The Mammoth Book of Historical Crime Fiction

“I am sure you are right,” Brodie nodded. “But as you point out, it remains to prove it — after we have removed the dynamite. I shall purchase some fresh bread at the bakery across the street. Can you obtain some black paint and a brush without returning to the house?”

“I am sure I can. Where shall we meet to do the work? It must be discreet.”

Brodie thought hard, and no answer came to her.

“I have it!” Stockwell said with pleasure. “There is a public bath-house on the corner of Bedford Street. It has private changing places for both ladies and gentlemen. If you use the rooms for ladies, you can make the bread the requisite size. Do you know what that is?”

“I do. It is two inches less than the distance from my wrist to my elbow, and as thick as my thumb.”

“Bravo! Then we shall begin. I think I may say ‘the game’s afoot’. Come, Miss Brodie. Let us advance to battle.”

* * *

But distracting the attention of the curator was less easy than they had supposed. They returned some considerable time later, the long, black stick of bread, paint just dry, concealed up Stockwell’s sleeve. The curator regarded them with displeasure. Had it been anything but the utmost urgency, Brodie would have left and gone home. But that would be cowardice under fire, and Brodie had never been a coward. England’s honour was at stake.

“Now, Miss Brodie,” Stockwell said gently, and perhaps with a touch of new respect in his tone. “Charge!”

She gulped and sailed forward. There were only four other people in the room: a gentleman and two ladies, and of course the curator.

“How wonderful to see you again!” she said loudly, staring at one of the ladies, an elderly person in a shade of purple she should never have worn. “You look so well! I am delighted to see you so recovered.”

The women stared at her in perplexity.

“And your great uncle,” Brodie went on even more loudly. Now the others were staring at her also. “Is he recovered from that appalling affair in Devon? What a perfectly dreadful woman, and so much younger than he.”

The woman now looked at her in considerable alarm, and clutched at the hand of the gentleman next to her.

“I don’t know you!” she said in a high-pitched voice. “I don’t have a great uncle in Devon, or anywhere else!”

“I’m not surprised you should disown him,” Brodie said in a tone of great sympathy, but still as loudly as she could, as if she thought the woman in purple might be deaf, and shouting would make the meaning plainer. “But older men can be so easily beguiled, don’t you think?”

Two more people had entered the room from one of the other halls, but they paid no attention to Stockwell or the exhibits. They focused entirely upon Brodie and the scene of acute embarrassment being played out in the centre of the floor. The curator dithered from one foot to the other in uncertainty as to what to do; whether to intervene in what was obviously a very private matter, or to pretend he had not even heard. Sometimes the latter was the only way to treat such a matter with kindness.

The woman in purple was still staring at Brodie as if she were an apparition risen out of the floor.

“Of course she was very attractive,” Brodie resumed relentlessly. Stockwell could not be finished yet. She must buy him time. “In an extraordinary sort of way. I’ve never seen so much hair! Have you? And such a colour, my dear! Like tomato soup!”

“I don’t know you!” the woman repeated desperately, waving her hands in the air. “I have no great uncles at all!”

“Really!” The man beside her came to her rescue at last. “I must protest, Mrs Er … I mean …” He glared at Brodie. “Lady Dora has already explained to you, as kindly as possible, that you have made a mistake. Please accept that and do not pursue the matter.”

“Oh!” Brodie let out a shriek of dismay. “Lady Dora? Are you sure?” Lady Dora was very pink in the face, a most unbecoming colour.

“Of course I’m sure!” she shrieked.

“I do apologize,” Brodie shouted back, still on the assumption Lady Dora was hard of hearing. “I mistook you for Mrs. Marshfield, who looks so like you, in a certain light, of course, when wearing just the right shade of … what would you say? Plum? Claret? I really should remember my spectacles. They make such a difference, don’t you think? I am quite mortified. Whatever can I do?” She asked it not rhetorically, but as if she expected and required a reply.

Lady Dora looked not a whit comforted. She stared at Brodie with loathing. “Please don’t distress yourself,” she said icily. “Now that the issued is settled, there is no offence, I assure you.”

“You are too generous,” Brodie exclaimed. Where on earth was Stockwell. Had he finished yet? She dared not glance around in case she drew anyone else’s attention to him. What on earth was there left for him to do? “I feel quite ill with confusion that I should have made such an error.” She rolled her eyes as if she were about to faint.

“Water!” Lady Dora’s companion said loudly.