“Wait a second,” said Charlotte. She turned to Mr. Marbleton. “Where were you? Did those men see you come in here?”
“I was in the house next door—the tenants have already left town. And more likely than not, the men in the carriage lane saw me. But that couldn’t be helped.”
“No, it’s good that they saw you. There might be a way for Mr. Finch to reach safety unseen, but I will need your help, Mr. Marbleton.”
He grinned. “Will you put in a good word for me with your sister?”
“Absolutely not. But if you wish to prove the sincerity—and capability—of the Marbletons to Mr. Finch, there is no better way.”
Mr. Marbleton glanced at Mr. Finch, then back at Charlotte. He grinned again—he really was quite attractive with that seemingly lighthearted expression. “Well, then, what are we waiting for?”
“Mr. Finch, will you be disappointed not to use your revolver?”
“Not at all. I dislike both blood and loud noises.”
“You will be pleased with my plan, then,” said Charlotte. “First, let us disrobe.”
Livia sneaked down the stairs and tiptoed toward the back door.
Only when she was outside, closing the door behind her, did she remember—how stupid of her—that Mott wouldn’t have returned yet from driving Charlotte to Mrs. Watson’s house. She glanced down at the small gift in her hand. She supposed she could place it by the door of the carriage house, but what if he didn’t see it before he took the Holmeses to the railway station tomorrow and then left their employ forever?
The light in the carriage house was on. Had he come back, then, so swiftly?
She was still hesitating when the light in the carriage house went out and its door opened a few inches. It was hard to see in the dark, but could that be the corner of a summer cape, not unlike the one Charlotte had been wearing?
Charlotte was still here?
Livia’s heart flooded with wild hopes.
They had spoken about Charlotte’s plans to poach Livia and Bernadine from their parents, but Livia had understood it to be intentions for a too-distant future. What if she was wrong? What if Charlotte meant to put everything in motion tonight, right after she’d spoken to and perhaps bribed Mott?
But as Charlotte fully emerged from the carriage house, she didn’t look quite right. When did she change her cape to a dark one? Not to mention—no, no, it wasn’t Charlotte at all, but Mott dressed in women’s clothes!
She stared at him, her jaw somewhere around her feet. He saw her and raised his index finger to his lips, signaling for silence. After looking in both directions, he crossed the completely deserted carriage lane and let himself into the small rear garden of the house next door.
She rushed to the low fence that separated the gardens. “What’s going on?” she whispered. “Where are you going dressed like this?”
He looked indecisive for a moment. “I’m in some trouble—some bad people I was mixed up with before I entered service. They are after me now, and Miss Charlotte is helping me to get away. I’ll wait in this empty house until the coast is clear. You go back inside and don’t come out again. If anything should happen to you, Miss Charlotte will have my hide.”
If anything should happen to Livia? What about Charlotte?
As if he’d heard her question, Mott said, “She has a gentleman with her, someone you both know. Please, Miss Livia, go back and stay inside.”
She still hesitated.
Mott’s voice grew more urgent. “Hurry. There’s no time to lose.”
Her knees shook. How she hated to be so useless when Charlotte was headed toward danger. But Mott was right. She would help no one by not knowing what to do.
With another glance at the carriage house, Livia did as she was told.
“You would have made a pretty girl,” said Charlotte to Mr. Marbleton, now wearing Charlotte’s evening toque and her bright yellow silk cape.
He smiled cheekily. “Thank you. I take pride in passing for a comely woman, at least at first glance. You as a man, on the other hand, would not have attracted ladies by the gross.”
Charlotte glanced down at Mr. Finch’s mackintosh, which reached past her knees. Underneath that she wore a pair of his rough woolen trousers over her own pantalets. “Maybe they’d stay away before they learned of my genius. But afterward . . . I would need to beat them off with a volume of the Britannica.”
Their lighthearted words did nothing to dispel the tension in the carriage house.
“Ready?” asked Mr. Marbleton.
She nodded tightly.
He helped her up the coachman’s perch on the town coach and opened the carriage house doors, before getting into the vehicle. She eased the carriage into the lane and inhaled deeply.
At this point, the most likely place for them to be stopped was right here in the carriage lane. She shook the reins and urged the horses into a fast trot, much faster than was strictly safe.
Houses began to rush by. She was a competent enough driver, but she was much more accustomed to handling one-horse carts on sparsely traveled country lanes. While the night was getting late, this was still London during the Season. The major thoroughfares would be heavily trafficked and she had never driven under similar circumstances.
And she wouldn’t, if she couldn’t even get out of the carriage lane.
A man stood at the end of the lane, waving his arms, signaling her to slow down. She drove faster. The man waved more exaggeratedly. Over the pounding of hooves—and that of her heart—she could vaguely make out him shouting orders.
The houses blurred. He leaped out of her way. She yanked the horses into a hard right turn, followed by one more, and would have collided with another carriage if it hadn’t swerved.
Still she drove as fast as she dared, weaving between other carriages, cutting in front of fancy broughams with inches to spare, to the vocal displeasure of their coachmen.
Mr. Marbleton knocked from within the coach. She looked ahead and saw a large omnibus parked by the side of the street. She slowed and pulled as close to the vehicle as her skills allowed. The moment she passed the omnibus, Mr. Marbleton jumped out, so accomplished at these sort of things that he somehow managed to slam the carriage door shut behind himself.
When she glanced back again, he had already disappeared into the night.
She was almost at her destination when another, far more thorough attempt was made to stop her.
She complied immediately.
A man came up to the carriage. “Mr. Finch, we’ll need you to come with us, please.”
She recognized him: Mr. Underwood, Lord Bancroft’s right-hand man. “I’m not Mr. Finch.”
Mr. Underwood’s eyes narrowed. “Miss Holmes, I see. You are dressed as a man.”
“Much safer this way, don’t you think, to be driving at night?” she answered, climbing down from her perch. “And I must confess, Mr. Underwood, I’m not sure why you think my brother is involved in this. I’m only rendering some assistance to our family groom, who has served my sister faithfully over the summer.”
“Is that so?”
“Yes, his name is Mott. He told me just now that he was in trouble with some unsavory people and needed to leave, and if I would please return the carriage to the company my father hired it from. I promised him I would see to it.” She cocked her head to one side and smiled. “Would you mind if I went on my way, Mr. Underwood?”
Mr. Underwood considered her. “It’s late, Miss Holmes. Why don’t you let us do that for you? I’ll see you home.”
Plainly he didn’t believe her. In that case, he—and Lord Bancroft—must understand that she would play no part in their hunt for Mr. Finch.
“I happily yield the carriage into your care, Mr. Underwood. But do not trouble yourself to accompany me. I am well equipped for a stroll.”
She let him see her double-barrel derringer—not exactly a show of force but not a subtle gesture either.
“Well, then,” said M
r. Underwood. “Good night, Miss Holmes.”
London after dark was not pleasant for an unaccompanied woman. Even if she traveled on streets lined by parks and fine town houses, she could still count on men assuming her to be a light skirt and therefore fair target for everything from lewd whistles to unwanted touching.
But a woman dressed as a man, though she still had to worry about actual criminals, was at least spared casual insults and crude insinuations.
No small freedom, that.
Charlotte remained preoccupied with the events of the evening. She had no means to contact Mr. Finch, but she hoped that he would send her a message once he reached safety. And to think, she had very nearly compromised that safety tonight—
A carriage drew abreast of Mrs. Watson’s house at the precise moment Charlotte did.
She had not been particularly worried about being followed by Lord Bancroft’s underlings—he already knew where she lived and worked—but still she had paid attention on her journey home. And she was sure this particular carriage hadn’t been behind her at any point.
Where had it come from, then?
A light rain drifted down, the drops as insubstantial as mist. The coachman, like Charlotte, was covered by a large mackintosh, his features invisible. The door of the carriage opened.
“Miss Holmes? Miss Charlotte Holmes?”
She approached the carriage and its single passenger, largely in shadows. “And you are . . . ?”
“Pleased to make your acquaintance at last, Miss Holmes,” said the man. His fingers tapped against his walking stick. His voice, soft but confident, betrayed a hint of amusement. “My name is Moriarty.”
1
Several months later
Inspector Robert Treadles accepted hat, lunch, and walking stick from his wife with an approximation of a smile. “Thank you, my dear.”
Alice smiled back and kissed him on his cheek. “Good day, Inspector. Go forth and uphold law and order.”
She’d been saying that for years, upon bidding him good-bye in the morning. Lately, however, those words set him on edge. Or perhaps it wasn’t the words, per se, but the feeling that from the moment he got up, she’d been waiting for him to leave.
Near the end of summer, her brother, Barnaby Cousins, had died. As he had been without issue, in accordance to their late father’s will, Cousins Manufacturing, the source of the family’s wealth, had devolved to Alice.
She had told Treadles quite firmly that it would not change anything between them. And she was right, but not for the reason she gave—that she would still be the loving spouse he’d known and that he would not feel the least diminishing in the care and affection he received from her.
No, the reason nothing had changed was that everything had already changed before her brother’s death. Treadles had learned that she had always wished to run the family business and only her father’s firmest refusal had turned her gaze from that path.
He still couldn’t completely articulate to himself the turmoil this had unleashed in him, except to conclude that until that moment, he had believed them to be a unified whole. Afterward, they were only two individuals who lived under the same roof.
She saw him out the front door with another smile. He started in the direction of Scotland Yard. But once a week or so, on his way to work, he stopped around the corner to look back. Each time her carriage had drawn up precisely a quarter of an hour after his departure.
And the woman who entered the carriage, smart, gleaming, and coolly self-assured, was a stranger.
No, that wasn’t entirely true. She had always known her own mind and been competent at everything she did. And he had always taken great pride in her—when she’d been the feather in his cap, the envy of his colleagues, a woman who, despite the elevated circumstances into which she had been born, had found in him everything she needed.
Except that had never been true, had it? She’d always needed more. And now she had it.
He walked faster, suddenly as impatient as she must be, to put distance between himself and his marital home.
His day, however, did not improve when he reached Scotland Yard. The Farr woman was there again, harassing Sergeant MacDonald.
“I understand, Mrs. Farr,” said Sergeant MacDonald patiently. “But you see, ma’am, I checked all the reports for unclaimed bodies first thing this morning, and we still don’t have anyone who matches your sister’s description. And without a body, we can’t declare this a murder case. We haven’t the slightest evidence, in fact, that your sister is deceased.”
“But if she were alive, she would never have missed her niece’s birthday—at least not without any word.”
“Sergeant, I have work for you,” said Treadles as he walked past.
The Farr woman raised her head. She was blind in one milky blue eye, her other eye a dark, almost periwinkle blue. She might have been good-looking once, but all she had now were a few lines and angles that, like the ruins of a palace, hinted at yesteryear’s grandeur.
She regarded Treadles steadily, expressionlessly. But he sensed the scorn she chose not to show. What was it with those less-than-respectable women who somehow felt superior enough to hold him in animosity and contempt?
As he marched off, he heard Sergeant MacDonald say, in a lowered voice, “I have to go, Mrs. Farr. Think about what I said. Sherlock Holmes.”
“What did we tell you?” said Lady Holmes triumphantly. “What did we tell you?”
Livia gaped, unable to believe her own eyes.
She had expected the worst. The worst. Her parents did not possess good judgment. They were, furthermore, profligate and nearly bankrupt. When they had informed Livia, after returning from a mysterious trip, that they had found an exceptional place for their second-eldest daughter, Livia had not believed in the least their description of this earthly paradise.
Bernadine did not speak, nor did she respond when spoken to. She rarely left her room and spent her days spinning spools hung on a wire. She had never been able to look after herself, and Livia had no hope that she ever would.
In fact, Bernadine’s very existence filled Livia with despair. What if she outlived everyone in the family? Who would look after her? Would she escape to the woods and become feral, the kind of creature around which adolescents spun eerie tales to give younger children nightmares?
Yet upon being told that Bernadine would soon depart for an institution that took in women with similar conditions, Livia had been outraged, especially at her parents’ delight in the reasonableness of the fees.
Bernadine didn’t bite the maids or disturb the neighbors. She never needed new clothes and barely required any food. Yes, she was a burden to her parents, but so was Livia, and all the other unmarried daughters in the land. That she must be looked after was no reason to send her off to bedlam.
But if this was bedlam, then Livia could only wish she herself was the one taking up permanent residence.
The ivy-covered house boasted wide bay windows on the ground floor and deep, cushioned window seats perfect for reading book after book. The gardens were not too big or formal, but as trim and comfortable-looking as the house, with hydrangeas and delphiniums still in bloom. Her favorite was the narrow walkway that led out from the back, passing under a long arching pergola and disappearing beyond a wrought iron gate. The lane probably ended someplace excruciatingly ordinary, a kitchen garden or a caretaker’s cottage. But Livia was free to imagine that it was a magic path that led to a different beautiful and exciting destination each time she set foot upon it.
The inside of the house was as pretty and cozy as she’d hoped it would be, with an air of contentment rather than ostentation. Even the residents didn’t seem particularly lunatic. To be sure, there was a woman spinning slowly in the corner of a parlor; another sitting on a large Oriental rug, gazing at her bare toes; and a third stacking books on the opposite end of the rug with the intent and seriousness of the builder of the Colosseum, only to knock the stack down and
start all over again.
Livia eyed the fourth woman in the room, expecting her, too, to do something bizarre. The woman, in a large starched cap and a long black dress, stood close to the rotating woman, her back to the visitors. Only after a while did Livia realize that she must be a minder employed by the institution, there to make sure the spinner didn’t fall and hurt herself.
Livia’s parents had already moved on, pulling along an unhappy Bernadine. Livia hurried after them. In the next room, a combination of a library and a small picture gallery, two women sat at adjacent desks, both writing. The scene appeared normal and serene, until Livia realized that one woman was simply drawing lines again and again across the page and the other’s paper was full of crude, grinning skulls.
Would Bernadine really be all right, surrounded by all these other women with their conditions?
But Bernadine, apparently, had found her true home. Against the far wall of the room stood a large rack of rods. The rods threaded through dozens and dozens of objects, not only spools but gears and what looked like the sails of miniature windmills.
Bernadine, usually slow and shuffling in motion, crossed the room with the speed of a comet. She slid onto the bench that had been provided and immediately began to spin the objects nearest her. She wasn’t alone. Next to her sat a woman in a turban, who spun gears—and only gears—with just as much focus and interest.
“That is a perennial delight for some of our patients,” said Dr. Wrexhall, nodding with approval.
He was also a surprise. Livia had expected an unctuous quack. But Dr. Wrexhall was a man of dignified bearing and measured words.
“Which one of the patients is the benefactress’s daughter?” asked Lady Holmes, always curious about the wealthy and the very wealthy.
Dr. Wrexhall had explained to Livia, who had not made the previous trip with her parents, that Moreton Close was financed by the widow of an extremely successful industrialist. They had only one child, a daughter. She had wanted the girl to make her debut in Society and marry into one of the finest families of the land. Alas, the girl’s condition had precluded that from ever happening.
The Hollow of Fear: Book three in the Lady Sherlock Mystery Series Page 2
