A Study In Scarlet Women

by Sherry Thomas

  Charlotte let the silence that followed linger for a few seconds before she asked the by now also standard question, “Would you like to know for certain that Sherlock’s powers of observation and deduction are very much intact?”

  “I was at the General Post Office this morning and retrieved a letter meant for me. I have been plentifully assured of Mr. Holmes’s mental acuity,” said Mrs. Marbleton, already holding out the letter. “Would he mind taking a look at this new one?”

  This letter was not typed. Instead it was pasted with individual letters—letters cut out from books, rather than newspapers, judging by the thickness of the paper. The text praised the material and workmanship of boots cobbled by a Signor Castellani of Regent Street.

  “I already asked around,” said Mrs. Marbleton. “There is no establishment by that name or owned by anyone of that name. I checked for the hyphen-and-full-stop code from the previous letter, which didn’t appear to be the case. I also tried using the crossbars on the t’s and the dots on the i’s, to see whether it was a variation on a theme—that doesn’t appear to be the case either.”

  She’d spoken in a near monotone, as if regurgitating facts that had nothing to do with herself. But Charlotte heard the quaver in her voice, the fear and anguish.

  She made the usual pilgrimage to “Sherlock’s” bedroom. Mrs. Watson, seated inside, looked almost as tormented as their client. Had news of Surgeon-Major Watson’s death reached her in a state of unsuspecting naivety, or had she been dreading that terrible confirmation for days on end?

  Charlotte didn’t know what to do, so she placed the cup of tea that had been brought for “Sherlock” into Mrs. Watson’s hands and sat next to her for a bit.

  Upon her return to the parlor, she told Mrs. Marbleton, who had been staring at her own untouched tea, “My brother is of the opinion that this should be a straightforward Bacon’s cipher.”

  “What is that?” Mrs. Marbleton’s gaze was dark and intense—an intensity that derived not from hope, but despair.

  “It’s a system devised by Francis Bacon to hide a message in relatively plain sight. If you’ll examine the letters that have been pasted, they are of two different typefaces, Caslon and Didot—and only those two.”

  Mrs. Marbleton looked closely at the note. “I didn’t notice that earlier.”

  “The message starts with a Caslon letter, so that makes Caslon letters A, and Didot letters B. If we go through the entire message letter by letter, we would end up with a string of As and Bs. Mrs. Marbleton, will you write down the As and Bs as I read them aloud?”

  Mrs. Marbleton peeled off her gloves. Charlotte handed her a pen and a notebook. “Have you contacted the police by any chance, ma’am?”

  Mrs. Marbleton shook her head. “I do not know everything about my husband—there is a time of his life that he never talks about. I’ve been glad to leave it alone as there are years of my own life I would rather forget. For as long as I’ve known him, he has been a diamond of the first water—a complete gentleman, adored by his friends, admired by his business associates. But if I were to go to the police, I’m not sure what might be dragged up—in public, no less.”

  “I understand, Mrs. Marbleton. You may be assured of our complete discretion.”

  When the a’s and b’s had been set down and double checked, Charlotte said, “Now we divide this long string into segments of five letters each, and those sequences ought to correspond with the sequences Bacon had set out as representations for each letter.”

  Entirely translated, the message read package browns.

  The fine grooves beside Mrs. Marbleton’s mouth etched deeper as she studied the words. Then she swallowed and looked up at Charlotte. “I hate to admit it but calling for this letter at the General Post Office was . . . nerve-racking. May I engage you to come with me to Brown’s Hotel, Miss Holmes? I would feel less deprived of courage if I didn’t need to do this alone.”

  Charlotte shivered. But it was only Brown’s, and in broad daylight no less. “Yes, I will accompany you.”

  Mrs. Marbleton already had a hansom cab waiting below. But since Mrs. Watson also wished to come along, in the end Charlotte and Mrs. Watson took another cab and followed behind.

  “What did you hear from her accents?” Charlotte asked Mrs. Watson, as their vehicle veered around a large town coach.

  “English. Or at least she grew up English. But she has spent time on the Continent. America, too—at least ten years there,” answered Mrs. Watson. “What do you know about her?”

  “She was born into generous circumstances. But there was a reversal of fortune in her youth, of such severity that she didn’t fade into genteel obscurity, but plunged down to outright penury. She had to work at menial positions.”

  Asking Mrs. Marbleton for help with writing down the a’s and b’s would make her think she was at least doing something for her husband. But just as importantly, it allowed Charlotte to observe her hands, which had been well cared for. But the repeated burns a young woman unaccustomed to work suffered in a kitchen did not fade away so readily, not even with the help of the best emollients.

  “Obviously at some point her fortunes improved markedly. I can’t be sure whether it happened before or after she left England, but my guess would be after. And this is—or should have been—a triumphant return for her, until her husband’s disappearance.”

  Mrs. Watson glanced outside before she looked back at Charlotte. “Will you be all right if it turns out we won’t be able to help her?”

  Will you be all right? Charlotte wanted to ask. But it seemed far too intrusive a question.

  “I should manage,” she said.

  The package at Brown’s Hotel contained a key, along with a note that stated a room number.

  Mrs. Marbleton gripped the key, seemingly paralyzed. Mrs. Watson was similarly immobile, peering at her anxiously. Charlotte mustered a big smile for the clerk. “We were told there would be a prize waiting here, but we haven’t the least idea who has prepared it for us. Would you happen to have a record of the person who left this package?”

  The pimply young man reddened. “Ah, yes. Yes, of course. If you’ll give me a moment, miss.”

  He brought out a book of registry. “This was left behind by a Mr. York.”

  Charlotte glanced at Mrs. Marbleton. The name didn’t appear to signify anything for her. “Is Mr. York still here?”

  “He left for Paris two days ago.”

  “Was his luggage sent ahead to Southampton, then? Which liner did he take?”

  “I believe porters came for his luggage. And I’m almost sure he left on a steamer of the French line.”

  Mrs. Marbleton recoiled at this answer. Charlotte smiled again at the clerk. “It’s possible we might need to retrieve some heavy items. Won’t you be so kind as to send a pair of your stoutest porters?”

  She didn’t anticipate an ambush but it didn’t hurt to be careful.

  “Of course, Miss. I will have the porters wait outside the room. It might be a minute or two before they arrive.”

  Charlotte guided a stricken-looking Mrs. Marbleton and a pale Mrs. Watson to a chaise. After a few minutes, she shepherded them to their destination. The porters were in the passage when they arrived, standing with their backs to the walls and tugging respectfully on their caps.

  Charlotte turned the key and opened the door slowly. The sitting room was empty. But Mrs. Marbleton gasped, rushed toward the mantel, and clutched a fountain pen that had been left behind.

  They searched the rest of the suite, but no more of Mr. Marbleton’s belongings were found. Charlotte tipped and dismissed the porters, then took out her magnifying glass and examined the entire suite square inch by square inch.

  “I gave this pen to Mr. Marbleton as an engagement present. He wrote all his letters with it,” said Mrs. Marbleton to no one in particular.


  The rooms had been cleaned thoroughly, probably by the maids in the morning. When Charlotte had satisfied herself that she would not learn of anything else—other than the fact that no one had slept in the suite overnight—she whispered to Mrs. Watson to keep an eye on their client, while she went down to the lobby and spoke with a different clerk.

  “The gentleman who stayed in this suite last night”—she showed him the note with the number on it. “I might have found something that belongs to him. Do you know if he has already left?”

  “Let me check for you, miss,” said the clerk, an older man with a portly figure. He pored over the columns of the registry. “Let’s see. You are in luck, miss. Mr. Marbleton will be with us for another several days.”

  Seventeen

  “How perfectly diabolical,” murmured Mrs. Marbleton, when Charlotte told her that the suite in which they stood was registered to a Mr. Marbleton.

  “You don’t seem terribly surprised by this particular twist of events,” said Charlotte.

  “Only because I now have an idea who might be behind it. And it isn’t anyone from Mr. Marbleton’s past, but my own.” Mrs. Marbleton smiled grimly. “Thank you, Miss Holmes. And you, too, Mrs. Watson, for your company. But I’m afraid there isn’t anything else you can do.”

  “Surely we haven’t exhausted all avenues of inquiry. Mr. York’s movements can be traced. The steamers have passenger manifests and—”

  “I understand, Miss Holmes. But you are assuming it isn’t a false trail that has been laid for me.”

  “Even if that should turn out to be the case, the account on this room probably hasn’t been settled yet. Not to m—”

  “No!” The syllable ricocheted around the room. Mrs. Marbleton took a deep breath, a deathly pallor to her cheeks and a near-frantic look in her eyes. “Please listen to me, Miss Holmes. You do not wish to go anywhere near this man. You simply do not. Do you understand?”

  Mrs. Watson gripped Charlotte’s arm and answered for them. “Yes, we understand.”

  With flawless courtesy, Mrs. Marbleton saw them out. Charlotte and Mrs. Watson remained silent as they made their way to Albemarle Street. But as soon as they got into a hansom cab, Mrs. Watson blurted out, “Heavens, what is going to happen to that woman?”

  Charlotte had no good answer for her.

  The rest of Inspector Treadles’s afternoon was spent at Scotland Yard, conferring with Sergeant MacDonald and Superintendent Croft, Treadles’s superior. Sergeant MacDonald had made little headway in discovering the purpose of Mr. Sackville’s London trips. But now, with Superintendent Croft’s blessing, they would publish the dead man’s picture in the papers, ask for help from the public, and hope that those who came forth would offer useful information.

  “And we’ll have to verify Lady Sheridan’s claims of her whereabouts, too,” he said to his wife, when he was at last back home.

  They would be verifying a great deal more than that. His latest conjecture was that Lord and Lady Sheridan might each have been plotting against Mr. Sackville, without the other’s knowledge. And they each had an accomplice at Curry House—though the possibility existed that they counted on the same person.

  This dual-conspiracy scenario would explain the usage of both arsenic and chloral: One of the Sheridans might have opted for a slow poisoning, the other, a rapid one. Neither of them needed to be in Stanwell Moot to carry out their schemes. And their accomplices could honestly state that no one at Curry House wanted Mr. Sackville harmed.

  “Have you arranged to see Mr. Holmes again?” asked Alice. “Or to be in the next room, at least, while the great man remains shrouded in mystery?”

  “No, I haven’t.” He leaned in and kissed her on her jawline. “Sometimes I’d rather spend more time in my wife’s company than that of any man’s, however great.”

  What he didn’t say was that he was reluctant to consult Sherlock Holmes again so soon. He couldn’t quite explain this reticence—after all, he’d been desperate to speak with the man only days before.

  A rare instance of proprietary sentiments regarding his own case, perhaps. He was a thorough and competent investigator and ought to be able to handle the rest of the work without constantly leaning on someone else.

  Alice returned him a kiss on the cheek. “Ha! And here I was hoping that I might receive more madeleines, if you would but pay another visit to Upper Baker Street.”

  “What maddening inconstancy, Mrs. Treadles! Is your heart so easily given to a box of baked goods?”

  “I never knew it either, sir. But now I at last understand the power of seduction inherent in French pastry.” She handed him two fresh shirts and a pair of beautifully shined shoes—he would be on the overnight train to Yorkshire. “So what is this Miss Holmes like? I’m curious. You saw the notice in the paper, didn’t you? Holmes is taking private clients. I’ll be surprised if Upper Baker Street isn’t inundated. And Miss Holmes is the one who must handle this tide of visitors.”

  How would one describe Miss Holmes? “Do you remember the time we speculated on Sherlock Holmes’s appearance?”

  “We concluded that he is likely to be dark-haired, pale from spending his days reading by a lamp, with piercing, intelligent eyes, and a somewhat impatient demeanor, since he must find the rest of us trying.” Alice thought for a moment. “I believe we also thought that he’d be dressed well but simply, since he wouldn’t preoccupy himself with frivolous concerns.”

  “And if we’d known he had a sister, we’d have expected her to resemble him to a high degree, wouldn’t we?” Treadles accepted several handkerchiefs and two pairs of socks from his wife and dropped them into his travel satchel. “A mind as great as Holmes’s must be both magnetic and charismatic. A lesser sibling, without necessarily being aware of it, would choose to imitate the greater sibling—to echo his physical qualities, since those are much easier to emulate than his cognitive prowess.”

  “A very fair assumption.”

  “Which leads me to conclude that either Miss Holmes possesses an ironclad concept of her own self—or that Sherlock Holmes, before his misfortune, had been a popinjay of the first order.”

  Alice’s eyes brightened with excited interest. “Goodness. Do you mean to tell me Miss Holmes dresses extravagantly?”

  “When we were engaged, you took me to your favorite shop for trimmings and garnishes.”

  She laughed. “And when we left you said you feared for your manhood because the place was so overwhelmingly feminine.”

  “If that place came to life, it would resemble Miss Holmes exactly. I counted sixteen rows of bows on her skirts.”

  “How extraordinary. I’m not sure I’d be able to take a woman like that seriously.”

  “I’m not sure I did at first. But by the end of that meeting . . .”

  “Yes?”

  Treadles recalled all the things she had told him about himself—and the single word in her notebook, Barrow-in-Furness. “By the end of our meeting I knew I would never think lightly of her again.”

  As Charlotte’s hired hackney approached, Lord Ingram looked up. Livia was not the only one who’d become thinner—his eyes, too, had become more deep set. The light of a distant street lamp illuminated dramatic hollows underneath his cheeks.

  The carriage stopped. He opened the door, climbed in, and settled himself on the backward-facing seat.

  “Good evening, my lord,” said Charlotte when the hackney was on its way again, “and thank you for coming.”

  “Tell me what happened—in detail.”

  He listened to her narrative without any interruptions, one hand set lightly on top of his walking stick, the other beside him on the seat, his face largely invisible in the shadows.

  A silence rose at the conclusion of her account. She sighed inwardly—she couldn’t remember the last time he wasn’t displeased with her for one reason o
r another.

  In her mind’s eye she saw him down on one knee, chipping away at the dirt encrusted inside an old Roman urn, while she slowly flipped through the pages of the Encyclopedia Britannica—after he’d kissed her, she’d felt quite free to show up at his ruins and he’d felt quite free to ignore her. What a beautiful silence that had been. What a lovely era.

  Looking back on those halcyon days made her feel old. Certainly enough time had passed for many, many things to have gone wrong . . .

  All at once she became conscious that he was studying her. Throughout her recital of the events of the day he had been looking at the top of his walking stick—and occasionally out of the windows. But now his attention was squarely upon her.

  She, on the other hand, had been half staring at the carriage lantern outside. Carefully, she held still and did not glance toward him. She wanted to go on luxuriating in the weight and intensity of his gaze. To go on wallowing in that bittersweet mingling of pleasure and heartache.

  How had they managed to not realize, for so long, what they meant to one another? And why then must they see the light when it was too late, when they could possess no more than a few moments of ferocious mutual awareness?

  He tapped his walking stick against the floor of the hackney, a dull echo that signaled the end of the silence. She inhaled quietly, deeply.

  “So . . . the villain in Mrs. Marbleton’s case is too mannered for your taste.” His voice was perfectly modulated.

  She, too, took on a brisk, efficient tone. “I’ve constructed Bacon’s ciphers before. It’s tedious work. If I were holding her husband hostage and wanted her to worry, I’d let her stew in her own anxiety rather than dispatch all these clever but not that clever puzzles.”

  “You imply this Mrs. Marbleton staged an elaborate ruse. Why?”