“Then I’ll ask that Bancroft get to the bottom of the matter urgently. I am not going to rush out and hunt down the killer myself, if that’s what you are worried about.”
“Is that a promise?”
“Yes.”
“So many promises of late.” He viewed her with patent suspicion. “Wait here.”
He returned a few minutes later with an envelope. “Don’t abuse my trust.”
“I won’t.
She reached for the envelope, but he didn’t let go. “This isn’t what you apologized for, is it?”
“No.”
“You aren’t looking me in the eye.”
She looked him in the eye.
He looked away, unable, for some reason, to hold her gaze.
She took the envelope from him. “Thank you, my lord. I’ll see myself out.”
Mrs. Watson was, in fact, a longtime subscriber to the soup kitchen on Great Windmill Street. As a supporter, she had toured the facilities. Based on this meager familiarity, she took for herself the task of finding out when Mrs. Burns would be there again. At first she considered simply sending a note, but in the end she decided to go in person, so that she could speak of some experience as a volunteer when she did meet Mrs. Burns.
She couldn’t be entirely sure, but there didn’t seem to be anyone following her around—which was a relief. Her luck held at the soup kitchen. The harried woman in charge of the staff took one look at her and said, “It’s a good thing we have Mrs. Burns here today, mum. She’ll tell you what needs to be done.”
Mrs. Watson was already perspiring by the time they were halfway across the large kitchen. She had dressed lightly, knowing that kitchens were infernally hot places. Still, the heat and humidity struck her like a large brick wall to the chest, making her gasp for breath.
“Mrs. Burns”—the woman stuck her head into a room that led off from the kitchen—“I’ve a subscriber here to volunteer. Can you show her what to do, please?”
Her tone was pleading. Mrs. Burns, behind a pile of turnips, did not appear particularly honored by the request. But she rose from her stool, let the woman present her to Mrs. Watson, and welcomed her. When the woman had rushed off, she asked whether Mrs. Watson could peel turnips with a knife without injuring herself.
Mrs. Watson hesitated. As a child, she had regularly helped in the kitchen at home. But as a firmly middle-aged woman, she had not performed menial tasks for some time.
“If you can’t peel vegetables, I suppose I could set you to brushing and washing them, but that’s rougher work.”
“I’ve peeled any number of potatoes and turnips, only not recently. May I try a few and see if I’ve still got the knack?”
Thankfully, those old skills returned quickly—she had once been capable of peeling apples in a single strip. Mrs. Burns did not bother hiding her surprise. Nor did she bother to praise Mrs. Watson for not being a complete disgrace in the kitchen. “Good. We’ve much to do.”
Mrs. Burns did not immediately strike Mrs. Watson as beautiful. But before long she had already remarked the housekeeper’s lithe figure and fine-boned features. She peeled turnips with a seriousness others reserved for prayers—or battle planning.
Mrs. Watson, too, focused on the turnips, until they had reduced the pile by about two thirds. Someone came for the basket of peeled turnips and both Mrs. Burns and Mrs. Watson helped in carrying the heavy container to the kitchen table, where they would be chopped and added to the large cauldrons.
When they returned to their stools in the peeling area, Mrs. Watson judged that it was an opportune time to begin a conversation. “Are you employed here, Mrs. Burns?”
Mrs. Burns shook her head. “I’m a volunteer, Mrs. Watson.”
“But not an inexperienced one. Do you come often?”
“Once every week.”
“I admire such dedication.”
Mrs. Burns shrugged. There was a refinement to her motion. Put her in a proper frock and she would not appear any less a lady than the wives of Dr. Swanson’s colleagues. Mrs. Watson had earlier thought Mrs. Morris perhaps overly suspicious. She still didn’t know enough of the truth of the situation to judge. But having met Mrs. Burns—and heard Dr. Swanson’s praise—one thing became clear: If Mrs. Burns wanted to become the next Mrs. Swanson, she had a very realistic chance of succeeding.
“Would you happen to be in service, Mrs. Burns?”
This provoked a slightly wary glance from Mrs. Burns. “Yes.”
“You are sacrificing part of your half day to be here.”
“Not today. My employer is away on holiday so my time is my own.”
“You didn’t take the chance and go away yourself for a small holiday?”
“There are maids in the house—someone must keep an eye on them. And holidays are expensive,” said Mrs. Burns with a trace of regret. “The more I save now, the sooner I can leave service.”
If Mrs. Burns were scheming to leave service by marrying an employer, would she be so careful with her money?
“You’re still awfully young. Retirement must be many years away.”
For the first time a spark came into Mrs. Burns’s eyes. “Ah, but by my own estimate, and I estimate very conservatively, I’m only three years away from retirement.”
“Really?”
Mrs. Watson was amazed. She knew that it was possible for those in service to accumulate decent savings, given that they did not need to spend their wages on food or lodging. But few people in any line of work had the discipline to hold their expenses to only the bare minimum. It was all too human, especially for those whose work was monotonous, to seek pleasure and seek it hard.
“I used to be a lady’s maid, and I was very good at dressing hair—other ladies would beg my mistress to lend them my service. I do believe I’ll stay in London for a bit and teach some young girls my skills in hairdressing. But even without that, I should have enough money.”
Mrs. Watson shook her head. “That’s marvelous.”
“I know. Three more years. But sometimes every day can seem that long.”
“Are your master and mistress too demanding?”
“My master is all right. No mistress—he’s a widower. But his daughter has come to stay with him and she has disliked me from the very beginning.” Mrs. Burns pulled her lips. “She hasn’t been unpleasant or anything. But you just know when someone would rather you be gone. Her husband is at sea right now—I can’t wait for him to come back and for her to leave. Only three years to go—I don’t wish to move to a different household.”
She tossed a peeled turnip into the basket. “But I will if I must.”
Sixteen
“You think your brother is dead?” Mrs. Watson and Penelope exclaimed in unison.
Over tea, Miss Holmes had recounted both what she had learned at Mrs. Woods’s this day and what she had uncovered the week before, working on a Vigenère code that Lord Bancroft had sent for her amusement, as part of his courtship.
“Lord Bancroft isn’t convinced yet. And I don’t blame him. There is no direct evidence. There is, so far, no reason why Mr. Finch should have been strangled and left in an empty house, wearing a coat that secretly warns of his killers. So first I must ascertain the identity of the dead man.”
Mrs. Watson felt as if someone had laid an icy hand at the base of her spine. “How?”
“I have written Lady Ingram and asked her to call on us this evening.” Miss Holmes extracted an envelope from her handbag. “There is a photograph of the dead man inside. I plan to show it to her.”
Lady Ingram’s hand shook.
Penelope couldn’t breathe. The dead did not discomfit her—she’d had too many dissection lessons for that. Photographs of the dead affected her even less. But this evening she could not manage to summon the detachment of a medical student. This evening s
he was thoroughly exposed to the violence of the death and the potentially just-as-violent effect on the one who loved the departed.
Lady Ingram lifted the flap of the envelope. She let it drop without removing its contents. She lifted it again—and let the whole thing fall to her lap.
“You must excuse me but I’m not sure I understood anything you said just now.”
Her voice quavered. The crystal beads on the skirt of her elaborate gown clinked together, a minor symphony conducted by her trembling knees. It was very late—she had sent around a note earlier saying that she would not arrive at Upper Baker Street until near midnight, when she could steal a few minutes away from a ball she was attending—and the lamps of the room seemed to shine too harshly on her chalky face.
“The last time we met, you told me Mr. Finch was doing well. You said he was taking holidays and charming his landlady. Why did you go to the police all of a sudden?”
Penelope had explained the photograph as having been obtained by a contact inside the Criminal Investigation Department, which, come to think of it, was not entirely false. “Since you insisted that we had the wrong Mr. Finch, we decided to take your judgment seriously. What if we did have the wrong man? What if something had happened to the real Mr. Finch? If the worst had befallen him, then the police would likely learn of it, sooner or later. There was no record of Mr. Finch’s death. So we made arrangements to see the bodies that had been brought in and had not yet been identified.
“This particular gentleman was young and seemed to have been in respectable circumstances before his unfortunate demise. He was an unlikely sort of candidate for a man missing with no one knowing who he is.”
“And where was he found?”
“We’re not privy to that—it was a great deal of trouble just to obtain this photograph. But we thought it would be easier for you to see the picture here rather than having to go to Scotland Yard.” Penelope paused for a moment. “Surely you have contemplated the possibility.”
Lady Ingram looked away. “Of course I have. And after what you said last time about his recent carefree ways, I have wished again and again that he were dead instead. Now—now I think I have cursed him.”
Penelope, caught in the undertow of Lady Ingram’s despair, felt her own eyes sting with tears. “I’m sorry to cause you such distress, ma’am. Please remember that it may not be Mr. Finch in the picture. We only wish to eliminate that possibility.”
Lady Ingram’s lips quirked, but without humor. “So my choices are that he is dead or that he is having the time of his life without me.”
“I’m sorry.”
“No need to apologize. I knew that in the end you couldn’t possibly discover anything good. But I held out hope that perhaps there was a one in a thousand chance that . . .”
Her hands balled into fists. She grabbed the envelope and yanked out the photograph. The expression on her face was indescribable, halfway between revulsion and utter euphoria. “This—this isn’t Mr. Finch!”
Penelope gulped down air. “It isn’t? Thank goodness!”
Lady Ingram tossed aside both envelope and photograph. Her breaths came in like bellows, her eyes tightly shut. “I never thought I’d see the day when I’d prefer that he forgot about me. But here we are.”
Penelope retrieved the picture from where it had fallen, shuddered at the dead man’s grotesque expression, and shoved it back into the envelope.
To her surprise Lady Ingram took the envelope from her. She pulled out the photograph, flipping it around as it had come out facedown, and stared. After a few seconds she panted again. “I’m sorry. For a moment I was assailed by doubt. What if I hadn’t looked carefully enough? What if in my desire for him to be alive I’d made a mistake?”
She gave the envelope back to Penelope. “But no, that truly isn’t Mr. Finch.”
Penelope wondered if the ordeal hadn’t been too much for her. After all, she was a sheltered woman who, despite her heartaches, had never dealt with the rougher elements of life. She didn’t know what to say, so she stirred her tea and let Lady Ingram be.
After a few minutes, Lady Ingram rose and winced at the pain the motion must have caused her bad back. “I should go, or my absence will be noticed.”
“Of course.”
She sighed, a heavy sound. “Last time I was here, you admonished me. I think I finally see your point, Miss Holmes: There is nothing I could possibly gain from the continuation of my inquiry.
“I’m glad Mr. Finch isn’t dead. And I hope he is as well as you have described. I’ll keep our appointment next year at the Albert Memorial—and every year thereafter. Maybe I’ll see him again someday. Maybe I won’t. But I shan’t trouble you again.”
“So he’s alive then, Mr. Finch,” said Mrs. Watson, still limp with relief. “Or at least the man murdered in Hounslow wasn’t him.”
Lady Ingram had departed. The ladies of 18 Upper Baker Street had gathered in the parlor for tea and biscuits. Or rather, Miss Holmes partook in tea and biscuits; Mrs. Watson and Penelope each nursed a finger of whisky. The grandfather clock had gonged midnight a while ago, but no one seemed the least bit interested in retiring.
Miss Holmes polished off a madeleine. “I had better send word to Lord Bancroft that facts have laid waste to my brilliant hypothesis.”
She appeared as unmoved as ever, but earlier, when Lady Ingram had declared the man in the photograph a stranger, she had let out an audible breath, which had been quite enough to inform Mrs. Watson that she was beyond relieved to be wrong.
“What should we do about Mr. Finch then?” asked Mrs. Watson. Lady Ingram might have come to her senses, but the only Mr. Finch they were able to locate had turned out to be counterfeit.
“You remember Mr. Gillespie, the solicitor Mr. Mears impersonated?” Miss Holmes poured herself another cup of tea. “I stopped by his office this afternoon on my way back and made an appointment to see him tomorrow. Though I haven’t a ready story yet on what to say to extract maximum information from him without alerting my father of my involvement in the matter.”
“I have an idea,” said Penelope. “I can play the part of Lady Ingram—under a different name, of course. My point is I can use the bones of her story, tell Mr. Gillespie that Mr. Finch is missing, and worm out some information.”
“I like that idea,” said Miss Holmes decisively. She turned to Mrs. Watson. “I didn’t have a chance to ask earlier, ma’am, but did you learn anything from going to the soup kitchen today?”
Mrs. Watson recounted her conversation with Mrs. Burns. “It didn’t appear that she was at all interested in her employer. Of course, one could make the case that she’s canny and careful and wouldn’t spill the beans even to an absolute stranger. But she struck me as truthful, bluntly so.”
Miss Holmes nodded and made no further comment on Mrs. Watson’s observation. They discussed their plans. Mrs. Watson would go back to the soup kitchen on Saturday—Mrs. Burns had indicated that was when she planned to give her time again. Miss Redmayne would beg off accompanying the de Blois ladies on a trip to Bath so she could meet with Mr. Gillespie.
“I will go with Miss Redmayne,” said Miss Holmes. “The presence of a friend will help make Miss Redmayne’s claims seem more convincing.”
“But are you sure it’s wise to meet with a close associate of your father?” Mrs. Watson couldn’t help but imagine all the undesirable consequences should Miss Holmes be recognized.
“Mr. Gillespie and I have never met,” said Miss Holmes. “But even if he does know what I look like, at this point, it’s a risk I’m willing to take.”
They were quiet for a minute, Mrs. Watson busily planning how to use theatrical makeup to change Miss Holmes’s appearance.
Penelope cleared her throat. “I hope, Miss Holmes, it will not shock you to know that I have been apprised of Lord Bancroft’s matrimonial intentions.�
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Mrs. Watson cleared her throat, too, embarrassed to have been revealed as a gossip. But, as Penelope said, it could scarcely have shocked Miss Holmes.
Miss Holmes only waited for Penelope to continue.
“You met with Lord Bancroft today—or yesterday now, since we’re past midnight. I’m curious to know, did he press you for an answer?”
“He did, though not in so many words.” Miss Holmes sipped her tea and eyed the rest of the madeleines on the plate with a combination of longing and apology. “I believe Lord Bancroft thinks that I am the perfect woman for him.”
“You don’t sound particularly pleased by that idea,” Penelope pointed out.
“To be thought of as the perfect woman for a man isn’t a compliment to a woman, it’s more about how a man sees himself—and what he needs.” Miss Holmes sighed. “Should we marry, either I will be exhausted trying to keep his illusion intact—or Lord Bancroft will be severely disappointed in his choice. Likely both.”
Mrs. Watson couldn’t help herself. “What does Lord Ingram think of you?”
“Lord Ingram?” The movement of Miss Holmes’s lips could indicate either a smile or a moment of ruefulness. “He has always understood that I am one of the most imperfect women alive. Thank goodness.”
Seventeen
FRIDAY
Livia stared at the pages, amazed.
She was writing Sherlock Holmes’s story. And she did so with the mad speed of a convict about to face the gallows.
Two decisions had helped loosen the words. One, she opted not to begin the story with the origins of the crime. After all, the point was Sherlock Holmes. Two, after trying—and failing—to make him the narrator, she chose instead to use the fictional masculine equivalent of Mrs. Watson to fulfill the role.
And that was perfect. Watson was the embodiment of everyone who had ever stared at Charlotte in wonder and unease—and everyone who had ever said I could have guessed that, too, after they made Charlotte explain her deduction in painstaking detail.
A Conspiracy in Belgravia Page 22