offered opinions and courses of action for me to follow. Never let it be said that
she was the shy or retiring sort.
Two — She seemed to have a low opinion of law enforcement, specifically the Metropolitan
Police, which she often expounded on, hence her high opinion of Brodie which I shared up until now.
And I quote:
"They run around in their little suits with their hats that resemble a man's private anatomy and
their batons, and never get anything done. And as for Mr. Abberline... He must have been dropped on
his head as a child. It would explain a great deal."
I was much in agreement.
And three — She wanted details. "Was there a great deal of blood? What does it feel like to be
shot?"
And so on. Therefore, I had decided early on that the less said, the better. However, in this
instance, since it seemed that I was on my own given Brodie's peevishness—and there where those
who said that women were temperamental!
"It seems that Jeffrey's son has gone missing," I explained. "He's most concerned, of course, and
prefers to keep it a private matter without bringing in the police. No doubt because of his position in
Parliament." I did so like my aunt's very fine whisky and took another sip.
"Hmmm, and you no doubt met with Jeffrey regarding the matter."
Whereas my sister often thought our aunt had a habit of wandering off in her thoughts, I knew
better. She never said anything that wasn't filled with meaning, whether by word or implication. It
was a language we shared. Brodie would have argued that was not necessarily a positive aspect of
my character.
"Because of the nature of the matter, we met at his private office."
"Private office?" she repeated. "Wanted to keep others from knowing that he's asked you to
inquire. Interesting. And you say that Brodie was less than enthusiastic? Not like him, considering the
other cases the two of you have undertaken."
She was getting at something, in that endearing, maddening way of hers.
 "Yes," I replied. "And it would bring a substantial fee which I thought might not only be
welcomed but important."
"A bit of the green-eyed monster, perhaps?" she suggested.
"Green-eyed...?" I immediately thought of my sister's warning about strange sounds coming from
the jungle, and couldn't help but look around even though there didn't appear to be any wild things
wandering about.
"Oh, for heaven's sake! Jealousy, of course," she explained.
Jealous? Brodie? I almost laughed at the thought. "Ridiculous."
There was that look, the one that Linnie and I had learned during our formative years. It was a
look that had been known to quell the most belligerent delivery person or nine-year-old girl, as in
myself. It was a look that quietly said that she knew what she spoke of and there would be no
argument.
"Is it now?" she asked with some humor. "I do believe we are a bit past keeping things swept
under the carpet, as they say," she announced in that way that always made Linnie and I stop and think
about what we—usually myself—might have done to earn that look, and how she had found out about
it.
Crete came to mind. My aunt took another long swallow of that very fine whisky.
"So delightful," she commented as I sat thinking. "You must admit that it soothes the savage spirit,"
she continued, then added, "you are quite alike, you know."
It occurred to me that she was not speaking of the whisky.
"I have found Scotland to be most exciting," she continued. "And its people as well."
I had the distinct impression we were possibly now discussing Mr. Munro, her manager, who was
usually present, but off perhaps seeing to a personal matter.
"I can explain..." I really couldn't, and didn't want to, however this was my great-aunt and I loved
her dearly. I would never do anything to hurt or embarrass her. Well, almost nothing, if it could be
avoided.
She waived a hand through the air. "I do not want an explanation, my dear. Whatever you are
doing with Mr. Brodie, I have only one thing to say."
Only one? I waited. There was no telling how this was going to come out.
"Enjoy yourself, my dear. Like fine whisky to be savored. Let it warm you, thrill you, and then ask
for another round."
We most definitely were no longer discussing whisky.
"Jealous?" I replied.
"Most definitely," my aunt replied. "I've seen the way he looks at you. I would give anything for a
man to look at me that way, as if he was peeling away every last stitch of my clothing one at a time.
Actually," she continued. "There was one..." She smiled at the memory. "But I digress.
"Definitely jealous," she decided. "The Scots are like that, right out in the open with those fiery
emotions, no delicate conversation about it for them. It's wonderful. And it's enough to curl one's
toes." She poured us both another glass full.
Enough conversation about toe-curling. I needed to move the conversation on. There was
something awkward about discussing intimate details with an eighty-five-year-old woman.
"Indulge his sense of authority," she suggested. "Appeal to his expertise and intelligence—God
knows the man has far more than most I've known. If that doesn't bring him round, then perhaps...
Crete."
There it was again, that small indiscretion on my part—albeit quite enjoyable and enlightening at
the time. However, I thought it best not to mention Crete where Brodie was concerned. There were
still far too many aspects of that adventure that weren't quite clear in my memory. I blamed an
excessive amount of ouzo for that.
I downed my drink and resolved to determine the reason Brodie was reticent in the matter of the
disappearance of Jeffrey's son. I would appeal to his vast investigative experience. While at Sussex
Square, I placed a telephone call to his office.
The telephone was a recent addition there at my insistence that I found to be most convenient.
However, Brodie, much like my aunt, hated the thing. In his words, he could learn more out on the
street than from the damned thing that put out a miserable sound and failed more often than it was
successful. He either wasn't in the office or refused to answer the telephone.
Curmudgeon came to mind.
I wanted to speak with Lady Annandale about her son's disappearance, although I had no idea
how my request would be received. But that would have to wait until the following day as it had
grown quite late.
I accepted my aunt's invitation to stay for supper, downed two more tumblers of whisky, then
returned to the townhouse.
"I'm sorry, no," my housekeeper replied when I asked if there had been any calls. Not that I was
thinking of Brodie. Infuriating man.
 Five

I ROSE the following morning and made a call to the Annandale manor. I wanted to discuss the
matter with Lady Anne, dotting my i's and crossing the t's, as one of several private tutors had
reminded me years before.
I wanted to discuss the matter with her and get her perspective as I have often found women to be
far more perceptive and astute to the smallest detail that might otherwise go unnoticed.
However, I did wonder what my reception might be, considering my past relationship with
Jeffrey, that to be very honest had not been a relationship at all, at least not in consideration of other
encounters—more specifically Angus Brodie.
I had given my aunt's observations considerable thought after leaving Sussex Square. While I was
aware that Brodie and I shared an amicable companionship, I was not aware, or perhaps chose not to
be aware that it might have become more on his part.
I received a response from Lady Anne by way of her secretary. I often wondered just how busy
someone could be that they needed a social secretary. My aunt received invitations to everything that
went on in mainline London and simply dashed off a note in response.
Lady Annandale's response, neatly penned as if someone had nothing better to do than practice
their penmanship, informed me that she could meet with me later that afternoon.
I wondered if her social secretary would also be in attendance to take notes.
I then made a call to the headmaster's office at Harrow, dotting another i, since Jeffrey mentioned
the boy had disappeared while he was at school.
Harrow was one of those exclusive all-male bastions of learning that had educated some of
Britain's most esteemed fellows that included the titled and nobility, a handful of admirals, and a
prime minister or two in the past three hundred years.
I was informed by the headmaster's secretary—another secretary with an aggravating penchant for
sniffing through his words as if he was performing some favor even speaking with me—that the
headmaster's schedule was quite full until the following month.
I restrained my natural impulse, disgusting man, cursed the phone after he clicked off, and decided
I needed a different strategy since it seemed that I had definitely been put off.
In our previous investigations working together, Brodie and I often worked off each other. By that
I mean he had the ability to persuade certain people to be forthcoming with information. Where he
failed, I was often able to obtain the information using my aunt's influence, or as much as I detested it
—my abilities as a woman. Our efforts together worked marvelously in resolving two cases that
might not otherwise have been solved.
 Not one to be the shy or retiring sort, I acquired a cab and gave the driver the address of the office
on the Strand. It had absolutely nothing to do with my aunt's suggestion that my meeting with Jeffrey
might have had something to do with Brodie's noticeable coolness over the matter. And I did want to
know what he might have learned about Kip.
The Strand was congested with the usual assortment of carts, cabs, and street vendors. I departed
the cab, purchased a copy of the daily that I had not yet read, and walked the rest of the way to
number two hundred four with the tobacconist's shop at street level.
The Mudger was in his usual place and smiled a greeting. I passed along cakes that had been
prepared that morning.
"God bless Mrs. Ryan," he said and passed a cake to the hound.
"Is Mr. Brodie in?" I asked.
That brought a curious look, as I usually didn't inquire but continued through the alcove and up the
stairs to his office.
"Been there most of the mornin'," he replied.
"Is there any news regarding Kip?" I asked, knowing full well that the Mudger, also known as Mr.
Cavendish, with his street connections would be almost as well informed as Brodie. He shook his
head.
"Not a word."
That was disappointing, although I knew as Brodie did, that Kip was known to take himself off
from time to time. I handed over the rest of the cakes.
I started through the alcove that led from the street to the stairs, then looked up at a distinctive
sound that could only be someone coming down the stairs.
How very interesting, I thought, at the sight of a woman, scantily dressed, that reminded me much
of my first encounter with Brodie at his office.
She was dressed, or rather mostly undressed, her breasts very near spilling out of the bodice of
her gown, that she covered with a shawl against the cold. She wore an abundance of make-up,
accentuating a full mouth, and smudged eyes. She looked up as she reached the bottom stairs.
"Oh, hello, miss." There was surprise, then a flash of a smile as she tucked a handful of coins into
her gaping bodice.
"I've finished, right enough," she continued, although it was questionable exactly what she had
finished.
I didn't bother to ask, as I didn't particularly want to know what that referred to as she made her
way to the curb, then crossed the street, a cloth of some sort having dropped to the sidewalk as she
left.
As I said, I have never been the shy or retiring sort. After all, there was a case at hand, and I
continued up the stairs to Brodie's office.
He had just put more coal in the stove, and spoke without looking up.
"Will it be the same day next week, Tillie?" he asked, not looking up.
The woman of the gaping bodice had a name. And next week? Was he perhaps taking
appointments for services? Not that I was curious.
I was tempted to make a pithy comment or two, but decided against it. Neither Brodie nor I had
any claim on our personal activities. Ours was strictly, well almost strictly, a professional
relationship. I closed the office door a little more forcefully than necessary.
"Not, Tillie," I informed him as I crossed the office and went to the chalk board.
There was a sound, of him presumably rising from in front of the coal stove. Or possibly adjusting
his clothes? I focused on the chalk board.
"You've made some progress," I commented, noticing a second list that had been added at the
other side of the board, and smiled to myself. In the past, Brodie had given me more than a few
comments about my penchant for making notes. It seemed that he had taken up his own note making in
my absence.
By the one-word entries, it was obvious that it had to do with his inquiries about Kip. I picked up
the chalk from the rail and set about making entries to my own list.
"I thought it would be more constructive to update you on my own inquiries rather than ring you
up," I said, concentrating on the board as I added to my list there.
I then explained my attempt to meet with the headmaster at Harrow, and my upcoming meeting
with Lady Annandale.
I heard rustling sounds that could only be Brodie at his desk, then the faint aroma of tobacco
smoke.
"Aye, schoolmasters can be most private about such things," he commented.
"I thought perhaps the two of us might be more productive in that regard," I added, still not turning
around.
"Lord Annandale could be helpful," he suggested.
Did I detect a note of disapproval there? Was there some truth to what my aunt had suggested?
Brodie had never struck me as being the green-eyed monster sort.
"Perhaps, however as we have discovered in the past, you do have a way of persuading those
who are reluctant," I added. "I thought perhaps you might accompany me on a more direct approach."
"More direct?"
"Paying a call on the headmaster. His secretary was quite a horse's ass about making an
appointment." I was being kind about that description. "And I thought you might want to accompany
me to my appointment this afternoon with Lady Annandale as well.
"And you can bring me up to date on your inquiries about Kip," I added even though Mr.
Cavendish had been most informative. "If I can be of assistance in some way," I suggested.
Brodie nodded and then proceeded to rummage through the papers at his desk, which was always
in some disarray.
"I don't have an appointment, this afternoon," he commented, then looked up.
Appointment? It was most amusing since he was not one to schedule appointments, but often found
it more productive to simply drop by the person he wanted to speak with. His way of catching them
off guard. Speaking of horses’ asses...
"The appointment is for three o'clock."
"Aye, we'll have just enough time then," he replied.
"I found this at the street. Your companion dropped it." I laid the cloth that Tilly had dropped on
her way out. If I had been expecting some sort of explanation, it was not forthcoming.
"Ah, yes. Miss Tilly. Most capable," he commented as he retrieved his coat, pipe clenched
between his teeth, and said nothing more.
Most capable? What precisely was that supposed to mean? Bloody damn Scot! I could have
sworn there was a faint smile as we departed the office, but I might have been mistaken.
Brodie hailed a cab at the street. He emptied his pipe and stuck it in his coat pocket. I thought of
flames suddenly igniting from the heat of the pipe, not that I would wish for that, of course. He gave
the Mudger additional instruction in the matter of Kip, and we set off.
Our conversations in the past have usually been about the case we were working. It seemed we
were still navigating around that earlier difficulty over my agreeing to make inquiries about young
Andrew Carsten's disappearance. I decided on another direction for the conversation.
"What have you learned about Kip?" I asked.
"He was last seen over in Seven Dials," Brodie replied. "It seems there is a girl there that he's
taken a fancy to. And I've put out the word through Tommy."
There was still that sense of distraction, as if he was thinking of something else, or possibly put
off by something.
So, Kip had taken a fancy to a girl. Not unusual, however he was twelve years old for heaven's
sake! Or possibly not precisely a young girl, I thought, considering the prostitution that was prevalent
in the East End?
It was one of the sad facts of life there, a way a young girl could make a living such as it was,
often far older than her years in a short time, or dead as in the case of the five women who'd been
murdered in Whitechapel. That particular case, investigated by the Metropolitan Police and Mr.
Abberline, was still unresolved.
"Was she able to tell you anything?"
"She's not seen Kip in several weeks," he eventually replied.
"That would rule out a romantic encounter," I commented. "What about Jasper Jenks? Have you
spoken with him?"
He looked up, surprised. "What do you know of Jasper?"
I kept my smile to myself, it was enough that I knew something that he didn't.
"They've been known to go about together," I explained. "It seems Kip has taken a good sum of
money from him, from time to time, throwing the stones."
"How the devil do you know that?"
"It was something Mr. Cavendish said in passing in the past." I gave him a surprised look. I did so
like that brooding dark look of his.
"Oh, you weren't aware?" I added. "You might want to ask him, or perhaps put out the word for
Jasper. He works the Circus with Kip selling newspapers.
"I'm aware of that," he snapped.
Another smile that I kept to myself. "He might be able to tell you something, since it seems that we
need to trace Kip's whereabouts the past several days." Then before he could make a pithy comment,
"It seems that we have arrived. That was most efficient."
I didn't wait for him to assist me down from the cab. It occurred to me, by the dark expression at
his face, that he might be considering dropping me into the water that swirled at entrance to the
Annandale estate from the morning downpour. In any case, I was an excellent swimmer.
We were met by the head butler at the door, who showed us into the formal drawing room and
then left to announce our arrival to Lord Annandale. I was not surprised that he was there, as Jeffrey
was always the sort who wished to be in charge, undoubtedly another reason that our engagement to
be married was doomed from the start.
Introductions were made. Brodie was cordial while I expressed my surprise at Jeffrey's
attendance.
"I was able to move an appointment," he said by way of explanation. "This has been a difficult
time for myself and Lady Annandale, as I'm certain you will understand. Have there been any
developments?"
"Not as yet," I told him. "We have questions, and then you can perhaps assist in a matter."
"Yes, of course," he replied, then turned to Brodie. "You were formerly with the Metropolitan
Police," Jeffrey commented.
I heard the condescension in his voice. However, before I could comment, Brodie intervened. He
nodded.
"It is my understanding that you have contacted Miss Forsythe in an effort to find your son and
avoid the involvement of the MP," Brodie clarified. "If we are to assist you, there are questions we
must ask."
"You are correct, Mr. Brodie," Lady Annandale said as she entered the formal drawing room and
joined us. "It is most important." Her gaze met mine with a brief if somewhat cool expression and a
nod of acknowledgement.
I had not seen Anne since a holiday occasion a handful of years earlier. As I said, I always do my
best to avoid society events, finding them to be boring. Most conversations have no interest or value
beyond who saw whom where, what they were wearing, and what latest holiday they'd been on.
At the time, she was the epitome of a lady who had married well, dressed in the latest Paris
fashion, and wearing the Annandale pearls and that grotesque ring. We had exchanged vague
pleasantries and I had left early. My sister mentioned encounters at events, and mentioned having seen
her. As I said, I had little interest in such events.
I had always thought her to be a pleasant looking woman, no striking beauty to be certain, but with
good bones as they say, which I have always found to be most curious. What are bad bones, I
wondered? A hooked nose, buck teeth, a pointed chin?
We were asked to sit in the two chairs across from the settee where Jeffrey waited for Anne to be
seated.
The furnishings in the formal parlor had changed since I had the opportunity to visit several years
before. The side chairs and settee were all richly upholstered, with a thick carpet underfoot, brocade
floor-to-ceiling drapes at the windows, and the usual assortment of framed paintings of an ancestor or
half dozen, with a sculpted bust or two thrown in for good measure.
Aside from the jungle with the waterfall, it reminded me of my aunt's manor at Sussex Square. Not
that she was to be blamed for the overdone appearances of portraits. That blame lay at the feet of her
grandfather who had a penchant for portraits.
Although I had to admit that, on the whole, her ancestors were quite pleasant looking aside from
the usual stare at the artist or the brandishing of a sword or two. Jeffrey's gallery of ancestors had the
ability to send one running for the door. They were a somewhat austere looking lot. I wondered what
young Andrew might have thought of them.
The butler appeared briefly, inquired about tea, then nodded to see to the matter. I was thinking
more along the lines of a good dram of whisky. I exchanged a look with Brodie. He was of the same
opinion regarding a good dram.
"You have more questions," Jeffrey began.
"Yes." Not one to be dismissed, I re-established myself into the conversation. "More specifically
for Lady Anne." I ignored Jeffrey's look of surprise.
I began with what I considered obvious questions, the usual sort of thing a child might experience.
When was Andrew last at home? Had there been some upset at school? An upset with a
professor? Did either of them notice any changes in his behavior? Did he mention anything that upset
him among his school mates?
"Not at all," Jeffrey replied, as if answering for both of them.
"It's possible that you might notice different things," Brodie suggested, turning the conversation
back to Lady Anne. "Since you are obviously away long hours with yer work, sir." With a brief nod at
Jeffrey.
"There was something when he was last home on holiday," Lady Anne replied. "Andrew is a quiet
boy, much like my father. However, he seemed withdrawn.
On Christmas morning, there wasn't his usual excitement over the gifts he had received. And then
at Christmas supper with my family, there was an upset."
"What sort of upset?" I asked.
"It was nothing more than a boy going through the usual episodes," Jeffrey interjected. "He much
preferred to be outside but there were social obligations with Anne's family."
I wondered if we were talking about a tantrum—the usual boy episodes? I glanced over at Brodie.
While I had my share of moments as my aunt called them in my younger years, I wasn't exactly
qualified regarding boy episodes.
"Was there anything in particular that might have brought it on?" I inquired, curious about the
nature of a boy I had never met.
"Nothing at all," Jeffrey replied.
However, I did see a change in Lady Anne's expression that hinted there might have been
something. Perhaps what Brodie had commented on, as far as things one parent might have been
aware of that the other was not.
"There was an episode at school," Lady Anne commented, not to be set aside so easily.
"What was that about?" Brodie asked.
"A minor thing, that boys go through." Again, Jeffrey answered the question for her.
What did I see in the expression at Lady Anne's face? Displeasure? Or was it something else?
"Andrew is not a child prone to outbursts," she explained. "But there was that incident Christmas
Day. I'm certain you remember."
This was said with a look over at Jeffrey, and I commended her on her insistence at mentioning it.
"What was it about?" Brodie asked.
"It was a comment Andrew made when Jeffrey reprimanded him over the outburst."
"What sort of comment?" I was curious.
I recalled making a few colorful comments as a child which no doubt had something to do with
earlier events in our lives—our mother's lengthy illness, then her death at an age when such things are
difficult to understand. Then, of course, confronting our father's death by his own hand and suddenly
finding ourselves about to be cast out onto the street.
Questions with no easy answers, uncertainty over what would happen to Linnie and me, that
feeling of loss and having been abandoned. There was a whole basketful of things I remembered that
no doubt carried over into our adult selves.
For my sister, it manifested itself in always wanting to please everyone around her, including her
former husband.
For myself, it manifested in rebellion. Although our aunt insisted that she had grown up in a
mostly caring and supportive family and was still going through her own rebellious phase in life. It
was that tree and apple thing again, and something to consider.
However, I was not one to dismiss that one's upbringing did impact one's life as an adult. Brodie
was an example of that as well from the little I knew about his past.
"What was it that the boy said?" Brodie inquired.
A look passed between Jeffrey and Anne. There it was again, that something under the surface that
I had learned to read in people and that I was certain Brodie had picked up on as well.
Anne seemed to gather herself, then said, "He was quite angry with Jeffrey." She hesitated again.
"He said that he didn't want to be like his father."
"It was nothing more than a childish outburst." Jeffrey made light of it. "I assure you that I didn't
take it seriously."
Anne unfolded her hands at her lap, then folded them again. "It was the way he said it." Again,
there was the folding and unfolding of her hands.
"He was angry, and I think very hurt." She looked over at her husband then and apparently thought
she had said more than she should.
"I have no brothers, so nothing to compare it to," she commented. "It could have been nothing
more than the usual sort of thing a young boy might say in the moment."
In the moment.
I gave that a great deal of thought as Brodie and I left Annandale Manor. There had been the usual
polite departure after Jeffrey said that he would make contact with the headmaster at Harrow. He was
convinced that his son's recent outburst was nothing more than Andrew's approaching young manhood.
I was inclined to disagree simply on the basis of age. The boy was ten years old for heaven's sake.
"So," I commented as we set off after our meeting. "When did you first enter manhood?" I asked
Brodie, since he was present and it didn't seem to be a question to simply randomly ask other men.
"I don't believe that would be an accurate measure as I was living on the street at Andrew's age."
I would give him that point. "What about the comment Lady Anne heard him make to his father?"
"It might be a simple testing of authority that boys go through."
Might be, but it was apparent that he wasn't convinced.
I had also learned to read Brodie in the time we had been in partnership in our investigations.
And as I had also learned, a word, a phrase, something that someone mentions, often provided a clue
that led to something else, and so on.
"What about Lady Anne?" I then asked, since it was possible that my observations of her might
have been influenced by other things—her obvious dislike of me for instance, in spite of the fact that
she'd asked Jeffrey to contact us.
Brodie was thoughtful as the driver navigated the cab through the usual congestion of traffic at the
end of the day.
"I would say there may be some difficulty between Lady Anne and Lord Annandale."
I had noticed it as well. I initially thought it had something to do with me, but as the conversation
continued I had obviously noticed his attempt to control her responses. And then there were the
messages given off in her manner.
"She seemed quite agitated with him," he admitted.
"It's more than that," I replied.
"The voice of experience?" he asked.
It seemed that we weren't entirely past his earlier displeasure at my taking on the case for Jeffrey.
 Six

"I WOULD SAY that there is some difficulty there," I explained as we reached the Strand.
"Are you receiving some sort of message from the spirit world for that?" Brodie commented as he
sent the cab on to the public house very near his office.
I noted the sarcasm, and chose to ignore it.
"It seemed rather obvious—the expressions at her face more than once, the way she kept folding
then unfolding her hands, and the way she looked..."
We entered the public house to the warmth and smells of the evening meal, ale, and cigarette
smoke. Miss Effie pointed to a table in the far corner.
The public house, more specifically, was one of those typical London establishments with rows of
paned windows that jutted out at the front of the building with the entrance at the side and an exit at
the back alley. There was a brass plate over the door that declared the building, set cheek by jowl in
a row of buildings, was “formerly the palace of Henry the VIII.”
Whether that was true or not was open to speculation. Henry had been dead for some three
hundred fifty years. There was undoubtedly no proof of such even though decoration at the second
level of the building was of a feather design that was from the time and had decorated other royal
buildings.
Given Henry's reputation for overindulging in assorted things, I thought that a public house that
served all manner of spirits and food was quite appropriate.
It was just inside that back entrance in a storeroom that Mr. Cavendish could often be found put up
for the night when the weather was bad. That accommodation however did not include the hound left
to fend for himself. Rufus could be found in the alcove at the entrance to Brodie's office, snoring as
the beast often did or munching some disgusting thing found on the street.
At our corner table I removed my gloves and hooked the handle of my umbrella over the back of
my chair.
"That would be yer opinion of Lady Annandale?"
I heard what wasn't said, in that way that I had learned in working with Brodie in the past.
"An observation." I thought of the women I had encountered in the East End. Poor they might be,
living from day to day, but they were openly caring and concerned for their children. Molly was an
example in her worries and concerns for Kip. Not so, Lady Annandale. Or at least not that she had
shown us.
"I would think she would be more concerned and forthcoming about the boy," I added.
"As you would be, of course," Brodie commented.
 There it was again. "Of course." I replied as Miss Effie arrived at our table.
"Evenin'," she greeted us. "Been wonderin' when I might see you again, Miss Mikaela. We have a
special on squid, came in fresh this mornin'. Then there are the usuals—cod, meat pies, and soup with
chicken." She leaned in close. "Although you have to wear eyeglasses to be able to find any chicken."
I declined the squid. I was not up for anything that had eyes that could look back at me, and in
spite of the warning that the soup was thin, I decided on that as I was still trying to warm up from our
cab ride from Jeffrey's residence. Brodie chose his usual meat pie. Never let it be said that he was
unpredictable.
"They seemed somewhat estranged," I commented about what I had observed of Jeffrey and Anne.
"I suppose it's the concern over young Andrew," I commented when Miss Effie left to put in our order.
"Perhaps. Or possibly Lady Annandale has reservations given your past relationship with her
husband."
I wouldn't have called it a relationship, however it seemed we were back to that.
"That ended a long time ago," I replied. "And certainly not the first time an engagement has
ended."
"She may not see it precisely that way. There are any number of others Lord Annandale could
have contacted in the matter, yet he contacted you."
"He mentioned that he had read about the last case we were involved with," I replied as our
supper arrived.
I waited until Miss Effie left, squeezing her way between customers that filled the restaurant and
the counter where the owner filled mugs of ale for those who had lined up after their work shift
ended.
"Lady Annandale suggested that he contact me," I replied.
That dark gaze met mine briefly. Very briefly. He was struggling with something. I saw it in the
way his mouth thinned.
I wasn't up for playing at word games or dealing with an ill-tempered Scot while there was a
child out there somewhere. I decided hot soup was far better company on a cold night.
"And the boy?" Brodie asked.
"I want to help find him, of course," I replied, a bit annoyed at the obvious. "It doesn't matter what
Lady Annandale thinks."
"He might have been yours," he pointed out.
There was that thick Scots accent again. He was in a bit of a temper, simmering there just beneath
the surface poking its head out in a word or two.
"No," I replied.
"No?"
It seemed we were not through with this part of the conversation.
"It was one of the reasons I ended our engagement," I explained. "It was obvious that was one of
the things that was important to Jeffrey... Lord Annandale," I continued. "There are too many people
who muck it up badly enough as far as their children are concerned."
I had never spoken of my own early childhood. It was one of those things that was best left in the
past, and I thought he should understand given his own difficult early years.
We continued our supper in silence. I paid for my part of the meal, and we left the public house.
The weather that had threatened earlier had set in, rain pouring off the awning at the front of the
public house, the street rapidly filling with water. I had my umbrella open and set off, water filling my
boots, a good portion of my skirt immediately soaked. I thought of the warm, dry savannah of Africa
or possibly Crete as I navigated the street.
Brodie was somewhere behind me as we made our way across and the short distance to the
office.
A coach sped by, finishing what the rain had started, thoroughly soaking me, as a wave of water
churned up from the wheels. I took a misstep would undoubtedly have gone down if Brodie hadn't
prevented disaster by grabbing my arm.
We arrived at the sidewalk in front of the alcove that led to the stairs. Mr. Cavendish poked his
head out from the alcove, having apparently decided to remain rather than seeking out the public
house. The hound, it seemed, preferred the dry bed he usually occupied on nights like this and refused
to put in an appearance. I couldn't find fault with that.
"A fine soft evenin', eh Mr. Brodie," Mr. Cavendish grinned at us in the halo of light from the
nearby streetlamp.
"Has there been any word about our young friend?" Brodie asked about Kip.
"Tommy O'Rourke came by. Not a word. And I spoke with Jasper earlier the afternoon," the
Mudger added.
"There's been no word on the street."
That was indeed disappointing. Five days and no word at all? It was more than disappointing. I
was well aware that life could be precarious on the streets of the East End. Kip was a streetwise kid,
but even those most streetwise could run afoul and find themselves in harm's way.
Given Brodie's prickly temperament, I wanted to be on my way. I glanced both directions of the
Strand. There wasn't a cab in sight. I opted to wait with the Mudger under the eaves of the alcove.
"What are ye doin'?" Brodie demanded.
"I'm waiting for a cab. There should be one along shortly." I was aware the curious look the
Mudger gave me then Brodie.
"Yer soaked through. Ye canna wait out here," he snapped. I rather thought that might be the better
option given his present temper. There was an oath in there, then he took hold of my arm again.
"I'll get the stove going. Ye need to dry off, before ye catch yer death from the cold."
When he would have escorted me to the stairs, obviously with the purpose of escorting me to the
office, I pulled my arm free.
"I am perfectly capable," I told him.
"Aye," he replied, moving past up to the stairs. "Much like crossin' the street just now."
Not at all the same, I thought, as I followed him up the stairs to the office, where a warm fire
waited. Not to mention some of my aunt's very fine whisky.
I shook out my skirt and left my umbrella just outside the door in an attempt to leave as much rain
as possible outside.
Brodie hung his long coat at the coat stand, then went to the stove, opened the grate, and stirred
what was left of the coals. He added more from the brass bucket then stuck a match.
I found a towel in the adjacent room—Brodie's bedroom to be more specific and attempted to dry
off as much as possible.
"Ye might want to get out of yer clothes and set them to dry," he suggested, in consideration of our
relationship in the past.
"A bit of my aunt's whisky might be in order," I suggested, returning to the adjacent room.
"Aye." A hand appeared with a tumbler of liquid gold at the edge of the door.
I took the whisky, downing a good portion, then stepped out of my skirt and pulled off my jacket.
Both were soaked through.
 I shook both out. It would serve Brodie right if he had a puddle of water at the floor next to his
bed. My hair was another matter. I removed the pins and combs and shook it out so that it might also
dry.
My undergarments had fared better and were mostly dry. I wasn't concerned about proprieties,
Brodie had seen me in far less in our previous investigations due to one circumstance or another.
However, with the fire at the stove out the past hours, the office and adjacent room were both
cold. That certainly called for another bit of whisky. I grabbed the comforter from the bed and
wrapped it around me.
"Once more," I commented, holding out my tumbler as I returned to the office.
"Would you prefer sherry if I had a bottle?"
That peevish attitude again, as he reached for the whisky bottle at his desk.
"Not bloody likely," I replied.
He turned, bottle in hand. He had removed his short coat as well, the sleeves of his shirt rolled
back. His overlong hair curled just at the collar, slightly wet from our mad dash across the street.
He had removed his tie—he hated the damned things as I had heard several times in the past. The
expression at his face behind the beard went from mildly irritated to disapproving scowl with a curse
thrown in.
He refilled my glass then set the bottle down. He reached out and pulled the edges of the
comforter more tightly about me, cursed again and muttered something to the effect once more, that I
would catch my death of cold, or something very near that. He then poured himself another good
portion of the drink and tossed it back.
I ignored the muttering and the scowl as I crossed the office to the chalkboard and picked up a
piece of chalk.
"Five days," I commented as I made note of that on the list of notes for Kip's disappearance. Was
it random, nothing more than Kip's usual wanderings about the East End?
"And Andrew has been missing four days." I made an entry for that as well.
Other things I had noticed in my earlier conversation with Jeffrey, I kept to myself until I had the
opportunity to find more information.
Next, I made an entry for our appointment the following day with the headmaster at Andrew's
school, the time yet to be determined, when I hoped we might learn something that might indicate the
reason young Andrew had left.
In the past, Brodie and I have a shared a certain companionship, after I first acquired his services.
Now, we were like boxing opponents squaring off against each other, jabbing and poking at one
another. Was it possible that Brodie was jealous about my past relationship with Jeffrey?
In his inimitable way he went about the office, silent and withdrawn, much like a crab poking
about, which was quite interesting since this particular crab was well over six feet tall, and I was
certain weighed nearly one hundred eighty pounds of lean muscle.
I decided to let him wallow in whatever sulk he wished as I went about the office, made some
additional notes, poured myself another dram, and then settled myself in the chair across from the
desk with the latest edition of the Police Gazette.
He continued to poke about as he searched from some paperwork or other at the desk, filled his
pipe and lit it, then looked at me across the desk.
"The Police Gazette?" he grumbled.
"Ummm," I replied, not taking the bait which I was certain was there, given his mood.
"What other woman reads the Police Gazette?"
 "Several that I know. My aunt is quite fond of it, and Linnie has taken to reading it was well." I
didn't point out that she did so as a means of escape, having read through everything in our aunt's
library. She had recently informed me that she had read my latest novel. I was certain I felt the earth
move on that one.
"What is it that you find so fascinating about it?" he demanded.
I didn't respond right away as there was a particular article that caught my attention:

"One Archie Purdy was apprehended in the act of soliciting a minor aged child for prostitution. It is
Mr. Purdy's fifth such offense, to which he replied that he was only trying to earn money for food for
his family. Mr. Purdy has no known family and was written into custody at the Commercial Police
Station."

"It's a sad fact of life. No matter how many they arrest and put in the prisons, there are a half dozen to
take their place. It would be better if they stole and then turned the goods for profit, not the human
sort, of course," Brodie said in that way of his that I'd learned came from his time as a constable.
Archie Purdy. A disgusting sort to be certain. Still, I tucked the name away as I continued to
peruse the Gazette while my clothes dried.
I have no idea when I dozed off—lulled by the heat in the office, the comforter wrapped around
me, and a few drams of my aunt's very fine whisky. It seemed that I had only just drifted off when
Brodie was gently shaking me awake.
I've always been a light sleeper, hence the whisky or some other drink occasionally to help me
sleep. I was immediately awake.
"What is it?"
"Kip has been found."
There was something in Brodie's voice, something quiet as opposed to grumbling and cursing, that
had me coming out of my chair.
"When?"
"A couple of hours ago. Tommy brought word from Mr. Brimley."
When on a case with Brodie, I have learned to dress quickly and be ready to depart. I retrieved
my skirt and jacket where I had hung them and set about dressing. Brodie retrieved my boots from
before the stove and handed them to me.
"Yer stockings," he said handing them to me with what could only be described as a slightly
embarrassed expression which seemed amusing considering other of my under things he had handled
in the past. I thanked him, pulled them on then laced my boots.
All-in-all I was ready to depart and already had my umbrella in hand as he pulled on his long
coat, and we were out the door.
It was the middle of the night, however the Mudger, resourceful fellow that he is had somehow,
miracle of miracles, found a driver as Mr. Brimley's establishment was some distance away and the
weather had not let up.
"Take care, Miss Mikaela," the Mudger cautioned. "It was the only cab about this time o' the
night.”
As soon as I entered the cab, I realized how he had found a cab. The driver had no doubt been
returning after delivering a fare after a night in one of the taverns as the cab reeked of gin.
Brodie promised the driver double his usual fare, gave him the location of Mr. Brimley's shop,
and climbed aboard.
We both arrived, having not expired from inhaling the fumes, as Brodie directed the driver to the
alley at the back of Mr. Brimley's chemist shop.
A light shone at the back entrance. Before we had even stepped down, the back door opened, and
Tommy O'Rourke stepped into the alley. There was a brief nod from Brodie and we were entering the
back of Mr. Brimley's shop.
The chemist had studied at King's College and trained as a physician, but he had taken a different
direction and setup his shop in one of the poorest parts of London. Here, he administered to the poor,
often undertaking the role of physician and chemist as he tended the sick and injured.
Many who came to him could only pay a pittance for his care, others not at all. It didn't matter. It
became a common response that I had overhead more than once, "Pay me when you can." For those
who could, payment might be a basket of eggs, fresh vegetables when in season, a basket of coal that
somehow mysteriously found its way to his stove, or a meal that a woman with a sick child had
labored over.
I made a regular donation after he had previously provided care to me as it was not convenient to
visit the local hospital at the time.
He was a gentle man, balding, with wire-rimmed glasses, and a quick smile who could be quite
fierce when it came to the children that filled the streets of the East End. And according to Brodie, he
had administered to more than one young girl or woman who found herself in trouble and already
with too many mouths to feed.
It was a sad part of his profession that he often was called upon too late when a young girl had
gone to a local woman and suffered much for it. Some had even died from the solution the woman had
provided.
For myself, I had learned a great deal from him about the postmortem of bodies, not to mention
his expertise with chemicals and how they were used.
He looked up now as he stepped out of the small room with a single bed that I had once occupied.
"Mr. Brodie, and Miss Forsythe," he greeted both of us.
"How is the boy?" Brodie asked.
Mr. Brimley hesitated, and I feared the worse. "He should be in hospital," he replied.
I let out the breath I had been holding since entering the back of his shop. He led the way to the
room that was a storeroom with shelves that contained bottles and jars of all sorts of powders
including herbal remedies.
The rest of Mr. Brimley's shop had electric, but not here in the storeroom. There was a single
bedside lamp that glowed softly, the light falling across the boy who lay still as death at the bed.
"He's alive," Brodie said, his voice low.
"Barely," Mr. Brimley replied and lifted the covers over Kip. "Tho' the good Lord knows how."
I saw his meaning in the wounds that covered Kip' thin body. The surface wounds that were no
more than scratches on his arms, deeper wounds on his legs, most of them bound.
I had seen wounds before, in my travels, and in my association with Brodie, but none like this.
They were everywhere on his legs from thigh to ankle and one foot was heavily bandaged.
"I had to cut what was left of his clothes off him," Mr. Brimley said with a gesture to a pile of
rags in a nearby basket.
Brodie sat at the edge of the bed gently checking the wounds that were visible. "Bite wounds?"
 "Aye, there were several," Mr. Brimley gestured to the bound wounds at Kip's legs. “Whatever
the boy encountered, he fought it off. A lesser lad might not be so fortunate. But he's lost a lot of
blood."
I saw something in Brodie's expression that was usually unreadable to others. A memory perhaps
from his own youth on the streets?
"Was he able to tell you anythin'?" he asked.
Mr. Brimley shook his head. "Not a word. He was very near unconscious when Tommy brought
him here. And nothing since."
Tommy O'Rourke stood quietly by the door. "Not a word when I found him."
"Where?" Brodie asked.
"The roundabout where the lads go in the morning with their papers."
The roundabout was a very public place, I thought, with daily traffic coming and going.
"That was the first place I went to ask if any of the lads had seen him, and I've been by several
times since."
Brodie looked over at Mr. Brimley. "Could the lad have gotten there on his own?"
Mr. Brimley shook his head. "Not with the loss of blood and the injury to the foot."
"Aye," Brodie commented. "He was taken there after."
That had been my thought as well, but after what? Where had he been? How had he been so badly
injured?
Brodie looked over at Tommy. "Molly will need to know. Bring her here, but don't tell her
anythin' more than necessary."
Tommy nodded and was already out the door. I could only imagine how Molly would respond to
someone knocking at her door in the middle of the night with news that would be a double-edged
sword—her son had been found, however it was unknown when he would recover... or if he would
recover.
"I need you to go over his clothes, or what's left of them," Brodie was saying to Mr. Brimley.
"Look for anything unusual that might tell us something about what happened to him, or where he's
been."
Mr. Brimley nodded. "Mostly blood and the usual filth but I'll see what I might be able to find."
"I need to use the telephone," Brodie added.
I looked at him with some surprise at that, given the time of the night and his usual reluctance to
rely on the damned things. It spoke to a certain urgency on his part. But that would have to wait for
me to ask.
"It's in my office, tho' I don't know who you might reach this time of the night."
Brodie nodded. "I want to know what else you might find as soon as possible."
Mr. Brimley nodded. "I'll get started, there's no more sleep this night. Someone should stay with
the lad," he added.
"I'll stay with him," I said. I had mostly been a bystander at this point, making mental notes of their
comments, with no idea what any of it meant.
Kip's mother would eventually arrive, but I hated the thought that it might be some time. Even
though he would hardly be aware of it, I didn't want to leave him alone.
Whether it was his need to be comforted or my need to provide it, in spite of Kip's worldliness
found too often on the streets of the East End, he was still a boy.
I saw the look at Brodie's face, that frown mixed with that something else I had discovered
recently.
 "Aye."
A single word, that thick Scot's accent, and then both of them left the storeroom as I sat beside Kip
and I waited with him.
I took his hand between mine, offering what comfort I could. It was callused, grime under his
fingernails in spite of Mr. Brimley's efforts to wash away the blood and filth. I brushed his hair back
from his forehead. There were bruises there as well as at his wrists.
Had he been bound? What sort of monster would do that?
He stirred briefly, lost somewhere in that place where he had gone after being so horribly injured.
I had once heard it described as a black abyss where the mind went for a time, and there were
some that never returned. My sister had gone there when our father took his own life.
It was a safe place where she didn't have to confront the ugliness our lives had become. Linnie
hadn't spoken for several months afterward and our aunt feared she might never speak again. But she
had made her way back with the assistance of an obscure but brilliant Austrian physician.
The blanket had fallen away from his shoulders. As I settled the woolen folds back in place, my
stomach tightened at the sight of his injuries that could be seen at his back and shoulders.
Bite wounds Mr. Brimley had said, and Brodie had agreed. But these were scratches and
lacerations of a different sort. I gently pulled the edge of the blanket up over him as he stirred. There
was a faint whimper, possibly from pain as he turned onto his side.
I have no idea what I said to him, possibly some vague memory from that time with my sister, only
that it was meant to comfort in some small way. I suppose there are some who might argue that it was
some shred of maternal instinct, though I had never experienced that as I knew other women did.
I did not consider myself a motherly sort as my instincts ran more toward a fierceness in my
publishing endeavors in a male dominated environment, and in my association with Brodie, also very
much male dominated. So, this quite surprised me.
Kip had drifted off to wherever he needed to go in order to recover. He didn't so much as stir at
the brief contact of my hand. I hesitated at something I saw at the back of his shoulder.
There were so many marks, scratches, and bruises that I might not have paid any attention, and
even now I stared, not at all certain it was anything at all except another mark that Kip had acquired
wherever it was that he had been.
If anyone had asked me, I would have said the mark seemed to resemble two marks crossing one
another over another mark, but it was difficult to tell among the other marks and scratches he had.
A tattoo perhaps? I had seen them among the boys on the street though usually associated with a
street gang. Was it possible Kip belonged to one?
However, this mark was smudged. Ink perhaps? But for what purpose? What did it mean?
Anything? Nothing?
There was no opportunity to inspect it closer as there was a sound from the alley at the back of the
shop.
Tommy had arrived with Kip's mother. He held the door open as she flew into the storeroom then
suddenly stopped, a hand clasped over her mouth as she saw her oldest child on the narrow cot,
followed by a muffled sound. I feared that she might go down.
Brodie had returned and put an arm around her shoulders.
"Is he...?" Molly couldn't say the rest of it.
"He's alive," Brodie replied. "Thanks to Mr. Brimley."
"He's resting now," the chemist told her as he arrived from the front of his shop, and with a
meaningful look at Brodie, said no more.
 There were questions. I saw it at her face as I stood so that she could sit with Kip; the same
questions we had as well. But for now, in the wee hours of the morning it was enough that he was
alive. The questions could wait.
If he recovered.
 Seven

"WHO DID YOU CALL?" I asked Brodie as we returned to the office the Strand.
Molly was with Kip when we left Mr. Brimley's shop earlier that morning, her oldest daughter
minding the younger children at their flat in Holborn.
"Mr. Dooley," he replied. "He has the night watch at the station."
Mr. Dooley with the Metropolitan Police had once served under Brodie. He participated from
time to time in Brodie's investigations and had assisted the both of us as well. There was no love lost
for his Chief Inspector, Mr. Abberline.
There was respect between the two of them that came from Brodie's time with the Metropolitan
Police. A connection that seemed to have had something to do with the incident that precluded
Brodie's leaving the police, though he had never shared that with me.
Mr. Dooley had lost his partner, Officer Thomas, during one of our previous cases and was a
frequent visitor to the office on the Strand.
"I want to know if there have been any other similar incidents reported to the police. Possibly
someone out there robbing the boys who sell papers. It's happened before. Unfortunately, they are an
easy target."
"Hmmm," I replied, going back over my own thoughts on the matter.
There was a note waiting for us, delivered by one of the telegraph runners and tucked in at the
edge of the door when we returned. It was a formal note in the matter of young Andrew Carsten, to be
presented to the headmaster at Harrow, informing him that he was to give his full cooperation to us.
Brodie handed it to me.
"You will be going with me?" Though I hated to admit it, there were instances when certain
individuals were more cooperative with Brodie. It undoubtedly had something to do with his
demeanor and that dark scowl that I had encountered on several occasions.
For my part, I usually chose to ignore him when he was in a temper over some matter or another.
But I had to admit it was most effective when the person on the other end was not being entirely
cooperative, and since I had already been put off by the headmaster at Andrew's school, I was not
above using whatever means was necessary to speak with him.
"Aye, I suppose since Kip will be out for a good while and Mr. Brimley needs time to learn what
he can about where the lad might have been."
It was decided that I would return to the townhouse at Mayfair since my clothes were in
somewhat of a need to be replaced and Brodie would call for me for our meeting with the
headmaster.
Another random document with
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The Project Gutenberg eBook of Lettres de
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Title: Lettres de voyage (1892-1913)

Author: Rudyard Kipling

Release date: November 27, 2023 [eBook #72244]

Language: French

Original publication: Paris: Payot, 1922

Credits: Véronique Le Bris, Laurent Vogel and the Online

Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net
(This file was produced from images generously made
available by the Bibliothèque nationale de France
(BnF/Gallica))

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK LETTRES DE

VOYAGE (1892-1913) ***
 RUDYARD KIPLING

LETTRES DE VOYAGE
(1892-1913)

PAYOT & CIE, PARIS

106, BOULEVARD SAINT-GERMAIN

1922
Tous droits réservés
 OUVRAGES DE RUDYARD KIPLING

A LA MÊME LIBRAIRIE :

LA GUERRE SUR MER, in-16 6 francs.

LES YEUX DE L’ASIE, Petit in-16 3 »
Les lettres intitulées : “D’un lit de marée a l’autre” furent publiées
d’abord dans le “Times”; celles intitulées : “Lettres à la famille”
dans le “Morning Post”; et celles intitulées : “L’Égypte des
Magiciens” dans “Nash’s Magazine”.

Seule traduction française autorisée

Tous droits réservés pour tous pays
D’UN LIT DE MARÉE A L’AUTRE
(1892-95)

EN VUE DE MONADNOCK.
A TRAVERS UN CONTINENT.
LA LISIÈRE DE L’ORIENT.
NOS HOMMES D’OUTRE-MER.
TREMBLEMENTS DE TERRE.
UNE DEMI-DOUZAINE DE TABLEAUX.
« LES CAPITAINES COURAGEUX ».
RIEN QUE D’UN CÔTÉ.
LETTRES D’UN CARNET D’HIVER.
 EN VUE DE MONADNOCK

Succédant au temps grisâtre et morne de l’Atlantique, un

véritable flot de soleil hivernal accueillit notre vaisseau, dès qu’il
toucha l’Amérique. Nos yeux désaccoutumés en clignaient,
cependant que le New-Yorkais, qui est, comme nul ne l’ignore, la
modestie même, nous assurait : « En fait de belles journées nous
avons mieux : attendez seulement… » (telle ou telle époque) « allez
donc voir » (tel ou tel quartier de la ville). Pour nous, notre bonheur
était au comble et au delà de pouvoir comme à la dérive monter et
redescendre les rues resplendissantes, non sans nous demander,
pourquoi il fallait que la plus belle lumière du monde fût gaspillée sur
les trottoirs les plus détestables qui soient ; faire indéfiniment le tour
du square de Madison, parce que celui-là était rempli de bébés
admirablement habillés jouant à la « Caille », ou contempler
révérencieusement les sergents de ville de New-York, Irlandais aux
larges épaules, au nez camus. Où que nous allions, nous
retrouvions le soleil, prodigue, illimité, travaillant neuf heures par
jour, le soleil avec les perspectives aux lignes nettes et les couleurs
de sa création. La seule pensée que quelqu’un eût osé qualifier ce
climat de lourd et humide, voire de « presque tropical », causait un
choc. Pourtant il vint ce quelqu’un et il nous dit : « Allez au Nord, si
vous voulez du beau temps, alors du beau temps. Allez dans la
Nouvelle Angleterre. »
Ainsi, par un après-midi ensoleillé, New-York disparut avec son
bruit et son tumulte, ses odeurs complexes, ses appartements
surchauffés et ses habitants beaucoup trop énergiques, tandis que
le train se dirigeait vers le Nord, vers les pays de la neige. Ce fut
soudain, d’un seul coup — presque, aurait-on dit, dans un seul tour
de roues — que celle-ci apparut, recouvrant l’herbe tuée par l’hiver
et changeant en mares d’encre les étangs gelés qui paraissaient si
blancs à l’ombre d’arbres grêles.
A la tombée de la nuit, une petite ville construite en bois, toute
blanche, drapée et silencieuse, vint se glisser le long des portières et
la forte lumière du wagon éclaira un traîneau, dont le conducteur
était enfoui jusqu’au nez dans des foulards et des fourrures, filant au
tournant d’une rue. Or, on a beau l’avoir contemplé dans les livres
d’images, le traîneau tel qu’on se le représente est loin d’être ce qu’il
est en réalité, un simple moyen de locomotion à la fin d’un voyage.
Mais il vaut mieux ne pas se montrer trop curieux, car l’Américain qui
vient de vous raconter en détail comment un jour il lui était arrivé de
suivre de Chelsea à la Tour de Londres, un soldat écossais portant
le kilt, par pure curiosité pour ses genoux découverts et son sporran,
rirait de l’intérêt que vous manifestez pour ce vulgaire traîneau.
Le personnel du train — sans aucun doute c’en serait fait de la
grande nation américaine si elle était privée de la noble société des
garde-freins, conducteurs, contrôleurs des wagons Pullman, facteurs
nègres et crieurs de journaux, — racontait, étalé à l’aise dans les
compartiments de fumeurs, de délectables histoires de voies
bloquées par la neige sur la ligne de Montréal, d’attaques
désespérées — quatre locomotives précédées d’un chasse-neige —
qu’il fallait livrer à des amas atteignant trente pieds de hauteur ; du
plaisir qu’on a à marcher sur le haut des wagons de marchandises
pour bloquer un train tandis que le thermomètre marque trente au-
dessous de zéro.
« Cela revient meilleur marché de tuer des gens de cette façon
que de mettre des freins à air comprimé sur les convois de
marchandises », dit le garde-frein.
Trente degrés au-dessous de zéro ! température inconcevable,
oui, jusqu’à ce qu’on y entrât en plein en sortant du train à minuit, et
que le premier contact avec cet air clair et immobile vous eût coupé
la respiration comme le fait un plongeon dans la mer. Un morse,
assis sur un monticule de laine, nous accueillit dans son traîneau. Il
nous enveloppa de manteaux de peaux de chèvre aux longs poils,
nous mit des passe-montagnes se rabattant sur les oreilles, des
peaux de buffles, des couvertures, puis encore des peaux de buffle,
tant et si bien que nous aussi ressemblions à des morses et
évoluions avec presque autant de grâce. L’air était tranchant comme
la lame d’une épée fraîchement aiguisée ; l’haleine gelait sur les
revers des habits, on ne sentait plus son nez, et les yeux pleuraient
amèrement de ce que les chevaux avaient hâte de rentrer à l’écurie,
et pour la bonne raison que filer rapidement dans une atmosphère à
zéro degré fait venir les larmes aux yeux. Sans le carillon des grelots
du traîneau on aurait pu se croire dans un rêve : nul bruit de sabots
sur la neige ; seuls les patins poussaient parfois un léger soupir en
franchissant quelque ondulation de terrain, et les collines alentour,
drapées de blanc, gardaient un silence de mort. Le Connecticut
cependant avait gardé sa vie, traînée liquide et noire à travers la
glace compacte. On pouvait entendre l’eau grognant, tel un roquet,
aux talons de petits icebergs. Partout ailleurs il n’y avait sous la lune
que de la neige qui s’était amoncelée jusqu’à hauteur des barrières
de pierre ou qui, à leur sommet, retombait en festons d’argent ; de la
neige entassée des deux côtés de la route, alourdissant les pins et
les sapins des bois, et où, par contraste, l’air semblait tiède comme
dans une serre chaude. Le spectacle qui s’offrait à nous était d’une
indescriptible beauté car la nature, avec un dédain tout japonais
pour la perspective, avait tracé là, en noir et blanc sa plus
audacieuse esquisse que venaient modifier de temps en temps les
crayons hardis et toujours mobiles de la lune.
Au matin l’autre partie du tableau nous fut révélée sous les
couleurs du soleil. Pas un seul nuage au ciel qui, sur la ligne
neigeuse de l’horizon, reposait tel un saphir sur du velours blanc.
Des collines d’un blanc éclatant, d’autres tachetées et bordées de
bois comme d’une fourrure, se dressaient au-dessus des surfaces
compactes et blanches de la plaine tandis que le soleil éclaboussait
d’une orgie de lumière leurs multiples broderies, jusqu’à en éblouir
les yeux. Çà et là sur les versants exposés, la chaleur du jour — le
thermomètre marquait presque 40 — et le froid de la nuit avaient
formé sur la neige une croûte chauve et brûlante, mais, en général,
tout était recouvert d’une poudre fine, prête à capter la lumière
comme dans un prisme et à la refléter en des milliers de cristaux. Au
milieu de cette magnificence, tout comme si de rien n’était, un
traîneau de bois, tiré par deux bœufs roux aux longs poils, chargé de
troncs d’arbres dénués d’écorce et saupoudrés d’une poussière de
diamant, descendit le chemin dans un nuage de glaciale buée.
Confondre le traîneau qu’on emploie comme moyen de
locomotion et celui consacré aux charrois de marchandises est,
dans cette région, un signe d’inexpérience et c’est, je crois, la
preuve que l’on n’est un propre à rien que d’imaginer qu’on conduit
les bœufs comme cela se fait ailleurs, en leur tortillant la queue de
façon scientifique. Muni de mitaines rouges, de guêtres de feutre
montant jusqu’aux genoux, et, il se peut aussi, d’un manteau gris
argent de peau de rat, le conducteur accompagne son attelage en
criant : Huehan, tout comme on le raconte dans les récits
américains. Les paroles du charretier expliquent bien des choses en
ce qui touche les histoires écrites en dialecte, car même les
meilleures sont pour la plupart des lecteurs un véritable châtiment.
Maintenant qu’il m’est arrivé d’entendre l’accent long et traînant de
Vermont, je m’étonne non point de ce que les contes de la Nouvelle
Angleterre soient imprimés en ce que, pour les besoins de la cause,
nous appellerons de l’anglais et de la typographie anglaise, mais
bien plutôt de ce qu’ils n’aient pas paru en suédois ou en russe, car
notre alphabet est vraiment trop limité. Cette région appartient, selon
des lois, — inconnues aux États-Unis, — mais admises dans le
monde entier, en propre au roman de la Nouvelle Angleterre et aux
femmes auteurs qui l’écrivent. Voilà ce que l’on sent dans l’air
même, dès qu’on aperçoit ces chalets de bois peints en blanc,
abandonnés dans la neige, cette maison d’école à l’aspect sévère,
et ces habitants — hommes des fermes, femmes qui travaillent
autant qu’eux, avec peut-être moins de joies dans leur vie — ces
autres demeures, bien peintes, aux toits bizarres, appartenant à
Monsieur un Tel, juge, avocat ou banquier, tous potentats dans cette
métropole de six mille habitants située à proximité de la gare de
chemin de fer. Et l’on se rend mieux compte encore de ce qu’est
cette atmosphère, lorsqu’on lit dans les journaux locaux des
annonces de « soupers fins » ou de « réunions pieuses » organisés
par telle ou telle secte, sandwichées au milieu de paragraphes qui
témoignent d’un intérêt sympathique et fraternel, et qui prouvent bien
que les gens du district vivent, — sans cependant s’égorger entre
eux, — sur un pied d’effarante intimité.
Les descendants de la vieille souche, ceux qui habitent les plus
anciennes demeures, nés et élevés alentour, ne voudraient à aucun
prix vivre en dehors de la ville, mais il y a des gens du Sud, vrais
fous, ceux-là, (hommes et femmes de Boston et autres cités
semblables) qui vont jusqu’à construire des maisons en rase
campagne, à trois et même à quatre kilomètres de la Grand’Rue qui
a 400 mètres de long et qui est le centre de la vie et de la
population. Avec les étrangers, surtout s’ils ne font pas leurs
provisions d’épicerie « dans la Rue », autrement dit en ville, la ville a
peu de rapports ; n’empêche qu’elle sait tout, et même davantage,
de ce qui se passe parmi eux. Leurs vêtements, leur bétail, leurs
idées, les manières de leurs enfants, leur façon de traiter leurs
domestiques et tout autre chose imaginable, est rapportée,
examinée, discutée, et rediscutée encore du haut en bas de Main
Street. Or la sagesse que possède Vermont n’étant pas toujours
suffisante pour parvenir avec la délicatesse voulue à la pleine
compréhension de tous les problèmes de la vie d’autrui, commet
parfois des erreurs pathétiques et, de ce fait, la ville en vient aux
prises. On voit donc que par le monde entier les villes de province
d’une certaine dimension ne diffèrent pas essentiellement les unes
des autres. La conversation des fermiers roule sur leurs fermes :
questions d’achats, d’hypothèques et de vente, de droits
d’enregistrement, de lignes de délimitations et d’impôts vicinaux.
C’est au beau milieu de la Nouvelle Zélande, à la lisière des plaines
où courent les chevaux sauvages que j’entendis ce genre de
conversation pour la dernière fois, lorsqu’un homme et une femme, à
trente kilomètres de leur plus proche voisin passèrent la moitié de la
nuit à discuter exactement les mêmes questions que celles qui
formaient le fond de la conversation des gens de la Grand’Rue, à
Vermont, États-Unis.
 Il existe au moins un homme dans l’État que cette localité
exaspère. C’est un garçon de ferme, élevé dans un hameau à vingt
ou trente kilomètres de la voie ferrée la plus proche et qui, audace
sans pareille, s’est un jour aventuré jusqu’ici. Mais l’agitation et le
tumulte de la Grand’Rue, la clarté inaccoutumée des lampes
électriques, son pâté de maisons de commerce construites en brique
rouge, à cinq étages, l’effraient et l’inquiètent. Aussi a-t-il pris du
service dans une ferme bien loin de ces plaisirs délirants et
s’empresse-t-il de dire : « On m’a offert vingt-cinq dollars par mois
pour travailler dans une boulangerie de New-York, mais pas de
danger qu’on me voie dans quelque New-York que ce soit ; j’ai vu
Main Street et j’en suis tout retourné. » Ses capacités consistent à
rentrer le foin et à soigner le bétail. La vie de la ferme en hiver n’est
d’ailleurs pas l’oisiveté relative dont on parle tant. Chaque heure, au
contraire, semble avoir ses soixante minutes de travail, car le bétail
est tenu dans les étables et mange sans fin ; il faut mener boire les
poulains, dans les étangs gelés dont on doit au besoin briser la
glace et emmagasiner de la glace pour l’été. C’est alors seulement
que commence le vrai travail, entendez par là rentrer le bois de
chauffage, car la Nouvelle Angleterre n’a que ses forêts pour se
ravitailler en combustible. A l’automne on marque les arbres, juste
avant la chute des feuilles, en faisant une entaille dans l’écorce ;
plus tard on les abat, on les coupe en bûches de quatre pieds de
long, et dès que la neige amie le permet, on les amène en traîneau
jusqu’au bûcher. Ensuite on peut s’occuper des besoins de la ferme,
et celle-ci, tout comme une arche de pont, n’est jamais en repos.
Puis vient la saison du sirop d’érable. Lorsque la sève commence à
travailler on fait des incisions dans les majestueux érables pour la
recueillir dans de petits seaux de dimensions absurdes (une vache
dont on trairait le lait dans un dé donnerait une idée de la
disproportion) et la vider ensuite dans des chaudrons.
Enfin (c’est le moment où l’on se réunit pour la récolte du sucre)
on verse le sirop bouillant dans des récipients en fer remplis de
neige fraîche où il durcit, tandis qu’en faisant semblant d’aider l’on
se rend poisseux, et tout le monde, garçons et filles flirtent à plaisir.
Même l’introduction d’appareils brevetés à évaporer le sucre n’a pas
porté atteinte aux amourettes.
Les hommes avec qui flirter sont assez rares, bien que la disette
soit moins grande dans les villes possédant leurs propres
manufactures — où l’amoureux peut se rendre le dimanche de New-
York, — que dans les fermes et les villages… Les hommes sont
partis : les jeunes, pour livrer bataille à la fortune plus loin, à l’ouest,
tandis que les femmes demeurent, demeurent éternellement,
comme il en va toujours pour elles. Dans les fermes, lorsque les
enfants partent, le vieux père, la vieille mère s’efforcent de faire
marcher la maison sans aide, et le lot qui échoue à la femme est fait
de labeur et de monotonie. Parfois elle devient folle, même assez
fréquemment pour affecter les statistiques de recensement, mais le
plus souvent, espérons-le, elle meurt. Dans les villages où les
travaux pénibles ne sont pas d’une nécessité aussi urgente, les
femmes trouvent à se consoler en formant des clubs et des cercles
littéraires ; elles acquièrent ainsi, à leur façon, beaucoup de sagesse
et de philosophie. Leur méthode certes n’est pas toujours
recommandable, car le comble de leurs souhaits, c’est de posséder
des faits, savoir qu’elles en seront à telle ou telle page d’un volume,
allemand ou italien, avant telle date, et qu’elles auront lu les livres
qu’il fallait, de la bonne manière. En tous cas, elles ont quelque
chose à faire, ce qui leur donne l’illusion qu’elles sont occupées. On
a dit que les récits de la Nouvelle Angleterre étaient restreints,
étriqués ; mais ces aperçus, même lointains, de la terrible vie d’où ils
sont tirés, servent de justification à l’auteur, car, en raison de sa
dureté même, on peut sculpter une coquille de noix de mille façons
différentes.
A vingt-cinq ou trente milles au delà des collines, sur la route des
Montagnes Vertes, se trouvent des fermes délaissées, bâties dans
un pays aride, gardées avec acharnement tant qu’il y eut quelqu’un
pour s’en occuper, puis finalement abandonnées au flanc des
collines, comme autant de chapitres terminés de lamentables
histoires. Au delà de cette désolation il y a des forêts où l’ours et le
daim trouvent encore la paix et où parfois même le castor oublie
qu’on le persécute et ose construire son gîte.
C’est un homme qui aimait les bois pour eux-mêmes et non par
amour du carnage qui m’a raconté tout cela ; un homme de l’Ouest,
aux gestes lents, à la voix calme, qui avait traversé en skis les
plaines neigeuses et qui ne rit même pas lorsque je lui empruntai
ses chaussures pour essayer de marcher. Mais les gigantesques
appareils, semblables à des raquettes de tennis, sur lesquelles sont
tendues des peaux de bête, ne sont pas faciles à manier, et si vous
oubliez de maintenir les talons bien au sol, l’arrière traînant sur la
neige, c’est la pirouette avec la sensation de tomber dans l’eau
profonde, les chevilles attachées à une ceinture de sauvetage. Si
vous perdez l’équilibre, n’essayez pas de le reprendre, mais laissez-
vous choir, moitié assis, moitié à genoux, en couvrant le plus
d’étendue possible. Puis, lorsque vous aurez attrapé le pas du loup,
c’est-à-dire lorsque vous saurez glisser adroitement un pied par-
dessus l’autre, vous oublierez bien vite vos chevilles endolories pour
jouir du plaisir qu’on trouve à traverser des épaisseurs de neige
profondes de six pieds et à prendre des raccourcis par-dessus les
barrières ensevelies.
L’homme de l’Ouest me traduisit les marques faites sur la neige ;
il me montra comment un renard (cette partie du pays est remplie de
renards qu’on tire au fusil parce que la chasse à cheval est
impossible) laisse derrière lui un certain genre de piste, car il marche
avec circonspection, comme un voleur, différente de celle du chien
qui, n’ayant rien à se reprocher, plonge et enfonce de ses quatre
pattes écartées ; comment les racoons et les écureuils s’endorment
tout l’hiver et comment les daims, à la frontière canadienne, font, en
piétinant, de longs sentiers profonds appelés cours, où ils sont
surpris par des hommes importuns, munis d’appareils
photographiques, qui les tiennent par la queue lorsqu’ils sont
enlisés, et par ce moyen parviennent à reproduire sur l’écran leur
dignité apeurée. Il m’a parlé aussi des gens, des mœurs et des
coutumes de ces habitants de la Nouvelle Angleterre ; comment ils
fleurissent et prospèrent dans le Far-West, le long des lignes de
chemin de fer les plus récentes, où la rivalité de deux compagnies
se disputant les mêmes défilés provoque presque la guerre civile ;
comment il existe un pays pas très loin d’ici, appelé la Calédonie,
peuplé d’Écossais, gens très forts en affaires, capables à ce point de
vue d’en remontrer aux habitants de la Nouvelle Angleterre eux-
mêmes, et qui, Américains-Écossais de naissance, nomment encore
leurs villes d’après les cités de leur race économe et prospère…
Tout cela était plein de charme pour moi, aussi nouveau que le bruit
régulier des snow-boots mordant la neige, et le silence éblouissant
des collines.
Au delà de la chaîne des montagnes la plus éloignée, où les pins
se détachant sur l’unique pic solitaire s’estompent et ne forment plus
qu’une légère brume bleue, une véritable montagne, et non pas une
colline, pointait vers le ciel, pareille à quelque gigantesque ongle de
pouce.
— Ça, c’est Monadnock, me dit l’homme de l’Ouest, toutes les
collines portent un nom indien. Vous avez laissé Wantastiquet à
droite en quittant la ville.
Vous avez dû remarquer que bien souvent un mot revient à la
mémoire au bout de plusieurs années, réveillant toutes sortes
d’associations saugrenues. J’avais rencontré ce nom de Monadnock
sur le papier dans une parodie éhontée du style d’Emerson, avant
même que le style ou les vers n’eussent présenté quelque intérêt
pour moi. Mais le mot m’avait frappé à cause de certains rythmes,
entre autres ceux-ci :

… sommet couronné, contemporain

de la crête de Monadnock ;
et mes ailes étendues
touchent l’Est et l’Ouest…

Plus tard, le même mot, recherché pour le même motif que le

nom béni de la Mésopotamie, me conduisit à Emerson, à son poème
sur le pic lui-même, vieux géant sage « absorbé dans ses affaires
avec le ciel », qui nous rend sensés et sobres, et nous libère de
toute petitesse lorsque nous mettons notre confiance en lui. Aussi
Monadnock en était-il venu à vouloir dire tout ce qui aide, guérit ; tout
ce qui calme, et lorsque, ayant gagné le centre du New-Hampshire,
je le vis apparaître, il ne manqua point à ses promesses. Dans cette
tranquillité absolue, une branche de sapin pliant sous son trop lourd
fardeau de neige s’affaissa d’un pied ou deux, avec un petit soupir
de fatigue ; puis la neige glissa et le rameau oscillant se redressa et
vivement rejoignit ses camarades.
En l’honneur de Monadnock nous fîmes cet après-midi-là une
statue de neige représentant Gautama Bouddha, portrait un peu trop
ramassé et non d’une symétrie parfaite, mais à la taille impériale et
reposante. Lui, faisait face à la montagne et tout à coup, des
hommes passant en traîneau sur la route, s’arrêtèrent pour le
regarder. Or, les réflexions pleines d’étonnement de deux fermiers
de Vermont sur la nature et les propriétés d’un dieu ventru valent la
peine qu’on les écoute. Ce n’était nullement sa race qui les intriguait,
car il était d’un blanc agressif, mais les tailles arrondies ont l’air de
n’être plus à la mode dans l’État de Vermont, du moins l’affirmèrent-
ils avec force jurons curieux et rares.
Le lendemain, toutes les vaines futilités disparurent dans une
tempête de neige qui remplit les creux des collines d’une
tourbillonnante brume bleue, inclina les branches des arbres si bas
qu’il fallait baisser la tête en passant et ne pas craindre d’être
saupoudré et effaça la trace des traîneaux.
Notre Mère Nature est merveilleusement ordonnée si on la laisse
faire. Ce jour-là, elle arrondit tous les angles, nivela toutes les
pentes, et borda si bien le lit blanc, qu’il s’étendait sans le moindre
pli jusqu’à l’échine des sapins et des pins qui ne voulaient pas
s’endormir.
— En ce moment, me dit l’homme de l’Ouest, tandis que nous
nous dirigions vers la gare et, hélas ! vers New-York, toutes mes
traces ont disparu ; mais à la fonte des neiges, d’ici une semaine ou
un mois, elles reparaîtront et montreront où j’ai passé !
 Idée bizarre, n’est-ce pas ? Imaginez un meurtre commis dans
les bois déserts, une rafale de neige qui recouvre les traces du
meurtrier s’enfuyant avant que le vengeur du sang versé n’ait
enseveli le cadavre, et puis, une semaine plus tard, le retrait de la
neige traîtresse, révélant pas à pas le chemin que Caïn avait pris,
découvrant une à une les empreintes fatales de ses snow-boots
comme autant de disques noirs sur le blanc du chemin, jusqu’au
bout.
Il y aurait tant et tant à écrire, si cela en valait la peine, sur cette
drôle de petite ville près de la gare du chemin de fer, dont la vie
semble glisser, en toute apparence, aussi doucement que les
coupés montés sur les traîneaux, mais qui à l’intérieur est troublée
par les haines, les soucis et les jalousies tourmentant toutes les
âmes, sauf celles des dieux. Par exemple, — mais non, il vaut mieux
se rappeler la leçon que donne Monadnock, et Emerson qui dit
d’autre part : « Zeus hait les gens officieux et ceux qui font trop. »
Qu’il existe de pareilles gens, une voix traînante et nasillarde qui
traverse la Grand’Rue, l’atteste. Un fermier est en train de détacher
ses chevaux d’un poteau faisant face à un magasin, il reste le licol à
la main et exprime son opinion, à un voisin, et au monde en
général :
— Pour quant à ces Andersons ! c’te clique-là, je t’ dis moi, que
ça n’a aucune idée de saveoir vivre !
 A TRAVERS UN CONTINENT

On ne se soustrait pas facilement à une grande ville. Nous

avions encore tout un continent à traverser et pour cette raison nous
nous attardions dans New-York, tant et si bien que nous avions des
remords à l’idée de quitter cette ville qui nous rappelait le foyer.
Pourtant, plus on l’étudiait, plus elle nous révélait ses grotesques
tares : ses rues mal pavées, ses rues elles-mêmes, sa mauvaise
police municipale et des conditions sanitaires qui, sans la mer
charitable, seraient pires encore. Personne, jusqu’ici, n’a abordé le
problème de l’administration de New-York dans l’esprit voulu ; c’est-
à-dire, en le considérant comme le résultat d’une incapacité, d’un
manque de civilisation barbare, crasseux, et d’un gaspillage effréné.
Personne non plus ne le fera, très probablement, car toute réflexion
qu’on oserait émettre sur cette auge longue et étroite serait
interprétée comme une attaque malveillante dirigée contre l’esprit et
la majesté de la Grande Nation Américaine et se terminerait en
comparaisons irritantes. Pourtant, même à supposer que d’une
façon permanente toutes les rues de Londres fussent sens dessus
dessous et tous les réverbères renversés, cela n’empêcherait pas
les rues de New-York, prises en bloc, de ressembler étonnamment à
une plage de Zanzibar ou aux abords d’un village zoulou. Des
rigoles, des trous, des ornières ; des pavés pointus et tout de
travers ; des trottoirs mal entretenus, aux bordures dépassant le
niveau de deux à trois pouces ; des rails de tramways faisant saillie
sur la chaussée ; des matériaux de construction éparpillés jusqu’au
milieu de la rue ; de la chaux, des planches, des pierres taillées et
des boîtes à ordures semées généreusement partout ; les voitures
s’aventurant au hasard ; de lourds camions rencontrant des coupés
aux croisements des rues ; des poteaux chancelants, grossièrement
taillés et non peints ; des becs de gaz titubants et tordus ; et,