“I’m sure her parents would have preferred for her to marry for both love and money,” she said from the window, watching as Lady Ingram’s hired trap pulled away. “But failing that, money is more reliable than love. Money does not devolve into ennui and regret, as romantic sentiments often do.”
“Do you mean to say you don’t fault her parents?” asked Miss Redmayne.
“Given that marriage presented her sole path to greater wealth and respectability, they acted in the only logical fashion. Had they defied the norm and given her their blessings, they would have been the ones held accountable by everyone, including Lady Ingram herself, should her marriage to Mr. Finch have proven less than successful.”
But even if she had married Mr. Finch, would that have made any difference to Lord Ingram?
In those years immediately after he first learned that he was not the late Duke of Wycliffe’s fourth son, but the product of an affair between the duchess and one of the country’s most prominent bankers, he’d been hell-bent on proving his own respectability. He would still have married somebody—nothing made a man as respectable as the possession of wife and children.
So in the end, none of it made any difference to Charlotte.
“Miss Holmes, you are the most unromantic soul I have ever met—and I like that,” pronounced Miss Redmayne. The next moment she leaped up. “Oh, goodness, look at the time. We are to meet with the de Blois ladies and I haven’t even opened the book they gave me for my journey home from Paris. Better take a quick look—in case they ask about it this evening.”
She ran off. Mrs. Watson and Charlotte followed, at a more sedate pace, out of 18 Upper Baker Street. They were not dressed for walking, but Charlotte did not protest when Mrs. Watson, instead of going home—a stone’s throw from Sherlock Holmes’s office—bypassed her own front door and headed for Regent’s Park across the street.
Mrs. Watson didn’t ask any questions until they stood on the edge of Boating Lake, beside a large weeping willow. “You once mentioned an illegitimate half brother, Miss Holmes. The same Mr. Finch?”
Charlotte reached out and touched a trailing branch. The sun had emerged a while ago, but the finely serrated leaves were still damp from earlier showers. “It is unlikely for there to be more than one illegitimate man named Myron Finch working as an accountant in London.”
“You never said why you chose not to seek his aid when you were in desperate straits.”
A breeze rippled across the lake. The willow swayed, the motion of its foliage as sinuous as that of a woman shaking out her hair before a lover. “I didn’t want to leap from one man’s keeping into another’s, for one thing. Not to mention . . . I didn’t trust that he wouldn’t immediately call on my father and tell him where I was.”
“Was there a rapport in place between father and son?”
“I do not believe so. But he did send a letter not long after we arrived in London for the Season.”
Sir Henry had happened to be away that day. Livia and Charlotte had a standing appointment to ransack his study and read all his letters whenever they had a suitable window of time. Sir Henry and Lady Holmes often chose not to tell their children, or each other, the truth of any given situation. Their two youngest daughters snooped so as not to be kept in the dark.
“In his letter, Mr. Finch expressed gratitude for the support my father had given him over the years. He stated that he was now in the accountancy profession in London, living in quarters befitting a gentleman, with prospects of greater success in the future. He begged for no intimacy and gave no hint that he wished to call on my father or vice versa. But that he’d written at all was shocking, especially to my sister, who did not consider it to be either discreet or seemly.
“I came away with the sense that Mr. Finch was not at all averse to some kind of cordial relationship with my father. And that was the reason I didn’t go to him, other than not wanting to burden him and not wanting to burden myself with a possibly meddlesome brother.”
Mrs. Watson furrowed her brow—then quickly undid the motion. Charlotte smiled to herself. Mrs. Watson was in no hurry to add to her wrinkle count, even though her husband was long dead and she needed no longer fret about appearing too old next to an eleven-years-younger man.
“Are you worried for him, your brother?” she asked.
Charlotte hesitated. Was she worried? She hadn’t thought so, yet the question felt unexpectedly weighty.
“As Lady Ingram said, it’s far more likely that he no longer wishes to see her than that he has fallen victim to mishap or misfortune,” she answered. “So no, I am not apprehensive on his behalf. But I am beginning to be curious. Very curious.”
The de Bloises were a pair of students Penelope had met in medical school. The elder one, Madame de Blois, had been widowed by the time she was twenty-one. Instead of setting her sight on remarriage, she decided to seek an education. The other, Mademoiselle de Blois, was Madame de Blois’s late husband’s cousin. Inspired by Madame de Blois’s example, she’d followed the former to medical school.
They were elegant, opinionated, and very French. Mrs. Watson enjoyed meeting them, but it was obvious that the young people wished to enjoy their own company. Madame de Blois promised to act as a stern chaperone and return Penelope home at a most appropriate hour; Mrs. Watson and Miss Holmes bade them good evening and walked out of the hotel.
Mrs. Watson was about to climb into her waiting carriage when Miss Holmes said, “I know a place ’round the corner, a lovely tea shop that I couldn’t afford to go into the last time I was in the area.”
Mrs. Watson glanced at her in surprise. But it was only half past six, the sun still high in the sky, and they had no other pressing business. “Then let us take our patronage there.”
She and Miss Holmes had first met at a tea shop near the General Post Office, an unpretentious place for harried clerks to wolf down a plate of scrambled eggs before they headed home. This St. James’s tea shop was a far more sophisticated establishment, reminding Mrs. Watson of the sleek, mirror-walled Parisian patisseries where she and Penelope had indulged in café au lait and slices of apple tart when she’d visited the dear girl the previous autumn.
And it must have a French pastry chef on the premise, for they had similar offerings in large glass cases. Mrs. Watson ordered a small pear tart; Miss Holmes took an entire plate of miniature concoctions.
“Lord Ingram’s godfather used to have a patissier in his employ,” said Mrs. Watson. “Imagine that. What luxury.”
“Oh, I have imagined it many times, ma’am.”
Miss Holmes had asked for black tea, for once—to better set off the taste of the pastries, perhaps. Or perhaps because one must pay the penance for all those Parisian délices by forgoing any additional sugar and cream.
“Anyway,” she continued, “Mr. Finch lives in a residential hotel on this street.”
Mrs. Watson started—and was forcefully reminded that although Miss Holmes might sometimes have her stomach first and foremost on her mind, one should never assume, not even for a second, that it was ever the only thing on her mind.
“Did we pass it?”
The area was rich with snuggeries suitable for bachelors with a decent income. Some of those establishments sat cheek by jowl with family hotels such as the one on Jermyn Street that hosted the de Bloises; others were situated on quieter streets, indistinguishable at first glance from private dwellings.
“No, it’s at the other end of the street. Black front door, white window trims, white stone and stucco exterior—identical to its neighbors. I’ll point it out when we leave.”
Their waitress arrived with tea and temptation. “Anything else for you, mum, miss?”
“Thank you for the prompt service,” said Miss Holmes, unobtrusively sliding a coin into the waitress’s hand. “Have you a minute?”
“Of course, miss.”
“We are from Dartmouth and we don’t know much about London. But my brother is an architect and says that for a man of his profession, there is no place to be but London. So we are here to look for a nice place for him, with good people nearby, in the hope that he won’t fall in with the wrong crowd.”
“Ah, you’ll want Mrs. Woods’s place then,” said their waitress. “It’s right down the street. I’ve never been inside, me, but Mrs. Woods—she looks after them there and she’s mighty proud of her gentlemen. Old Dr. Vickery comes here from time to time for a bite to eat. Lovely man, he is. He’s had first-floor rooms there for years, ever since his wife died. They do your plain cooking and your washing—much easier for a man that way.”
“Just down the street, you say?”
“Second from last if you go out that way, on the north side. But you wouldn’t know to look at it, that’s the kind of superior place it is.”
“Oh, this is sounding better and better. How do we apply for a place? Will we be able to speak to this Mrs. Woods and see the establishment for ourselves?”
“That I don’t know, miss. I do know you’ll have to be lucky to get in. Mrs. Woods doesn’t have rooms to let very often. Once she said that her gentlemen only leave when they marry or die—and they don’t seem willing to do either!”
They all laughed at that. “Too bad. The place sounds perfect for my brother.”
“Oh, don’t you worry. There are plenty of good places near here. But Mrs. Woods does run the tightest ship, she does.”
“Would you happen to know how much a set of two rooms costs?”
“That would depend. The house isn’t divided up all the same. Dr. Vickery’s place has three rooms and a private bath and I heard from Mrs. Woods’s girls that he pays two pounds eleven a week. Your brother can probably get two rooms on the second floor for half that much.”
“That seems reasonable. Have there been any vacancies recently?”
At establishments such as Mrs. Woods’s, the bills were usually settled weekly. If Myron Finch had been missing since the previous Sunday—as Lady Ingram believed him to be—by now Mrs. Woods would assume that he had vacated the premises.
“No, I don’t believe she’s had any vacancies recently.”
Did this mean he wasn’t missing, or was Mrs. Woods that subtle in her advertising methods? “Superior” residences were quieter about their rooms for let, preferring to maintain an air of not being available to the public.
The waitress departed to look after other patrons. Mrs. Watson let Miss Holmes have two uninterrupted minutes to enjoy her miniature éclair before suggesting, “You could simply call on him. You are his sister, after all.”
“I would rather not publicize my involvement. Most likely something unforeseen has come up. When conditions change and Mr. Finch is once again able to contact Lady Ingram, they might interact to a greater extent than they have in a very long time. I don’t want it to come out that Charlotte Holmes visited Myron Finch immediately after Lady Ingram called on Sherlock Holmes. That might be enough for her to put two and two together.”
“What will we do, then?”
Miss Holmes considered a tiny, boat-shaped tart filled with a glossy dark mousse, the last remaining delicacy on her plate. “Do you think Mr. Mears might already be back?”
The servants had Sundays off—or in any case, the hours after church. Some employers preferred that they be gone from the house if they weren’t rendering actual service. Mrs. Watson gave her staff the freedom to go out and enjoy the city, or to stay in and spend their time reading in bed or socializing in the servants’ hall.
Mrs. Watson had met Mr. Mears, her butler, during her days in the theater, and though he had worked more behind the scenes, he had also acted in a number of productions.
By the time they reached home, Mr. Mears had indeed returned from his outing to Kensington Gardens, where he had spent a pleasurable afternoon sketching the fountains at the head of the Long Water.
Together, they decided that he ought to take on the role of Mr. Gillespie, Sir Henry’s solicitor, visiting Mr. Finch to inquire whether the latter had heard from his wayward half sister. After a short but intense rehearsal, Mr. Mears, now sporting a pair of wire-rimmed glasses, departed for his command performance, with the understanding that the matter was to be kept strictly confidential.
The drawing room fell quiet. Mrs. Watson felt self-conscious. Earlier, there had been photographs taken of her in various stage costumes on the mantel, the display shelves, and the occasion tables. They had been put up when she realized that Miss Holmes would soon find out where she lived—and that she had better match the realities of her house to its description in the tall tale she’d told the younger woman: that she couldn’t find a lady’s companion because respectable candidates took one look at those stage photographs and fled.
But of course she’d had to take those down when Penelope returned. Poor girl had never seen most of them—young people had a remarkable lack of interest in the lives of their elders, preferring them to be like the walls of a house: holding up the roof and keeping out the elements, but otherwise completely ignorable.
The absence of the photographs, of course, underscored the fact that Miss Holmes had not been told the truth, from the beginning, about Mrs. Watson’s involvement in her life. Had still not been told much of anything, though she had no doubt already deduced every last detail.
Was it possible that she was angry at Lord Ingram? Was that why she had decided to help his wife? Mrs. Watson would never attribute malice to Miss Holmes, but sometimes anger, especially anger of the unacknowledged variety, seeped beneath other decisions. All other decisions.
“A penny for your thoughts, Miss Holmes,” she heard herself say.
Miss Holmes, who had been standing by the window, looking out to the park, turned around halfway. “I was pondering the system of territoriality among street merchants—the division of spots, the length of tenancy, and the rules of succession.”
The hawkers? There were always a half dozen of them selling boiled sweets and ginger beer near the entrance to the park. “What I meant is, have you any thoughts on Mr. Mears’s chances of success?”
“He is certain to learn something.”
“Enough to answer Lady Ingram’s query outright?”
“That we will know soon enough.”
“What if this case doesn’t resolve itself quickly?” Mrs. Watson gave voice to her true fear. “What if we must come face to face with Lord Ingram while still carrying on this investigation, on behalf of his wife, for the whereabouts of the man whose existence is the cause of his marital infelicity?”
“The cause of his marital infelicity was his haste and lack of self-knowledge,” said Miss Holmes quietly. “The revelation of his true parentage brought on a paroxysm of self-doubts. Instead of facing it, he opted for marriage and fatherhood, believing they would erase the doubts—highly unlikely that any marriage contracted under such mistaken assumptions would have led to domestic contentment.”
Little wonder that as a younger man, Lord Ingram had not courted Miss Holmes. In fact, Mrs. Watson wasn’t sure that present-day Lord Ingram would have been able to bear this verdict without flinching.
“But otherwise I understand your concern, ma’am,” continued Miss Holmes. “We cannot betray Lady Ingram’s confidence. Yet to keep her confidence appears as if we are betraying Lord Ingram. But please understand that, in this case, appearances are merely appearances. Were he to know everything, the situation would still remain what it is. He cannot undo the past, he cannot prevent Lady Ingram from fretting about Mr. Finch, nor can he demand that Mr. Finch leave his wife alone, since that is exactly what the latter is doing, willingly or not.”
She turned back to the window. “We might as well leave Lord Ingram out of all consideration and carry on as before.”
Dear Charl
otte,
You must have seen the execrable article in the paper about Sherlock Holmes. My word. The Sackville case is barely solved—thanks to your insight and audacity—and they would already pour slop on Sherlock Holmes’s good name, because he dares to help ordinary people with problems that perplex them?
I would have ripped the paper and thrown the shreds into the fire, had there been a fire lit. Am now determined to make your nom de guerre a hero for the ages, with such invincible, godlike mental acuity that no one would ever dare publish another word about him in disrespect.
The problem, as always, is that it is easier said than done. Not sure how to proceed on my magnum opus, I turned to reading the work of others, in this case, novels by Mr. Wilkie Collins. And the oddest thing happened.
Mamma and I went to take some air in the park. She fell asleep and I opened one of the books to read, only to have a gentleman return the other one to me, which should have remained securely in my handbag.
But never mind that. He had read both of those books. And we had a brief but gratifying conversation on books and reading.
Of course it would be just my luck that when I at last cross paths with a man I would like to know better, he should turn out to be someone I have no hope of ever seeing again. How I wished you had been there. You would have given me his name, address, and genealogy.
And then he could disappoint me at leisure.
Oh well.
I hope it has been an uneventful Sunday for you.
Love,
Livia
Livia dropped her pen back into the inkwell and glanced at the other occupant of the room. Bernadine sat with her back to Livia, her face practically pressed into the far corner of the room, wordlessly spinning small wooden cylinders that had been strung on a string.
A Conspiracy in Belgravia Page 6
