A Conspiracy in Belgravia (Lady Sherlock #2)

A Conspiracy in Belgravia (Lady Sherlock #2)

Sherry Thomas




Prologue





Thank goodness for a blatantly obvious murder.

Inspector Treadles did not say those words aloud—that would be disrespectful to the deceased. But he most certainly entertained the thought as he made his way, Sergeant MacDonald in tow, to the house where the body had been found.

After the taxing irregularities of the Sackville case, a run-of-the-mill murder would be calming and restorative. He looked forward to gathering clues. He looked forward to questioning witnesses. He looked forward to assembling an account that would serve as the crown’s evidence.

He looked forward to handling every aspect of the work on his own, without needing to turn to anyone else for help.

The district was unexciting, the streets without character, the houses unimpeachable in their blandness. Inspector Treadles was beginning to like this case more and more, even as in the back of his mind, a voice whispered that it was all he was good for: the utterly ordinary. The cases that required only dull, plodding work.

Grimly he pushed the thoughts away. They were for the small hours of the night. At the moment his time and his mind belonged to the business of the Criminal Investigation Department. And he would show his superiors that with or without Sherlock Holmes, he was a capable and effective man, an asset to any police force.

“That’s the place ahead,” said Sergeant MacDonald.

They were on a street that could have come from anywhere in the ring of suburbs that surrounded London: macadam lane, two-and three-story brown-brick buildings, a newsagent’s at one end and a pub at the other. A constable had been stationed at the murder site, outside the front door. As they approached, curtains fluttered in nearby houses.

A hackney drove past and came to a stop. A man alit.

“Is that . . .” murmured Sergeant MacDonald.

It was. Lord Ingram, Inspector Treadles’s esteemed friend—a little less esteemed these days, perhaps, given his association with “Sherlock Holmes.”

Lord Ingram stood by the side of the hackney and helped a lady descend. No, not a lady, a fallen woman, one who had never seemed remotely bashful of either her past or her present.

They saw Treadles, exchanged a glance with each other, and came toward him.

“Inspector, Sergeant, how unexpected,” said Lord Ingram. “Trouble in these parts?”

Treadles noticed that his friend was less warm than usual in his greeting. Had he read the tension in Treadles’s jaw and deduced his discomfort in the presence of Miss Charlotte Holmes? It was natural that as a friend to both, he might feel himself constrained. But Treadles couldn’t help a sense of injury, a feeling deep down that Lord Ingram would choose Miss Holmes over him any day of the week.

“I’m afraid I’m not at liberty to discuss police matters,” he said, hating the stiffness of his voice.

A tall, red-faced man emerged from the house. “Ah, Inspector Treadles,” he said loudly. “You are here. The body’s inside and it’s not pretty.”

“Let me not keep you from your work.” Lord Ingram nodded. “Inspector, Sergeant, good day.”

He and Miss Holmes returned to the hackney and drove away. Inspector Treadles stared after them. He had no idea how they had learned of the crime when he himself had been informed less than an hour ago, but he had a presentiment that their involvement in the matter was only beginning.

And he did not like it.





One





SUNDAY

SIX DAYS EARLIER . . .

This is an account of a remarkable man named Sherlock Holmes.

No, no, too unremarkable an opening. Miss Olivia Holmes scratched out the line.

Let me recount a tale of woe and vengeance.

Better, maybe. At least a little more intriguing.

The origin of our story lies decades ago, in a paroxysm of violence and betrayal. Let your mind leap over the tumult of the Atlantic Ocean into the vastness of the New World. Past the cities on the East Coast of the continent, past the farms and homesteads of its tamer interior regions. Now you have come to the edge of the frontier. The land beyond is harsh; survival is uncertain. But you have come too far. You have no choice but to forge ahead.

Livia tapped the end of her pen against her lower lip. This was a fair enough beginning, if she did say so herself. The setting was clear. The sentences were muscular. And when she read the whole thing aloud—as all good stories should be—she detected a pleasing cadence to the syllables.

Was it possible she could actually do it, compose an engrossing story inspired by the feats of her sister Charlotte?

The day before, Charlotte had assured her that she was fully worthy of the task. Livia hadn’t been able to sleep a wink. As she’d stared at the dark ceiling, the story had come to her in flashes: a grassy, mountain-ringed oasis in an arid, hostile landscape, a wagon train laden with weary yet hopeful families headed for California, a massacre brewing in the hearts of Utah Territory militiamen who feared persecution and loathed outsiders.

If she did manage to give birth to this story, it could very well go on to be featured in a respected and widely read publication. How gratifying would it be, from her neglected corner in whichever Society drawing room, to hear those guests who never had any use for her discuss her narrative with astonished admiration.

Livia imagined the warm satisfaction she would feel, a snug, enduring sense of well-being.

She took a bite of bacon and consulted the travel handbook she’d borrowed from the circulating library. It was imperative that she give a correct description of Utah. Inaccuracies on the part of Sherlock Holmes’s chronicler could diminish readers’ opinion of the great detective, and she must not let that happen.

The problem was, she also couldn’t paint too complete a picture, as even the handbook only offered patchy information. She would have to be vague about the exact location of her setting—somehow cobbling together one or two descriptive paragraphs—then pivot onto the doings of her characters.

Except she didn’t know yet who those characters ought to be. The victim would be a girl—that much was clear. But what about the eventual avenger who swooped in decades later to punish the culprits? Would that person be a woman or a man? And those culprits, who were they?