It dawned on Mrs. Watson that Miss Holmes wasn’t speaking only of this moment. She was also addressing the fact that, unbeknownst to her then, Mrs. Watson had first approached her and offered her aid at Lord Ingram’s behest.
And she wanted Mrs. Watson to know that it did not affect her commitment to their partnership—and their friendship.
“Oh, you’re back, Miss Holmes!” Penelope flounced into the room. “How do you do?”
They all sat down. Almost immediately, Miss Holmes turned the conversation to what Penelope had done this day with the de Blois ladies. Penelope gladly related their little adventures while Miss Holmes listened attentively. Mrs. Watson, who had already heard an account of Penelope’s day earlier, pondered that a stranger could so swiftly become such an integral part of her existence that it was difficult to remember how she had lived before their meeting.
Polly, one of the housemaids, came with the tea tray. Usually Mr. Mears attended at tea, but he was in Gloucestershire for a niece’s wedding and a grandnephew’s christening, and not expected back until late on Tuesday.
“Does this mean we’ll need to wait until Wednesday to verify that Mr. Finch has returned from his holiday?” asked Penelope, pouring for everyone.
“Another two days shouldn’t make too much difference,” said Miss Holmes.
Mrs. Watson wished she could be as detached. Each day since Lady Ingram’s call had felt like an age of the world and she had been wondering with increasing urgency how they could have more news sooner. She did have another man in her employ. Alas, Lawson, her groom and coachman, was no actor. She supposed she could ask Rosie and Polly whether they knew anyone in service in that area, but the likelihood of any useful answers coming from that direction seemed infinitesimal.
“I have an idea,” announced Penelope.
Miss Holmes lifted the sandwich plate toward her. “Let’s hear it.”
“Thank you,” said Penelope, taking three of the finger sandwiches. “At medical school, Mademoiselle de Blois organizes visits to districts in Paris where people can’t afford to see doctors or buy medicine. But we also go to the wealthy arrondissements, to speak with women in service. In the bigger mansions we would first call on the housekeeper to make the arrangements. But at a smaller household, if we arrive when they are not too busy, we might speak to everyone right away over a cup of coffee.”
“You propose we carry out a similar visit to Mrs. Woods’s staff?” asked Miss Holmes.
“I daresay that would give us more solid intelligence on Mr. Finch than another call by Mr. Mears, pretending to be a solicitor. And I wouldn’t even need to lie. I will be exactly who I am, a medical student trying to do a little good on holiday. And I can visit more than one house on the same street, so that Mrs. Woods won’t feel that her place has been singled out.”
Mrs. Watson gazed at this dear, dear child, her lively confidence, her mischievous audacity—and worried. Lady Ingram’s heartbreak and the moral quagmire of the situation with regard to Lord Ingram aside, to Penelope this was still all fun and games. But Mrs. Watson had seen how quickly a case could turn from merely intriguing to actively dangerous.
She hadn’t wanted Penelope to be at all involved in the consulting detective business. But now that the girl was, she didn’t want to clip Penelope’s wings, just as she didn’t want to curtail Miss Holmes’s freedom of movement, no matter how much the latter’s longer absences unsettled her.
“It’s a good idea,” she said. “But you shouldn’t go by yourself. I’ll come with you.”
They spent the rest of tea planning the specifics of their semi-ruse. In the end, it was decided that Miss Holmes would go with them, too, but under disguise. “You might still have to call on Mr. Finch in person at some point,” Mrs. Watson pointed out. “Better not for the servants to see you come in from both the service door and the front door—it might give rise to suspicions.”
The arrival of the post saw a tidy stack of missives for Penelope from her other friends and classmates. Delighted, Penelope excused herself to wallow in her reams of correspondence. Miss Holmes, on the other hand, seemed disappointed.
“Were you expecting a letter?”
“I haven’t heard from my sister in a while,” said Miss Holmes. “I did see her on Tuesday. And I did ask her to gather some intelligence on Lady Ingram for me. But it’s unlike Livia to wait until she’d accomplished that in order to write me.”
She fell silent, then murmured, rather cryptically, “I do say too much sometimes, especially on matters that are better off not brought up.”
While Mrs. Watson pondered whether she should ask Miss Holmes to explain herself, the latter sighed. “Anyway, there is something I need to tell you, ma’am, something to do with Sophia Lonsdale.”
Mrs. Watson sucked in a breath. “I thought we agreed we wouldn’t mention her again by that name.”
Like Miss Holmes, Sophia Lonsdale had been exiled from Society for her indiscretions, albeit a generation before. She had returned to England from abroad and consulted Sherlock Holmes. And that had led to a cascade of events that no one could have foreseen.
The world believed Sophia Lonsdale to have died many years ago, and she had come to Charlotte under an alias. At the end of l’affaire Sackville, Mrs. Watson and Miss Holmes had decided that she must have had an important and desperate reason to stage her own death—and that they would not compromise her safety by tossing her real name about willy-nilly.
“I wonder that she hadn’t given herself away,” mused Miss Holmes. “Pattern of action can be as recognizable as speech or handwriting. Here’s a woman who tries to accomplish goals without betraying her involvement. What if her husband saw the newspaper reports, remembered that one of the central parties had been a close friend of hers, and suspected that she might have had a part to play?”
“The husband who thinks she is dead?”
“What if he already had some inkling that her death was a ruse?”
Mrs. Watson tensed. “Have you heard from her, Miss Holmes? Is she in trouble?”
“I haven’t heard from her at all, but Lord Ingram has reason to believe that someone—or more than one person—has been watching your house since earlier in the week.”
Having Sherlock Holmes offer his services to the public had been Mrs. Watson’s idea. An exceedingly splendid idea, she had believed. But all splendid ideas came with their inevitable drawbacks. The undertaking, engrossing and rewarding in the main, had also been at times more than a little troubling.
“I didn’t tell you this,” continued Miss Holmes, “but after the Sackville case, I went to Somerset House and looked into her marriage record, since the desire to escape from her husband seemed the most likely reason for her to counterfeit her death. His name is Moriarty. I wrote to Lord Ingram and asked if he knew anything about this man.
“He in turn asked Lord Bancroft. And according to him, Lord Bancroft was discomposed by the mention of that name and warned Lord Ingram in no uncertain terms to refrain from getting mixed up in any business with Moriarty.”
“And you think it’s this Moriarty fellow who is having the house watched?”
“It seems to me the most logical hypothesis.”
Mrs. Watson waited for Miss Holmes to continue. After a while, it became obvious that Miss Holmes was waiting for a reaction from her.
“I hope she stays safe, Mrs. Marbleton,” she said, using the alias Sophia Lonsdale had given them.
Miss Holmes studied her. “You aren’t worried for yourself?”
Before Mrs. Watson could answer, she shook her head. “Of course, what was I thinking? You worry primarily for others.”
“Not out of altruism, mind you. I worry about others because I don’t know whether they’ll be able to handle the difficulties life drops into their laps. As for me . . .” Mrs. Watson shrugged. Her niece was grown, her mate dead
, her servants looked after in her will. What did it matter to her that Sophia Lonsdale’s husband wished to watch her doors for some time? “As long as it doesn’t affect you or Penelope.”
“I expect nothing will happen to either Miss Redmayne or myself. Or you, for that matter.” Miss Holmes fell quiet for some time, not the opulent silence that seemed to be her natural habit, but a contemplative one. “For which I am grateful, as you are an indispensable advisor.”
Mrs. Watson was feeling a little sorry for herself. Widowed, in the autumn of her life, her only relation away much of the year. But oh, such warmth radiated through her at Miss Holmes’s words, as if she’d swallowed a drop of sunfire and now glowed from within. True, certain beloved phases of her life had come to an end, but with Miss Holmes’s arrival, a whole new vista had opened up. And for one who had tended her years with care, autumn need not be a season of scarcity or regret—but one of harvest and celebration.
She leaned forward an inch. “Have you an hour to spare, Miss Holmes?”
Charlotte was curious. Mrs. Watson had asked not only for an hour of her time, but also whether she had some garments in her possession that allowed for easy movement. Her tennis costume had been packed by mistake for the London Season—tennis was a game for the country—and had remained in the suitcase and come with her on exile.
(As her wardrobe consisted solely of ensembles useless to anyone but a lady of leisure, it hadn’t mattered whether she brought tennis costumes or dinner gowns. The more pieces she could stuff into her luggage, she had reasoned, the more assets she could have to sell as a last resort.)
Mrs. Watson was waiting for her in the largely empty room that had once been Miss Redmayne’s nursery, in a close-fitting blouse and a skirt that did not narrow toward the knees. “I’d assumed earlier that you must be familiar with the operation of firearms, as you were raised in the country. But are you, Miss Holmes?”
Charlotte nodded. The Holmeses didn’t have a game park of their own, but most every autumn her parents managed to obtain an invitation to a shooting party. “Shotguns, yes. Rifles also, for target shooting. One time my father let me fire his revolver.”
“Excellent. However, you’re not likely to be walking around London, or anywhere else, for that matter, with a rifle. But a lady usually has a parasol on hand, which will serve, in a pinch.”
Mrs. Watson handed Charlotte a walking stick. “This is not a parasol, obviously. But I love my parasols too much—and I’m sure you do, too—to subject them to such abuse when there isn’t actual danger. Walking sticks, on the other hand, are sturdy things that can take a beating.
“My grandfather was a fencing master. He lived with us for a while in his old age and amused himself by instructing my sister and me in the use of canne de combat. I arrived in London confident of my ability to defend myself. But the first time someone grabbed me from behind, I froze. All my practice in swordplay had been somewhat stylized—en garde, prêts, allez, and all that. But in real life no one waits for you to be in proper stance, and they are not going to come at you only from the front.
“What you want, then, is to train yourself to overcome that moment of paralysis as quickly as possible, dig your elbow into the kidney of your assailant, and, while he loosens his hold momentarily, turn around and hit him as hard as you can, generating the blow not by flicking your wrists, but by putting your full body behind it.”
Charlotte tested the balance of the walking stick in her hand. It was made of malacca, light but strong. “This isn’t about Moriarty, is it, ma’am? His agents are not likely to snatch me off the streets.”
“No,” Mrs. Watson admitted. “As much as you might consider yourself a free woman, Miss Holmes, you are still a fugitive from your family.”
“So it’s my father you are recommending that I whack as hard as I can.”
“Or his agents—while thinking of queen and country, of course.”
Charlotte couldn’t help smiling. “I feel sorry for the second man who grabbed you from behind, ma’am.”
Mrs. Watson winked. “Oh, you should feel sorry for the first one, too. I broke one of his fingers.”
Mrs. Watson started with the basic stances. “You need to learn how to stand so that you are steady and connected to the ground—and difficult for anyone to shove aside or push down.”
The positions made Charlotte’s legs ache, those limbs that never had to do anything more strenuous than a few turns about a ballroom.
“Now the most important thing is to hold on to your weapon,” warned Mrs. Watson.
Charlotte gripped harder at the walking stick in her hand.
“Now parry this.”
Charlotte raised her stick to block Mrs. Watson. She wasn’t sure what the latter did, but the sticks banged together and the next thing Charlotte knew her stick was flying across the room—the thankfully sparsely furnished room—crashing into the mantel with a fierce clank.
And her hand vibrated painfully from the contact. “Ow!”
Mrs. Watson tsked. “You didn’t hold on to your weapon, Miss Holmes.”
Charlotte retrieved her stick. “I could have sworn I held on with a death grip.”
“Granted, your average assailant might not know as many clever ways of disarming an opponent. But a man can still knock away your stick by dint of superior strength, unless you take advantage of leverage. You must become more proficient with your weapon, Miss Holmes.”
And becoming more proficient was not a pleasant process.
“Oh, my.” Charlotte was already huffing and puffing after a quarter of an hour. “I don’t know that I can keep up for much longer.”
“Come, Miss Holmes. Think of it as staving off the arrival of Maximum Tolerable Chins. After you exercise, you can indulge your appetite more freely.”
Charlotte panted. “Well, in that case, I might find some additional willpower.”
With ten minutes to the hour, Mrs. Watson took pity on Charlotte and declared the day’s session finished. Charlotte leaned against the wall. Her arms ached—even the one that wasn’t holding the stick. Her legs ached. Her whole body ached.
“And you will ache worse tomorrow morning.” Mrs. Watson grinned.
Charlotte moaned.
“Now, Miss Holmes,” said Mrs. Watson, not even breathing faster, “when you told me about the surveillance that had been put on this house, you mentioned Lord Ingram’s observations. Did I miss his calls?”
“No, he didn’t come in on either day, though I did meet him as I went out the front door this morning.”
“But he did mean to call on us, both times?”
Charlotte hesitated. “It would be reasonable to suppose so.”
Mrs. Watson’s voice grew taut. “You don’t think it’s because he found out about his wife’s visit to Sherlock Holmes?”
Charlotte patted the back of her neck with a handkerchief—and shook her head. “There is something else I need to tell you. Lord Bancroft has proposed.”
Mrs. Watson’s jaw slackened. Then she let out a peal of exhilarated laughter. “I never saw that coming. I mean, the man is odd enough, but I didn’t think he had it in him to buck conventions to such an extent. But this does improve my opinion of him, that he has such good taste in matrimonial prospects. This isn’t the first time he’s proposed to you, if I recall correctly?”
“No.”
“I like him more and more.” Then her face fell. “My goodness, you are seriously considering it.”
“I must.” Bernadine was as blank and unresponsive as Charlotte had ever seen her. Even Livia, as sensitive and vulnerable as she was, was far better equipped to handle life’s vicissitudes. “My disgrace has made things difficult for everyone in my family, but especially for my sisters. Marriage will ‘redeem’ me enough for me to look after them. And if Lord Bancroft guarantees me enough freedom and intellectual stim
ulation, which he seems well inclined to do, then I must give it every consideration.”
“What—what does Lord Ingram think of it all?”
“I didn’t ask him,” muttered Charlotte. “But I would not be surprised if he was the one who gave Lord Bancroft the idea.”
Inspector Treadles arrived home at almost exactly the same time as his wife.
“Why hullo, Inspector.” Alice smiled as they met on the doorstep of their house. “Welcome home. Long day?”
He exhaled. “And how. Strange new case. Fellow was done in, all right, but we have no idea who he is or why anyone wanted to kill him. I’ve got MacDonald looking to see if someone of matching description has been reported missing, but it might take some time.”
“You always get your man,” said his wife.
He did, but not necessarily without help. And as he’d stood over the dead man, puzzled by the situation, he’d distinctly wished that he possessed Sherlock Holmes’s powers of observation. That he, too, could take one look, and know everything there was to know about a victim.
He kissed Alice on her cheek and said, though without great conviction, “Thank you, my dear.”
They let themselves into the house, a wedding present from his father-in-law. He would have to rise to the position of commissioner, with a housing allowance of three hundred pounds per annum, to have any hope of living in such a fine house on his own income.
“Where were you?” It was almost dinnertime, and he wasn’t accustomed to Alice being out so late.
“At my brother’s.” She sighed. “I saw Barnaby only briefly—he was under morphine. But Eleanor is terrified. Barnaby won’t tell her what’s the matter with him—and he’s also forbidden Dr. Motley to say anything to anyone.
“Surely . . .”
“I don’t think so. But Eleanor is convinced that’s exactly what’s ailing him—that he caught it somewhere and gave it to her, too. I tried to tell her that Barnaby fears the French disease even more than she does, but she was beside herself. In the end I had to give her some laudanum to calm her down—and so I could leave.”
A Conspiracy in Belgravia Page 14
