A Conspiracy in Belgravia (Lady Sherlock #2)

Mrs. Watson furrowed her brow—then quickly undid the motion. Charlotte smiled to herself. Mrs. Watson was in no hurry to add to her wrinkle count, even though her husband was long dead and she needed no longer fret about appearing too old next to an eleven-years-younger man.

“Are you worried for him, your brother?” she asked.

Charlotte hesitated. Was she worried? She hadn’t thought so, yet the question felt unexpectedly weighty.

“As Lady Ingram said, it’s far more likely that he no longer wishes to see her than that he has fallen victim to mishap or misfortune,” she answered. “So no, I am not apprehensive on his behalf. But I am beginning to be curious. Very curious.”



The de Bloises were a pair of students Penelope had met in medical school. The elder one, Madame de Blois, had been widowed by the time she was twenty-one. Instead of setting her sight on remarriage, she decided to seek an education. The other, Mademoiselle de Blois, was Madame de Blois’s late husband’s cousin. Inspired by Madame de Blois’s example, she’d followed the former to medical school.

They were elegant, opinionated, and very French. Mrs. Watson enjoyed meeting them, but it was obvious that the young people wished to enjoy their own company. Madame de Blois promised to act as a stern chaperone and return Penelope home at a most appropriate hour; Mrs. Watson and Miss Holmes bade them good evening and walked out of the hotel.

Mrs. Watson was about to climb into her waiting carriage when Miss Holmes said, “I know a place ’round the corner, a lovely tea shop that I couldn’t afford to go into the last time I was in the area.”

Mrs. Watson glanced at her in surprise. But it was only half past six, the sun still high in the sky, and they had no other pressing business. “Then let us take our patronage there.”

She and Miss Holmes had first met at a tea shop near the General Post Office, an unpretentious place for harried clerks to wolf down a plate of scrambled eggs before they headed home. This St. James’s tea shop was a far more sophisticated establishment, reminding Mrs. Watson of the sleek, mirror-walled Parisian patisseries where she and Penelope had indulged in café au lait and slices of apple tart when she’d visited the dear girl the previous autumn.

And it must have a French pastry chef on the premise, for they had similar offerings in large glass cases. Mrs. Watson ordered a small pear tart; Miss Holmes took an entire plate of miniature concoctions.

“Lord Ingram’s godfather used to have a patissier in his employ,” said Mrs. Watson. “Imagine that. What luxury.”

“Oh, I have imagined it many times, ma’am.”

Miss Holmes had asked for black tea, for once—to better set off the taste of the pastries, perhaps. Or perhaps because one must pay the penance for all those Parisian délices by forgoing any additional sugar and cream.

“Anyway,” she continued, “Mr. Finch lives in a residential hotel on this street.”

Mrs. Watson started—and was forcefully reminded that although Miss Holmes might sometimes have her stomach first and foremost on her mind, one should never assume, not even for a second, that it was ever the only thing on her mind.

“Did we pass it?”

The area was rich with snuggeries suitable for bachelors with a decent income. Some of those establishments sat cheek by jowl with family hotels such as the one on Jermyn Street that hosted the de Bloises; others were situated on quieter streets, indistinguishable at first glance from private dwellings.

“No, it’s at the other end of the street. Black front door, white window trims, white stone and stucco exterior—identical to its neighbors. I’ll point it out when we leave.”

Their waitress arrived with tea and temptation. “Anything else for you, mum, miss?”

“Thank you for the prompt service,” said Miss Holmes, unobtrusively sliding a coin into the waitress’s hand. “Have you a minute?”

“Of course, miss.”

“We are from Dartmouth and we don’t know much about London. But my brother is an architect and says that for a man of his profession, there is no place to be but London. So we are here to look for a nice place for him, with good people nearby, in the hope that he won’t fall in with the wrong crowd.”

“Ah, you’ll want Mrs. Woods’s place then,” said their waitress. “It’s right down the street. I’ve never been inside, me, but Mrs. Woods—she looks after them there and she’s mighty proud of her gentlemen. Old Dr. Vickery comes here from time to time for a bite to eat. Lovely man, he is. He’s had first-floor rooms there for years, ever since his wife died. They do your plain cooking and your washing—much easier for a man that way.”

“Just down the street, you say?”

“Second from last if you go out that way, on the north side. But you wouldn’t know to look at it, that’s the kind of superior place it is.”

“Oh, this is sounding better and better. How do we apply for a place? Will we be able to speak to this Mrs. Woods and see the establishment for ourselves?”

“That I don’t know, miss. I do know you’ll have to be lucky to get in. Mrs. Woods doesn’t have rooms to let very often. Once she said that her gentlemen only leave when they marry or die—and they don’t seem willing to do either!”

They all laughed at that. “Too bad. The place sounds perfect for my brother.”

“Oh, don’t you worry. There are plenty of good places near here. But Mrs. Woods does run the tightest ship, she does.”

“Would you happen to know how much a set of two rooms costs?”

“That would depend. The house isn’t divided up all the same. Dr. Vickery’s place has three rooms and a private bath and I heard from Mrs. Woods’s girls that he pays two pounds eleven a week. Your brother can probably get two rooms on the second floor for half that much.”

“That seems reasonable. Have there been any vacancies recently?”

At establishments such as Mrs. Woods’s, the bills were usually settled weekly. If Myron Finch had been missing since the previous Sunday—as Lady Ingram believed him to be—by now Mrs. Woods would assume that he had vacated the premises.

“No, I don’t believe she’s had any vacancies recently.”

Did this mean he wasn’t missing, or was Mrs. Woods that subtle in her advertising methods? “Superior” residences were quieter about their rooms for let, preferring to maintain an air of not being available to the public.

The waitress departed to look after other patrons. Mrs. Watson let Miss Holmes have two uninterrupted minutes to enjoy her miniature éclair before suggesting, “You could simply call on him. You are his sister, after all.”

“I would rather not publicize my involvement. Most likely something unforeseen has come up. When conditions change and Mr. Finch is once again able to contact Lady Ingram, they might interact to a greater extent than they have in a very long time. I don’t want it to come out that Charlotte Holmes visited Myron Finch immediately after Lady Ingram called on Sherlock Holmes. That might be enough for her to put two and two together.”

“What will we do, then?”

Miss Holmes considered a tiny, boat-shaped tart filled with a glossy dark mousse, the last remaining delicacy on her plate. “Do you think Mr. Mears might already be back?”