A Conspiracy in Belgravia

by Sherry Thomas

  “Mr. Gillespie is out visiting a client—and not expected back today,” said his flustered secretary, a young man with a ruddy complexion.

  Instead of pointing out that she had seen Mr. Gillespie’s walking stick, emblazoned on top with his initials, in the umbrella stand in the vestibule, Charlotte smiled. “I don’t need to see Mr. Gillespie. I’m sure, as his trusted right-hand man, Mr.—”

  “Parsons.”

  “Yes, Mr. Parsons. I’m sure you can help me with my simple inquiry.”

  “I’m afraid I can’t either, miss. You see, I—I’ve been given permission to close the office early—as of this moment, in fact—to meet my—my mother’s train. She’s coming to town to visit and I don’t want her to be alone at Waterloo Station.”

  His color had changed from pink to scarlet in under a minute. Fascinating how some people’s faces betrayed them when they lied, not that she couldn’t already tell from the half-finished letter in the typewriter—among other clues on his desk—that he was very much still in the middle of his working hours.

  “Of course you wouldn’t want her to wait by herself,” she said kindly.

  “No indeed. But if you’ll come back tomorrow, miss, at—ah—ten o’clock in the morning, I’m sure I’ll be able to help you then.”

  She smiled at him again. “I will. Thank you.”

  The moment Charlotte had solid evidence that she was correct in her conjecture of how those in Moriarty’s organization encoded and decoded their messages, she had sent word to Lord Bancroft requesting a meeting. And now they were seated once again in the unrestrained drawing room of the house near Portman Square.

  She gave an abbreviated account of her work in the Times’s archive room. “I believe I am correct about how Moriarty’s system works. But so far, I have only one point of corroboration, a ten-year-old Vigenère cipher. If you, sir, have in your possession more recent examples of ciphers you believe to have originated from Moriarty, I would like to use them to verify that I am indeed onto something.”

  Lord Bancroft sighed. “Miss Holmes, I must count myself disappointed. When I received your note, I’d hoped that you’d be at last giving me the long hoped-for answer to my proposal.”

  “Ah,” said Charlotte.

  “Indeed. It has been two weeks. And we have known each other for more than ten years. I’m persuaded that you can’t have any qualms about my character, my finances, or my sincerity in the matter.”

  “No, I do not.”

  In fact, on paper they were a nearly perfect match: He had proved himself to be as unconventional and as cool of temperament as she.

  “Now that you understand my initial reaction to the point of your visit, let me address your request.” He leaned back in his chair. “I’m afraid you have it backward, Miss Holmes. If you have discovered Moriarty’s modus operandi, then it’s incumbent upon you to disclose said method to me. And I will have my subordinates check to see whether your discovery is valid.”

  This was not the response she had hoped for. Lord Bancroft was letting her know, not at all subtly, that a woman who wasn’t about to marry him could not count on continued access to his work. “Will you inform me of the results? And how soon?”

  “Only agents of the crown will be informed of the results. However, I can see my way to an exception.”

  She knew exactly what that exception would be. She tilted her head. “Do please elucidate.”

  “I will furnish what you seek, if I have a firm promise that you will shortly become Lady Bancroft.”

  If he knew of the theories that were beginning to coalesce in her head, he would not be so quick to play games with vital information. But the problem was, she was not ready for him to know these theories.

  In fact, it was imperative that he not have any idea of them.

  But could she truly agree to his capricious demand? Was it really so important that she must enter reluctantly into marriage—marriage—in order to obtain what she needed?

  This was where their ideal-on-paper match unraveled. Charlotte was not without a streak of ruthlessness. But if she had cold water flowing through her veins, then Lord Bancroft had glaciers in his. And the thing was, she had no doubt he would hold her to her promise, even though she would consider any agreement to have been extracted under duress.

  So on the one hand, decades with a man she would not have chosen on her own, the thought of which made her lungs feel as if they had been caught in a hydraulic press. And on the other hand . . . something far, far worse?

  “Agreed,” she said, looking him in the eye.

  Sometimes one must pay one’s debts—and hers were both deep and extensive.

  Lord Bancroft allowed himself a small smile. He was surprised, no doubt, but also very, very pleased.

  “But,” she added, “I stipulate that our accord will only prove valid should what you give me turn out to be useful.”

  “And how would I know that?”

  “Oh, you will know, my lord.” She returned his smile, because sometimes she had an iceberg or two drifting through her veins, too. “And since you are demanding so much of me, I will also need to borrow a man who has your complete trust.”

  The intercepted telegram Lord Bancroft gave Charlotte—or rather, the copied text, which she checked against the original three times to make sure there had been no mistranscribing—was dated two days before she had discovered the secret of the house in Hounslow.

  Which meant that she didn’t need to consult the archive room at the Times again—or even work to decipher any additional small notices in the back of the paper: Because of Lady Ingram’s inquiry, Charlotte already had all the small notices from around that time recorded and decoded in her notebook.

  And the fact that the telegram had a date written in plaintext gave credence to her idea that those who received encoded messages needed to know when it was composed, so they would know which keyword to use to solve the cipher.

  The newspaper notices that used Encyclopedia Britannica or the First Folio as a point of departure all arrived unambiguously at a single word in those pages. But with the biblical verses, she wasn’t entirely sure how to proceed. Since the verses themselves weren’t encrypted, it made sense, given the secretive nature of Moriarty’s organization, that the keywords wouldn’t be words visible in the advertised verses themselves.

  But if a verse served as a pointer, what did it point to?

  And many among them shall stumble, and fall, and be broken, and be snared, and be taken.

  Isaiah 8:15.

  She tried the first and last word of the chapter, followed by the first and last word of the Book of Isaiah, none of which decoded anything.

  The title of the book? Still nothing.

  She rubbed her temples. Of course she was going about it the wrong way: She was solving for a Vigenère cipher. The books in which the keywords would be found had changed at least twice in the past ten years. Yet she was still assuming that the basic cipher form had stayed the same.

  What would it have changed to? Since the clues to the keywords now had a less opaque veil over them, it should follow that the cipher itself had graduated to one that was even more difficult to solve.

  A Wheatstone cipher? Those, without knowledge of the keyword, were practically impossible. But she did have keywords at hand—or candidates, at least, if her chain of reasoning had been correct so far. She drew up a five-by-five square, divided the letters of the cipher text into pairs, and went to work.

  And when she had verified, late at night, that indeed ISAIAH served as that ten-day period’s keyword, she laid her head down on her desk.

  Then she sighed, consulted her notebook again, pulled out a sheaf of paper, and began to write.

  Twenty

  TUESDAY

  Livia continued to be amazed at herself.

  The Friday before, after
her euphoria over having never committed incestuous thoughts, not even accidentally, had faded somewhat, she’d worried that the pages she’d produced had resulted solely from the emotional abyss she had been thrown into. That if she felt more like her normal self—not that there was anything enviable about it—she wouldn’t be able to pen another word.

  But the story had continued apace. The murderer had sent an old woman to claim the sentimental item he’d left behind at the scene of the crime. She’d managed to escape pursuit by Sherlock Holmes. And now a Scotland Yard inspector had come to tell Holmes that they had arrested someone—obviously the wrong someone—on circumstantial evidence.

  She set down her pen and flexed her fingers. From time to time she thought longingly of Charlotte’s typewriter. But then again, it wouldn’t be of as much use to Livia. That thing was loud. And Livia’s best—or at least her most uninterrupted—writing time had proved to be early morning, before her parents rose.

  A maid entered the breakfast parlor, bringing with her the early post. Livia gave the pile a cursory glance, not expecting anything, but the typewritten name on the topmost letter clearly said Miss Olivia Holmes.

  And when she opened the thick envelope, she discovered not a letter, but a large, hand-illustrated bookmark, depicting a young woman in a white dress reading on a park bench.

  Charlotte arrived at Mr. Gillespie’s office at the hour specified by Parsons, the secretary. Parsons, his face already a few shades past florid, insisted that she enter into Mr. Gillespie’s office.

  “I have no business with Mr. Gillespie,” she said quietly. “I only need a quick question answered from the diary you keep for the office.”

  “But I have instructions from Mr. Gillespie to show you in.”

  Charlotte folded her hands around the handle of her parasol. “Is that so? If Mr. Gillespie is so eager for my company, he can come out and see me here. You may convey my sentiments to him.”

  “Will you . . . will you remain here?”

  “Of course. You haven’t answered the question I came for.”

  Parsons blinked rapidly, then sidled away, turning back to look at Charlotte every few steps. By and by he returned, and along with him came not only Mr. Gillespie, but Sir Henry, Charlotte’s father, with the groom Mott in tow.

  “Enough of this nonsense, Charlotte,” Sir Henry bellowed. “You will leave with me right now.”

  “Ah, Father. How do you do? Mr. Gillespie. Mott.” Her hands tightened on the parasol. She couldn’t be entirely certain of Mott’s loyalty in this matter, but even if he were to stand neutral, she still faced three grown men. Mrs. Watson’s weighted parasol, however well made, would not prove sufficient to safeguard her freedom. “Unfortunately, Father, I’m quite busy today and must decline your invitation.”

  “Charlotte.” Her name was a growl.

  “Yes, Father?”

  “Must I tell you specifically what is going to happen if you do not come willingly?”

  “I’d like to hear it, but I may find it difficult to believe a man who has been known to break his word.”

  Mr. Gillespie and the secretary both glanced at Sir Henry, aghast, though she couldn’t tell whether they were shocked by the charge or only that such an accusation had been spoken aloud. Mott, though, seemed to be trying not to give in to nervous laughter.

  Her father turned almost as red as the secretary. “You come with us or you will be carried out.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  She reached into her handbag, pulled out a Remington derringer, and cocked it—she wasn’t one to entrust her safety to only a parasol.

  Sir Henry’s eyes widened. Both Mr. Gillespie and Parsons took a step back.

  “You will shoot your own father?”

  “I will shoot Mr. Gillespie first—not to worry, only in the foot. And then I will shoot you, also in the foot. After that I don’t believe anyone else will be particularly interested in taking me anywhere against my will.” She smiled slightly. “You taught me how to use firearms, Father. You know my aim is excellent.”

  A knock came on the door. The four men glanced uncertainly at one another. A knock came again. The men remained paralyzed.

  The door opened and in walked Lord Ingram. He took a look around the room and tsked. “Are you trying to take these men hostage, Holmes?”

  “Hardly, my lord. And good morning to you.”

  “Have you been keeping her?” Sir Henry’s voice was high and harsh.

  Lord Ingram turned a face of innocent surprise in his direction. “Sir, I am a married man. And unlike some I can name, I have never betrayed my vows. Miss Holmes is keeping herself, in admirable style, too, as far as I can tell.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  “Why shouldn’t you? Unlike some in this room, I have also never reneged on my word.”

  Mr. Gillespie and the secretary swallowed in unison. Mott was seized by a coughing fit. Sir Henry, who had now been accused of untrustworthiness twice in the space of five minutes, stared blankly, as if he couldn’t believe what was happening.

  “Then what are you doing here?” he at last managed to say.

  “I am here at my brother’s behest. He has proposed to Miss Holmes and would very much prefer that she remain in London until she can give him her answer.”

  “Lord Bancroft wants to marry her?”

  “Yes.”

  Sir Henry turned to Charlotte, looking as if he desperately needed to throttle someone. “Then why haven’t you said yes, you stupid girl?”

  “For the same reason I didn’t say yes to him last time. I’m not enamored of the idea of being married to Lord Bancroft.”

  “Even though you could—”

  “Even though I could make you happier, you who have no respect for my wishes?”

  “Is this all the respect you have for those who raised you?” Sir Henry’s spittle flew.

  “No, I have quite a bit more respect for you than that. In fact, I plan to send you and Mother one hundred pounds a year.”

  “You can never repay us for the unhappiness you have caused us!”

  Charlotte raised a brow. “I take it you do not want the hundred quid a year then.”

  “I—I didn’t say that.”

  “Do you want it or not?”

  “Y-yes.”

  “Excellent. But do understand that I’m not giving you this money out of the goodness of my heart. I’ll want something in return.”

  Sir Henry wiped a hand across his forehead. “What? What will you want?”

  “You’ll see. But don’t worry, it won’t be anything you’ll miss.” She smiled, widely this time. “Now, gentlemen, I came to ask a question of Mr. Parsons and I’d like to get on with that. As I said, it will be a busy day for me and there is no time to waste.”

  “Thank you, my lord,” Charlotte said to Lord Ingram, once he had helped her into a hackney.

  He shook his head, laughed, and shook his head some more. “At times I have wanted to punch your father, but I’m not sure I’d have shot him.”

  “Only in the foot,” she pointed out, “and only if he refused to show any sense.”

  “And the poor solicitor?”

  “The poor solicitor was a willing party to an attempted abduction.” She sighed. Mr. Gillespie’s participation was hardly unexpected, but the whole affair still sent a chill down her spine. “The problem is that he believed he was doing something good. That forcing a grown woman to be locked up for the rest of her life figured as part of his duty to her father.”

  Lord Ingram leaned forward and squeezed her hand. “You know I wouldn’t have stood by and let you rot in the country.”

  The contact of their gloved hands lasted a fraction of a second—and the jolt shot all the way to her shoulder. “I know. I’m all too glad to have you for a friend.”
/>   But would he still be her friend, after he had heard what she had to say?

  The old silence threatened to descend. On any other day she would have let it. But today she spoke. She asked him about his children. She asked him about the archaeological sites he planned to revisit, now that the Season was coming to an end. She even asked him about the ball he and his wife would be hosting, in honor of her birthday, considered the last major function of the Season. And in turn she told him about her recent cases—as well as Mrs. Watson’s attempt to turn her into London’s foremost swordswoman, which made him laugh.

  The hackney was approaching 18 Upper Baker Street when she said, “I’m glad Bancroft sent you today, since I need to speak with you anyway. Will you come for a cup of tea?”

  He regarded her warily but only said, “Of course.”

  They settled themselves in Sherlock Holmes’s parlor. She made tea and served a plate of macarons, Madame Gascoigne’s latest triumphs, light-as-air meringue biscuits sandwiched together with a delicious filling of buttercream.

  And now, the moment of truth.

  “I asked for your forgiveness earlier. You are about to learn why I did so.”

  He had been stirring his tea without drinking. Now he pushed it aside, abandoning any pretense of interest in refreshments. “I almost don’t want to hear it.”

  But he had no choice. She also had no choice.

  “Little more than two weeks ago, Lady Ingram came to me. She was upset. She told me that she had loved someone before she married you and that they had a pact to walk past each other once a year at the Albert Memorial, on the Sunday before his birthday.”

  His face turned expressionless.

  “This year the man missed the appointment. She didn’t know what to do because she didn’t know how to find him. When she saw the article in the papers about Sherlock Holmes, she decided to consult him. Once I learned that the person she was looking for was Mr. Myron Finch, my illegitimate half brother, I had to carry on until I had some notion of his fate.”