They maintained their silence inside Harrod’s, marching through various departments and stopping briefly at the cheese counter. But Miss Holmes being Miss Holmes, when they left from a service entrance, she was holding a freshly purchased tin of biscuits.
Only when they were being driven away in a hackney did Mrs. Watson ask, “This is about the wheel of cheddar Mr. Finch bought Mrs. Woods, isn’t it?”
Miss Holmes nodded. “Very fine deduction, ma’am. Our little jaunt to the cheese counter confirmed that not only is it possible to buy a wheel of prize-winning cheddar without going to Somerset, it’s almost as easy as a trip to the corner post box.”
Their next stop was the house of Mrs. Morris’s father, Dr. Swanson. When they arrived Miss Holmes announced that they were free of followers, but Mrs. Watson’s relief was only momentary.
Mrs. Morris received them with much pleasure. It wasn’t the servants’ half day but the housekeeper, Mrs. Burns, had leave from her employer to help at the soup kitchen for a couple of hours. She took her maids with her, which left the coast clear for Mrs. Morris to give Miss Holmes and Mrs. Watson a tour of the housekeeper’s office, the stillroom, and the stockroom.
“I assume you’ve been well, Mrs. Morris?” asked Miss Holmes.
“Yes, thank goodness,” said Mrs. Morris fervently. “But then again, I haven’t had anything that came out of Mrs. Burns’s stillroom.”
The stillroom was superbly organized; clearly labeled jars of jams, jellies, and preserved fruits and vegetables sat in alphabetic order on the open shelves. There were also jars of crystallized ginger, confected pineapple, and candied peels.
Miss Holmes examined everything closely, especially the candied peels. “There’s the making of a good fruitcake.”
Mrs. Watson didn’t know how she could concentrate on their client’s problem. Mrs. Morris had an allergy; Miss Holmes had caught the attention of a man so nefarious that his wife staged her own death to get away from him.
So iniquitous he gave Lord Bancroft Ashburton pause.
Mrs. Morris made a face. “I don’t like dried fruits. Raisins I hate above all, but the rest of them aren’t much better.”
Which might explain why Mrs. Burns’s supply of dried fruits had remained so high.
“I’m surprised there is pineapple, though,” said Mrs. Morris. “No one in the family likes tropical fruits.”
“No?” Miss Holmes ran her hand along several spools of twine.
Mrs. Watson, to distract herself, did likewise. Most of them were made of jute, but the last one felt a little different: stiffer and coarser. Coir?
“I was born in India. But according to my father, India disagreed with everyone in the family. My mother contracted malaria, my father had dengue fever, and I had the most terrible heat rashes. And none of us ever cared for mangos, jackfruits, or what have you.”
Mrs. Watson chose not to suggest that Mrs. Burns might be personally fond of confected pineapple. She felt rather sorry for Mrs. Burns. The woman seemed very good at her work. Yet here she was, the subject of a clandestine investigation that could result in her expulsion from the house without a letter of character.
At this point Mrs. Morris’s demeanor was the only thing in her favor. She seemed grateful to be taken seriously, but there was no sense of preening, of wallowing in her status as the unfortunate victim. If anything, Mrs. Watson received the distinct impression that Mrs. Morris wished none of this had happened at all.
Miss Holmes pointed to a shallow pan next to the coffee mill. “Mrs. Burns roasts the coffee?”
“She does, and I must admit that she does the roasting very well. I never drink coffee, as a rule, but I will take an occasional cup here.”
“Does she keep any ground coffee on hand?”
“No, she makes essence of coffee and mixes it with milk for my father’s morning cup; it’s almost as good as the café au lait they serve in Paris. But otherwise she roasts and grinds the beans daily, usually before lunch.”
“Quite a luxury,” said Miss Holmes, sounding impressed.
“I know.” Mrs. Morris groaned. “That alone will make it difficult to get rid of her. My father is terribly fond of his coffee and very particular about it. He has no domestic skills whatsoever—not that he needs any—but from time to time he used to grind his own coffee and operate the percolator to his exact specification. Not anymore, of course, now that Mrs. Burns does it so well.”
Miss Holmes tapped her index finger twice against her chin. “I’ve seen all I need to of the domestic offices. Will you invite us for tea—or coffee—when Mrs. Burns is here? My brother would wish me to observe her at work.”
“I almost certainly can, but it won’t happen immediately. Father and I are going on a short holiday,” said Mrs. Morris, perking up. “You see, he still thinks I’m reacting to London and that I’d feel better in a less polluted place. So we’re off to the seaside tomorrow.”
“I’m sure you’ll find it very enjoyable.”
“Yes, just like old times. But, in the meanwhile, I would be delighted if you ladies would stay for tea today. I have some lovely biscuits from Fortnum and Mason.”
“We will if we can also make a contribution,” said Miss Holmes. “I happened to acquire some biscuits from Harrod’s just now and I would dearly love to see how they compare to the biscuits from Fortnum and Mason.”
Mrs. Morris was taken aback—it wasn’t every day a guest asked to serve her own biscuits. But she said, “Certainly. Why not?”
Dr. Swanson’s drawing room seemed to have been recently redecorated—it was strikingly simple in its ethos. All the patterns were stylized flora and fauna, the furnishings were almost rustic in their appearance, and there was such a remarkable lack of clutter that Mrs. Watson, who enjoyed a bit of old-fashioned clutter—a home ought to give the impression of having been lived in—felt the place was too empty.
“A very modern room,” observed Miss Holmes, opening a tin of lemon biscuits and holding it out in Mrs. Morris’s direction.
“So they say.” Mrs. Morris’s lips slanted. She took a biscuit from Miss Holmes’s tin. “I prefer how it was before. I can understand not displaying every knickknack my mother ever acquired, but I can’t help feeling a little injured on her behalf that they were put into storage wholesale. And it’s all Mrs. Burns’s influence, I daresay.”
“Oh?” asked Miss Holmes with her usual neutrality.
“My father thinks Mrs. Burns has good taste. Oh, but this is a good biscuit. Where was I? Right, I’ve never heard him say that about any other woman. I tell you she has her claws deep in him, Miss Holmes.”
As if they’d conjured her father, the front door of the house opened. A minute later, a man poked his head into the drawing room. “There you are, Clarissa. I hope I am not interrupting.”
Dr. Swanson, then. He was a tall man, erect of carriage, with a fast gait and a full head of salt-and-pepper hair. Mrs. Watson had no idea why she expected a doddering old man. Mrs. Morris had told them he was sixty-three, which was only ten years older than her current age—and she had by no means expected herself to arrive at full senility in a mere decade. She could only conclude that even for those who are no longer so young, old age remained an alien land, its residents regarded with both pity and suspicion.
Mrs. Morris introduced her guests as new friends from the charitable knitting society. Mrs. Watson laughed inwardly. Having made theatrical costumes for herself and others, she sewed very well, but couldn’t knit to save her life. And Miss Holmes, hmm, she would have to ask Miss Holmes at a later time whether the latter was acquainted with any feminine arts.
Dr. Swanson offered them his hand to shake—he had a strong, but not overpowering, grip. “I would have made coffee had I known Clarissa was expecting guests.”
“Ah, a pity. I enjoy coffee very much,” said Miss Holmes.
; “Our housekeeper also makes excellent coffee, but unfortunately you came on her day to help at the soup kitchen.”
Miss Holmes sighed dramatically. “I can only wish my housekeeper had mastered the art of coffee making. Alas, she makes a bitter brew.”
“We have been very fortunate in Mrs. Burns. I can’t complain about her predecessor, a very conscientious woman. But her coffee had nothing to recommend it.”
Mrs. Morris, having probably heard enough talk of Mrs. Burns, placed her hand on her father’s sleeve. “I was just telling these ladies about our imminent holiday.”
The rest of tea was spent in agreeable chatter about the trip. As Miss Holmes and Mrs. Watson rose to take their leave, Mrs. Morris said, “Oh, your biscuits, Miss Holmes. You mustn’t forget them.”
“Keep them,” said Miss Holmes. “I think you’ll enjoy them more than I do.”
The rest of Charlotte and Mrs. Watson’s day was spent checking Mr. Finch’s other two references, both in Oxfordshire. Neither, in the end, proved remotely trustworthy.
The address he gave for his prior residence was indeed a lodging house for single gentlemen, but the landlady had no recollection of having ever hosted a Mr. Myron Finch, let alone written him a letter of character.
The other, a solicitor, had retired six months ago and embarked on a grand tour of Europe and the Levant. He was not expected back for another year and a half, at least.
They returned to Mrs. Watson’s house hungry and stiff from their travels—or at least Charlotte was hungry and Mrs. Watson muttering about her aging back. Mrs. Watson received a massage from Miss Redmayne; Charlotte sequestered herself with a sandwich made with Madame Gascoigne’s secret-recipe pâté.
They reemerged to meet in the drawing room, both commenting on how much better they felt.
“I can only hope that someday I will prove to be as useful as that pâté sandwich.” Miss Redmayne laughed. “Truly, what heroic service it has rendered.”
“You are young and ambitious, Miss Redmayne,” said Charlotte. “I have already learned that I will never be as valuable as a pâté sandwich.”
“In that case I must have a new objective. Aha, I have decided that my goal is never to be as troublesome as Mr. Finch.”
“Under normal circumstances, I might chastise my niece for being too blunt. But I’m afraid I agree with her tonight. I am very glad, Miss Holmes, that when you were in need of assistance, you didn’t go to your brother.”
For Mrs. Watson, this was strongly worded condemnation.
Charlotte remembered that sensation she had from the very beginning, of something being not quite right about this case. If only she knew exactly what it was. “I won’t defend Mr. Finch,” she said, sorting through the letters that had arrived while they were out, wondering when, if ever, she’d hear from Livia again. “But he is still my brother—and this is a highly irregular situation.”
“What do you plan to do?” asked Miss Redmayne.
“I’d like to take a look inside his rooms. That could give me a better idea of what he’s up to. Would either of you ladies know someone conversant in lock picking?”
“Funny you should ask,” said Mrs. Watson. “When you first met my staff, you warned me that Mr. Lawson had spent some time in a penitentiary. Care to guess what he did?”
Charlotte barely heard her. A note from Livia!
“If you’ll excuse me for a minute,” she said, slicing the envelope open. “My sister might have some information about Lady Ingram to pass on.”
But at this moment she didn’t give a farthing about Lady Ingram. Livia had written, at last.
Dear Charlotte,
Please forgive me for not putting pen to paper sooner.
I encountered ladies Avery and Somersby on Sunday near the Round Pond. As it so happened, Lady Ingram walked by with her children. Her presence made it easy to pose questions about her. The ladies confirmed that indeed, they had heard rumors that before her debut, she had at one point hoped to marry an unsuitable young man.
Which made me sad for everyone involved.
And now for news you were probably not expecting. After Lady Ingram had left the scene and the gossip ladies moved on to greener pastures, a gentleman came up to me and asked if he could speak with me. He then proceeded to introduce himself as Mr. Myron Finch, our illegitimate half brother.
Two days later I still have not found the words to describe my stupefaction. I do not believe his approach was called for. No self-invitation on his part could ever be called for.
Yet I cannot fault his reason for taking this extraordinary step. Apparently, one of Papa’s solicitors had called on Mr. Finch some days ago, when he had been out of town on holiday. It was his understanding, from speaking to his landlady, that the lawyer had not wished to leave a message, as he had come on a private matter of some delicacy.
“I gathered,” said Mr. Finch, “that the visit had been in regard to Miss Charlotte—whether she had sought my help in her exile.”
“You know about her?” I couldn’t help but exclaim.
“I do. Unfortunately, I have not heard from her at all. I hope she is well.”
“We all hope so,” I told him.
“If you can convey a message to her, please let her know that she is welcome to call at any time. And any assistance that I can render her, I will be more than glad to offer.”
With that, he bade me good day and departed. The encounter shook me. I am shaken still. But at least now there is one more avenue of possibilities for you, Charlotte.
Love,
Livia
P.S. Mr. Finch has taken rooms at Mrs. Woods’s residential hotel for gentlemen, on Fountain Lane.
P.P.S. Mrs. Montrose’s ball is tonight. After that, only Lord and Lady Ingram’s ball to go before we leave London. I have had more than enough of the Season, but I do not know how I shall bear eight months without you.
Livia sat at the edge of a group of other wallflowers, hating everything about the evening.
Everything about her life.
She had somehow managed to pen the letter she owed to Charlotte. But what purgatory, having to set down the events of that calamitous day, her skin scalding with mortification, her stomach contorting in nausea and disgust.
Her own brother! She had fallen in love with her own brother. And the worst thing was, whenever she thought of him, before the tsunami of dismay crested, she still felt that same sense of hope and excitement.
Which only made everything twice as repugnant.
“Miss Holmes? Miss Olivia Holmes?”
A young woman with a pretty, amiable face stood before Livia.
“Y-yes?” said Livia uncertainly.
“Of course it is you. How good to see you again! Do let us find somewhere quieter to talk—so unspeakably loud in here, isn’t it?”
Without waiting for Livia to respond, the young woman took her hand and pulled her to her feet. Livia, disoriented but not wanting to make a scene, let the young woman link their arms together and lead her away from the other wallflowers.
The young woman leaned in close. “I’m a messenger from Miss Charlotte. She needs to see you. Will you come outside with me?”
Alarm trilled through Livia. “Is she all right?”
“Yes, she’s fine. But she has questions for you after receiving your letter,” answered the young woman. “And I’m Penelope Redmayne, by the way, Mrs. Watson’s niece.”
“R-right. Enchanted.”
Livia could only hope that her unrequited and—Dear God!—incestuous love for Mr. Finch didn’t somehow announce itself loud and clear in the letter. It was terrifying, at times, to have a sister like Charlotte.
The streets outside Mrs. Montrose’s house were crowded with carriages. They walked some distance before reaching the one that contained Charlotte.
“I’ll be quick—we must get you back before Mamma notices that you are missing,” said Charlotte, once Livia had taken a seat.
Lady Holmes was an inconsistent chaperone. Sometimes she was far too concerned with her own amusement to keep an eye on her daughters. Other times, perhaps to expiate her guilt, she watched them like a hawk. Tonight she seemed awake enough, so there was no telling which kind of chaperone she would turn out to be.
“You said you were near the Round Pond in Kensington Gardens when you met Lady Avery and Lady Somersby. Where exactly were you with regard to the Round Pond?”
What did that have to do with anything? “On the east side.”
“Where the pond meets that grassy avenue?”
“Yes.” The grassy avenue extended all the way to the Long Water, the man-made lake that was half in Kensington Gardens and half in Hyde Park.
“Which way did you stand?”
“Facing the water, of course.”
“And where did Lady Ingram come from?”
“South of us. The children’s governess was carrying a toy boat, so probably they had been playing with it in the pond earlier.”
“Which direction were they headed?”
“To the avenue—to go home, I suppose.”
“And Mr. Finch, in your letter you said he approached you after the gossip ladies left. Was Lady Ingram gone from the scene by then?”
“Yes.”
“So he didn’t see them?”
Charlotte’s questions confused Livia, but she gave her sister the benefit of the doubt. “He’d already seated himself on a bench near mine as Lady Avery and Lady Somersby made their approach. Since he’d meant to speak to me, no doubt he saw them. I can’t be sure whether he saw Lady Ingram, but men usually tend not to miss a beautiful woman in their vicinity.”
Charlotte was silent for a moment. “Miss Redmayne, will you light the pocket lantern?”
A match scratched. The sharp tang of sulfur assaulted Livia’s nostrils. The lit pocket lantern was oriented so that its light fell on an open notebook in Charlotte’s lap.
A Conspiracy in Belgravia Page 18
