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Charlotte’s throat constricted. “That’s precisely what I’m so terrified of.”
“You mustn’t be,” he told her. “It’s the only way forward.”
Charlotte allowed silence to build between them. The only thing left to say was at the tip of her tongue.
“I love you, you know,” she said.
“I love you, too,” he whispered.
With that, Jeffrey spun around and headed for the brasserie doorway. It was time.
**
Jeffrey pressed against the wooden doorway of the brasserie. A set of bells jangled out as he entered, yet hardly anyone turned their heads. It was only four in the afternoon, but several men sat at a round wooden table, smoking so heavily that the space around it seemed like a cloud. Jeffrey demanded bravery of himself—if not for him, then for Charlotte, who awaited him outside.
Jeffrey ordered a beer from the bartender and watched as the man delivered a healthy pour. As the bartender clacked the beer back on the countertop, Jeffrey heard himself ask, “I don’t suppose you saw much of Brooks in here over the weeks before his death?”
The bartender arched his brow and leaned forward. “He was in here all the time, sir. Almost every night. Didn’t have a shift where Brooks wouldn’t show up.”
“I see.” Jeffrey’s heart pumped with panic. “I don’t suppose he said anything to you. Anything that might have given you some kind of indication that his life would turn out the way it did.”
The bartender considered this for a moment. He then turned his head towards the round table and called, “Hey! Marcus. Would you come over here for a moment.”
Jeffrey watched as a thirty-something man popped from the far end of the round table. He removed his pipe from his mouth and spat, “What’s this all about?” He seemed none-too-thrilled to be disturbed from whatever lacklustre conversation he’d been having.
“It’s about Brooks,” the bartender said.
This hadn’t been anything Jeffrey had wanted to advertise.
Still, the damage had been done. Only Marcus seemed to take any sort of interest in the idea of Brooks.
“All right. I’ll head your way,” Marcus said. He gripped his glass and headed back towards the bar, where he clacked the base of the beer glass against the counter and peered at Jeffrey ominously.
“What’s this all about, then? What sort of relationship did you have with old Brooks?”
Jeffrey arched his brow. “He’s a friend of a friend. I believe whatever happened to him might have also happened to my brother.”
“Ah. A revenge plot.”
“I don’t know about that.”
“I can tell you one thing about Brooks for sure,” the man said. He chewed the pipe a bit, contemplatively. “He liked to drink. And he could put them back, one by one. He loved to laugh, as well, and the laughter grew evermore uproarious as the drinks flowed. I must say, the bar has lost a bit of light in the wake of Brooks’ death.”
“That is the truth,” the bartender affirmed.
Jeffrey felt the weight of the words, remembering also the initial ache of missing his own brother, how he’d sometimes awaken in the middle of the night, thinking he’d heard his voice.
“Was Brooks rather chatty about his private life?” Jeffrey asked.
“Sure. Once he had a few drinks in him, he’d talk about anything,” the man continued. “I miss that as well. Nobody else in here lends himself much to gossip. Perhaps I could begin to do it, just to throw some light on the situation again.”
Jeffrey laughed for a moment, grateful he’d stumbled into such a character. “I don’t suppose Brooks ever said anything about visiting a certain mystic? There was one who came through town briefly—only a few months, I believe—and I have reason to suspect that Brooks had some sort of …”
“The mystic? Of course. Of course, Brooks saw the mystic.”
Jeffrey’s heart lifted. Finally, here was the proof he’d needed all along.
“But everyone else saw the mystic, as well. High society ladies loved the mystic. Several men in this bar saw the mystic. It wasn’t such an odd thing, going that way. Personally, I believe a great deal of that to be drivel—but I’m not the sort of man to squash out anyone else’s idea of fun. You know what I mean?”
