A Conspiracy in Belgravia (Lady Sherlock #2)

Charlotte poured herself another cup of tea. “Please describe the circumstances of each occasion.”

“The first time was five days ago. I came home from calling on some acquaintances and took coffee with my father. A housemaid brought the biscuits. I handed the plate to my father; he took his pick and I took mine. We spoke for some time about our day. I didn’t eat the biscuit until we were almost about to rise from the table. By the time I reached my room, ten minutes later, I was in agony.”

“What were your symptoms?”

“My throat burned. And I don’t mean that it was scratchy. The whole of the back of my mouth felt as if it had been flayed raw with a rough rope. I hurt so much I could scarcely breathe.”

“How long did your symptoms persist?”

“An eternity. Though the clock insisted it wasn’t more than two hours.”

“And what did your father think?”

“He was at loss for an explanation. I didn’t run a fever, didn’t have enlarged lymph nodes, didn’t exhibit other aches and pains or any gastrointestinal symptoms. I was fine before and I was fine after: I ate well, I moved well, and I slept well.

“He consulted his books for half a day but in the end wondered if I wasn’t simply reacting to London. He said that in his practice he came across men and women who suffered from headache, shortness of breath, and general malaise. If he couldn’t find any pathological explanation for their unwellness, he encouraged them to spend some time in the country, where air and water are both less polluted. More often than not, they improved.

“I was skeptical and pointed out that I’d been in London for two months. Shouldn’t I have reacted to it sooner? He said the effects could be cumulative—that sometimes people who have lived in London for decades find that they suddenly can’t tolerate the city anymore.

“So we discussed the matter—at length, I would say. But I didn’t worry. After all, I was probably overdue for some kind of unwellness. But when it happened again, just as inexplicably, I grew afraid that someone in the house might be conspiring against me.”

“When did it happen again?”

“The night before last. Mrs. Burns usually lays out biscuits and coffee at about quarter to ten. I had the exact same symptoms as I got into bed and spent a horrible few hours clutching at my throat, my poor father by my side. At breakfast we were discussing it again when Mrs. Burns came into the room. And I swear to you, Miss Holmes, I swear that she refused to meet my eyes.”

Mrs. Watson didn’t have a housekeeper, so Madame Gascoigne, her cook, made cakes and biscuits for the household. Today her contribution was a plate of thin, crispy, saddle-shaped almond biscuits—tuiles, she’d called them, which must be French for exceedingly delicious. Charlotte picked up another one. “Why do you think Mrs. Burns has designs on your father, Mrs. Morris?”

“Almost as soon as I arrived for my visit, I felt her hostility toward me. I am friendly by nature and got along well with my father’s old housekeeper. Mrs. Burns, on the other hand, has been curt whenever I try to engage her in conversation.”

Mrs. Morris paused to eat a tuile. “I asked my father what he thought of her demeanor and he said he found her perfectly agreeable. Now, Miss Holmes, you must understand, I have been raised not to make unreasonable demands of the staff. I don’t know whether you’ve noticed my boots—they are not my best pair. My father would consider it imposing on the staff if I wore my best pair knowing that they would get muddy, and then handed them over to a maid, expecting them to be made spotless again.

“Since my arrival in London, I have folded myself into the routines of my father’s house and made sure to cause minimal disruption. So Mrs. Burns has no good reason to dislike me, and yet she clearly does. Is it not natural to assume, then, that she sees my presence as an obstacle?

“I also learned from my father that she wasn’t always a woman of the serving class. Her own father was a doctor, too, but he died from drink and in debt. Again, is it not natural to assume that she would want to raise herself back to the station she had once enjoyed? And to remember that she would have some familiarity with poisons and such?”

Charlotte nodded slowly, but it was only to buy time to eat the tuile in her hand before she went on with her questioning. Not sleeping enough made her hungrier.

“What kind of biscuits did Mrs. Burns serve, Mrs. Morris? And were they the same both times?”

“They were dessert biscuits both times.”

“And your father didn’t suffer either time?”

“My father likes currants in his biscuits. I despise them. Mrs. Burns makes two batches of the same biscuits, one with currants, one without. We never eat each other’s biscuits. Besides, it would defeat Mrs. Burns’s purpose if she accidentally killed him, wouldn’t it?”

Charlotte adored currants. After all, plum cake, that great English misnomer, was characterized by the addition of half a pound of currants for every pound of flour. Livia, however, was in complete agreement with Mrs. Morris where currants were concerned.

“Have you spoken to your father about your suspicions?”

Mrs. Morris sighed. “It would be no use. He would think me unkind for having such thoughts. In fact, once, when I pointed out that Mrs. Burns might have her cap set on him—jokingly, of course—he was sincerely baffled. To him Mrs. Burns was everything a woman in her position ought to be. He couldn’t remotely conceive that she might be strategizing to become the lady of the house one of these days.”

“I see. I assume you brought the rest of the biscuits, Mrs. Morris?”

“I did—I saved them. I understand Mr. Holmes was able to deduce, in the Sackville case, that something else had been substituted for strychnine. Will he be able to tell if any noxious substance had been added in these biscuits?”

Charlotte had bought a few chemistry sets in her time, but she was no trained chemical analyst. That didn’t mean Sherlock Holmes couldn’t be—clearly, Mrs. Morris already believed him to be proficient in that capacity.

“It will reflect in our fees but it can be done.”

“Thank you,” said Mrs. Morris, sagging with relief. “I can’t thank you enough.”

“In the meanwhile,” said Charlotte, “I trust you won’t eat any more biscuits at home.”

“Have no fear. I will not touch anything served in that house.”

Mrs. Watson returned to escort Mrs. Morris out—and to assess fees in the ground-floor room that had been turned into a small office. As they headed down the stairs, Charlotte stuck her head out of the parlor.

“Do excuse me, Mrs. Morris. My brother has a question for you.”

“Yes?”

“Are you prone to seasickness?”

Mrs. Morris blinked. “No, not at all. I enjoy ocean voyages.”

“Thank you,” said Charlotte, and closed the door.