A Conspiracy in Belgravia

by Sherry Thomas

  “Wait.” Mrs. Watson interrupted her. “There were still more people asking about him?”

  “Oh, I didn’t get to that part yet? Right, so after the man came, I started asking the villagers about Mr. Finch. They didn’t know anything. The one person I didn’t think to ask was my husband—I thought he didn’t know any more than I did. It was only later that it came up by chance—and that’s when he told me about the two men who came last April to ask about Mr. Finch. I was in bed with a cold that day and he served all the customers. Was a busy few days, too, so he forgot about it completely, until I brought up this other man.”

  “Would Mr. Glossop be able to tell me if this is one of the two men who came in April?” asked Miss Holmes, holding out a small photograph.

  “I can ask him.”

  Mrs. Glossop returned two minutes later, looking excited. “Mr. Glossop can’t be altogether sure but he thinks so.”

  Mrs. Watson held out her hand for the return of the photograph. It was the one of the young Marbletons that Miss Holmes had found in Mrs. Woods’s place, with Frances Marbleton facing the camera.

  “Any other parties looking for Mr. Finch? Any ladies?”

  “No, nobody else that we know of. And no ladies besides yourselves.”

  “The man who came a month ago by himself, can you describe his appearance?”

  “He was in his forties, I’d say. Medium height. Thin. Patted the top of his head with a handkerchief at one point—he was half bald. Can’t remember much of his face—one of those faces, you know.”

  Miss Holmes nodded. “If you wouldn’t mind going back a bit, Mrs. Glossop. You were saying something about the last time you and Mr. Glossop were in Oxford together?”

  “Right. We decided to look up the address that Mr. Finch had given us. The place isn’t there anymore. I mean, the building still stands, but it’s no longer a boarding home. A dressmaker took over the premise. The ground floor is the shop; she and the seamstresses live upstairs.”

  Mrs. Glossop brightened. “Mr. Glossop bought me a nice tippet while we were there, seeing how business has been good lately.”

  After leaving the pub, Mrs. Watson and Miss Holmes visited the village church and cemetery. The church registry verified the date of the late Widow Finch’s wedding to old Mr. Glossop. The cemetery corroborated the time frame of the couple’s deaths. And the vicar, a kindly if rather frail-looking man who had been at this particular living for sixteen years, substantiated Mrs. Glossop’s claim that no one had known much about Myron Finch with his own rather profound ignorance on the subject.

  “Does it occur to you, Miss Holmes, that there might be something cold in Mr. Finch’s character?” asked Mrs. Watson. “I understand that illegitimacy can act as a barrier to friendship, but an entire upbringing in this village and no rapport worth mentioning with anyone?”

  She had hardly been fond of the village in which she had spent time after she was orphaned. But after she had fled into the wider world, she had maintained a correspondence with a young woman who had been kind to her, until the latter’s death in childbirth.

  “But I suppose it’s possible for him to love one person ardently and to ignore, at the same time, the people among whom he’d grown up,” she said, answering her own question.

  On their way to Oxford, they stopped by Lady Ingram’s ancestral home. The small estate looked trim and spruce—Lord Ingram’s fortune at work.

  No one at the nearby village had heard of Myron Finch. And no one knew of any romantic entanglements concerning their old Miss Greville. They did, however, confirm that there had been rumors that when the Grevilles went on a grand tour to southern France and Italy, they had in fact stayed at a rather dilapidated house in Oxford itself.

  “That’s probably where they met,” theorized Mrs. Watson.

  Miss Holmes did not venture an opinion of her own.

  Mrs. Watson was both rather happy and a little sad about it. When Miss Holmes had first become her houseguest, she had made more of an effort to speak. But now, understanding that silence was her natural habit, Mrs. Watson was relieved that she felt comfortable enough to remain silent unless otherwise compelled. But that did not take away from the fact that Miss Holmes, when she did speak, made for fascinating, if sometimes discomfiting, company.

  They toured the address given by Mrs. Glossop and confirmed that it had once been a lodging house for young professional men in the city. As they were several hours past lunch, Mrs. Watson expected Miss Holmes to cast her eyes about for an attractive tea shop. Instead, the latter asked, “Have you ever visited Oxford University, ma’am?”

  “I don’t believe I have.”

  “May I tempt you with a quick tour? I’ve never been either.”

  Of course, Miss Holmes had wished to be educated. She would have been interested in the women’s colleges at the country’s best universities. “Yes, absolutely.”

  They spent a pleasant afternoon walking about the green swards of the various colleges, admiring their great façades and punting on the gentle waters of River Cherwell.

  It was only on the train back to London that the thought came to Mrs. Watson. “Who do you think that man might be, the one who asked about Mr. Finch a month ago? Do you think Lady Ingram hired someone else before she came to us?”

  “I have no idea who the man is.” Miss Holmes paused for a moment. “But I’m glad he didn’t seem to be Lord Ingram.”

  Mrs. Watson stared at her. “You think Lord Ingram—you think he could possibly be involved in all this?”

  “At the moment, the only thing I know for certain is how little we know. Lady Ingram isn’t telling the whole truth. Why should we be so confident that Lord Ingram isn’t aware of everything that is going on—or has no hand in it whatsoever?” Miss Holmes exhaled slowly. “But, as I said, I’m glad that man did not seem to be him.”

  Inspector Treadles received the pathologist’s official report shortly before he left Scotland Yard for the day: There was no water in the dead man’s lungs—he had died from strangulation.

  He tapped his fingers against the report. There was nothing unexpected in there. And frankly, had “de Lacy” died from drowning, it would be all the same.

  If he chose to write the report that he’d spent half the day composing in his head.

  Richard Hayward, a young man of perceived means, had been living in London under an assumed name. He had come by his fortune via illicit means. When those illicit means caught up with him, he died at the hands of a professional killer known as de Lacy. De Lacy, upon attracting police attention, feared that he, too, would face reprisals from the same criminal elements who wanted Hayward dead. Under the influence of intoxicants, de Lacy confessed his life’s story to Mr. Lucas Boyd of Lambeth, whose testimony is hereby appended.

  The truly elite criminal elements had less to do with Scotland Yard than Her Majesty the Queen. If he submitted this particular version of events, his superiors would be more than satisfied. Well done, Treadles. That’s as far as anyone can take a case like that. File it and take a look at this new one that just came in.

  Except he knew that this version of events was, if not an outright lie, then at least a mirage. Someone had gone through a great deal of trouble to make sure that a dunce of Young Boyd’s caliber, a half-blind one, too, would tell this tale to the police. Not to mention, this same someone had to kill a man—or at least find a body—and make sure it ended up in the right place for Young Boyd to recognize the distinctive summer scarf.

  Yet knowing it for the deception it was, Treadles still couldn’t be sure that he wouldn’t submit such a report.

  He walked into his fine house and closed the door behind himself. The sound echoed in the empty place. His wife would be meeting with a women’s group—she’d taken up with them about six months ago. He used to miss her when she was gone. This evening, however, he was glad she w
asn’t there.

  That she wouldn’t see him like this, struggling with—and possibly losing to—this desire to appear supremely competent and efficient before his superiors.

  The desire didn’t originate with Alice, but with Sherlock Holmes—he didn’t want a woman to do his work better than he could. But Alice . . . ever since he learned that she once—and perhaps still—harbored ambitions that had nothing to do with their home life, he had not been the same man.

  He wanted to be so wildly successful that she would never dream of running Cousins Manufacturing again. He wanted to give her so many children that she never had the time again. But God did not seem to want the latter for them. And the former—would he really write a report full of deception just so he could be one step closer to his next promotion?

  He didn’t know.

  And this frightened him above all else.

  It was past eleven and Charlotte was in a bit of a mood. It did not happen very often, but when it did, when that strange restlessness came upon her, she was not very well equipped to handle it: It was something that could not be reasoned away—or crushed under an avalanche of cake.

  She paced in her room for a while. Then dressed again and slipped out: She might as well reread A Summer in Roman Ruins, and that book was currently gracing Sherlock Holmes’s shelves.

  18 Upper Baker Street was dark. She reached for a light. The gas flame flared, illuminating the steps.

  A small sound came from above. The house cooling down at night and contracting? A mouse in the attic? She climbed up and walked into the parlor.

  “Good evening, Miss Holmes.”

  The stair sconce lit an amber slice of the room and left dark shadows elsewhere. The greeting came from the shadows.

  She turned toward the voice. “Mr. Marbleton, I presume?”

  A soft chuckle. “I see Sherlock Holmes’s genius is real.”

  “No genius required. We’ve conversed before, however briefly. I don’t forget voices.”

  She turned on the lamp affixed near the door. Mr. Marbleton stood next to the grandfather clock, a pistol in hand.

  “Some tea for you—and Miss Marbleton? Does she need the attention of a physician?”

  “How—”

  “I can smell blood in the air—and you don’t seem injured.”

  Stephen Marbleton exhaled. “Miss Marbleton is fine. The bullet only grazed her shoulder. I cleaned the wound with your fine whisky and bandaged it with some boracic ointment.”

  Charlotte nodded—a doctor would not be able to do much more than that. She entered the bedroom, where Miss Marbleton lay quietly asleep. “Did you give her some of Sherlock’s fine laudanum also?”

  Mrs. Watson had made sure they had the usual assortment of tinctures and patent medicines that graced a convalescent’s bedside.

  “I did. Thank you.”

  She laid a hand on the young woman’s forehead. No fever. But then, the wound was very recent. They wouldn’t know for some time whether it would become infected. She left Miss Marbleton to her rest, set a kettle to heat on the spirit lamp, and put a few madeleines on a plate. “Have the two of you dined?”

  “We have. But madeleines are most welcome. Will you share some with me?”

  Most native English speakers would not be able to immediately name the shell-shaped, fluted little cakes. But Stephen Marbleton had a soupçon of an accent—which hinted not so much at foreign origins as significant portions of life spent abroad. “I serve madeleines for me—you’ll need to be quick and ruthless to have a chance at any.”

  He smiled. She did not return the smile. He was young—younger than she. Left-handed, obviously. Had lived in hot climes not long ago. Enjoyed fiction. Was a little vain about his clothes, but not so much that it interfered with practicality.

  “Were you the one who alerted the police about the body in Hounslow?”

  The bobbies had gone running to the place because they had received a telegram concerning iniquitous goings-on in the house.

  He shook his head a little, but not in denial. “Of course Sherlock Holmes would know that.”

  The clock gonged the half hour, then carried on with its tick-tocking.

  “Thank you most kindly for letting us stay,” he said.

  “Tell me why you impersonated Mr. Finch,” she said at the same time.

  He sighed, sat down across from her, and reached for a madeleine. “Mr. Finch has something we want.”

  “Who are we?”

  “My family—my parents, my sister, and myself.”

  “Your mother is Mrs. Marbleton?”

  “Yes.”

  “Your father?”

  “Mr. Marbleton, of course.”

  “And who is Mr. Marbleton, in relation to Mr. Moriarty?”

  “They are not the same man, if that is what you are asking.”

  Charlotte nibbled on a madeleine. “I take it then that you weren’t responsible for the death of the man currently known as Richard Hayward. But you didn’t learn of it by accident.”

  “We were watching the house. The house wasn’t particularly important—and hadn’t been for some time. The man who lived there performed unsavory services for a fee. He’d been working for Moriarty for a while but was the kind of underling happy not to know anything about why he was asked to do what he was asked to do. Nevertheless, he was one of our few leads.”

  “Your mother doesn’t know more about Moriarty’s organization?”

  “She left him decades ago.”

  “And she does not cooperate with him in a mutually beneficial manner?”

  “Not that I know of.”

  She eyed him. “Not a terribly reassuring answer.”

  “I know a great deal of my mother’s life. Moriarty has been hunting us for almost fifteen years and we can’t afford secrets. Any ignorance—any mistaken assumption allowed a foothold—can lead to disaster for the entire family. That I do not know of something should be a reassuring enough answer.”

  A strong retort. She would not consider her mind completely put at rest, but the reason he gave was certainly specific enough. She took the kettle from the spirit lamp and poured hot water into the teapot.

  “How did Mr. Finch come into anything of value to you? Was he working for Moriarty?”

  “He was.”

  She had hoped, when it turned out that Mr. Finch might be alive after all, that he would also turn out to have no connections to Moriarty. Of course she’d always known that it was a vain hope, but still.

  “Since when? And how did he find Moriarty—or vice versa?”

  “I don’t know when he started working for Moriarty. I do know that Moriarty has a preference for those who are tainted by illegitimacy—they tend to be hungry for success, and ruthless because the world has been ruthless to them. No one misses them very much when they disappear and there’s always a ready supply of young, eager men born on the wrong side of the blanket.”

  “So when you said he has something you want, you mean he has something of Moriarty’s.”

  “That is correct.”

  “What is it?”

  “We don’t know precisely. What we know is that a dossier exists concerning plans to be put into motion next year. The plans vanished at the same time as Mr. Finch and Mr. Jenkins, otherwise known as Richard Hayward. Moriarty is extremely displeased about the disappearance of the plans and the betrayal of his subordinates.”

  “How do you know all that?”

  His smile was bitter for one so young. “The less you know about it, the better.”

  “All right. This Mr. Jenkins, was he also illegitimate?”

  “Quite so. I understand he and Mr. Finch attended the same school—and were in the same residence house.”

  So she was right, in a way, about Mr. Jenkins having been an orphan. What mu
st it have been like, for young men such as her brother and Mr. Jenkins, to feel themselves not so much children of those distant, well-born fathers but bags of refuse that had been carelessly left behind? And was it any wonder that a man like Moriarty had easily garnered their trust and loyalty, at least in the beginning?

  “Why did Messrs. Finch and Jenkins abscond with those plans?” she asked.

  “On that I do not have reliable intelligence, only speculation.”

  “And what is your speculation?”

  “There might be something in those plans that could be used for blackmail—Moriarty pays well but not so well that a man wouldn’t still dream of a fortune.”

  “Surely, such dreams must be tempered with fear of crossing Moriarty.”

  “Which is why I’m not entirely sure of my own conjecture. Another possibility is that they wanted to leave Moriarty’s service—and believed that having the plans in their possession might ensure their safety.”

  “Why have you involved yourself in all this? Shouldn’t it be your goal to stay away from Moriarty as much as possible?”

  “For fifteen years, we’ve rarely remained more than three months in the same place—and when we did, when we thought we were safe and hidden . . .” He took a breath. “We want something on Moriarty. Something that would make him anxious about us instead. Something that would force him to leave us alone, because it would destroy him first.”

  “And how did you hope to achieve that by impersonating Mr. Finch?”

  “We couldn’t find him. So we had to hope that he would find us.”

  “By approaching his family?”

  “We thought that if we were blatant in our attempts to contact your family, perhaps it would vex your father enough to send strong words via solicitors, which would make Mr. Finch realize that there was an imposter.”

  “And then what?”

  “We wrote your father three times and gave our address each time. Our hope was that Mr. Finch, after he had heard from Sir Henry, would find us. Then we would offer him a bargain: the dossier in exchange for his safety.”