A Conspiracy in Belgravia (Lady Sherlock #2)

“And what makes this particular item so popular that it went through such places eight times? One would think that it could scarcely be worn eight times before the seams came apart.”

“Under certain circumstances the use of a garment does not add much to the wear and tear. The front of the suit is made of serge, not the best I’ve seen, but presentable enough and durable enough. The back, however . . . if it isn’t shoddy that has been ground up and rewoven, I would be very surprised.”

“A suit with only a front side presentable. Are you telling me this is funeral attire for the poor?”

“It’s what I would conclude.”

“Did our corpse rob a grave then?”

“Judging by how many times this suit has circulated, I would say no. It’s quite possible that the family of the deceased removes the suit and sells it back to the shop, to save some money. Or the grave diggers might have. In either case, I would guess that our man had no idea that he’d donned a funeral suit.”

Only to have it become prophetic.

“What else can you tell me, Miss Holmes?”

“That depends, my lord. What did you do with his pocketbook and his watch?”

“He had no wallet on his person. I do have his watch in my possession.”

The watch had been made by Messrs. Patek, Philippe, and Co. Monsieur Patek had invented the stem-winding mechanism that did away with winding keys. The company had been a well-known name ever since the queen had bought two of their watches for herself and Prince Albert at a London horological exhibition thirty-five years ago. And their dedication to quality had not waned since: If Charlotte’s memory served, their watches were awarded the special prize at a recent competition held at the Geneva Observatory.

This watch had been beautifully cared for and appeared new at first glance. Only on close study with her magnifying glass could she see the minor dents and scratches that came with the simple passage of time, inevitable for any item used on a regular basis. She opened the back, and then the cuvette, the inner lid that protected the precise and complex arrangement of gears and springs that moved the dials. Neither the back nor the cuvette bore any inscriptions.

“Our man was an orphan.”

“The watch can tell you that?”

“How did you come by your first fine watch, my lord?”

“A gift from my late father.”

“With an inscription inside, I imagine?”

“An exhortation to the dutiful life.”

“This is easily an eighty-guinea watch. And our man, who looks to be only twenty-eight or so, would have barely come of age when this watch was made. To be that young and acquire a watch that bears no inscriptions? It suggests to me that he purchased it himself, rather than that it was a gift from an elder.”

“And if it had been his own choice, then it might also explain the care he took—it was his first significant purchase as a man, something he meant to carry with him for a lifetime,” mused Lord Bancroft. “But why then didn’t he put his own initials on it?”

“I thought that odd, too, and I can’t offer you a reason.”

“Anything else you can tell me from the watch?”

She shook her head.

He looked a little disappointed.

“At the moment, the watch relays nothing else helpful. But I can tell you that he tried to leave a message about his fate.”

“How?”

“Does Mr. Underwood carry the necessary implement to remove the lining of the jacket?”

Mr. Underwood did—a pair of small, sharp scissors that gleamed in the light. The cheap lining was removed to show nothing in particular. But Charlotte ran her hand over the rough black shoddy of the back and said, “Ah, I think I know what this is. It’s rice that had been doused in ink—then the individual grains were applied to the fabric.”

Cooked rice, when in contact with any kind of surface, stuck to it with an enormous tenacity as it dried. And dried grains of cooked rice were hard as pebbles and almost as indestructible.

“Is it possible to make a rubbing of the jacket?” asked Charlotte. “I believe we are dealing with braille.”

Mr. Underwood performed the task, his motions quick yet delicate. Charlotte examined the resultant sheet of paper and wrote down the message.


MY KILLER IS DE LACY ON BAXTERS ORDER

De Lacy and Baxter, the two names that had been associated with the coded telegram that had brought Charlotte to the vicinity of the house in the first place.

Lord Bancroft exhaled. “Miss Holmes, you have given me much work to do.”

Then he looked at her and said, “Thank you.”

Lord Ingram had always treated Charlotte as an equal. But theirs was a complicated bond, constricted by circumstances and abraded by a number of disagreements over the years.

Now Lord Bancroft, too, treated her as an equal. He and Charlotte shared no long-standing friendship, but they were also free of any burdens of the past.

It was . . . most certainly interesting.

She smiled at him. “I wish you luck in your endeavor, my lord. Now if you will kindly arrange for a carriage to take me to the train station—I promised Mrs. Watson I’d be home by tea.”





Nine





“There you are,” cried Mrs. Watson, bolting up from her chair, when Miss Holmes stepped into the afternoon parlor. “Where have you been?”

She hadn’t meant to ask that question—certainly not in that tone. Miss Holmes was a grown woman and she was neither Mrs. Watson’s child nor her employee.

But her abrupt departure this morning from the park, her terse note that said only Headed out. Will be back for tea, and the fact that she, a woman who was never late for cake and sandwiches, was a whopping three quarters of an hour late to said tea—

“I was five minutes away from running to the nearest telephone, to let Lord Ingram know that you are missing.”

Miss Holmes could have been hit by a carriage or robbed of her cab money. But the possibility that had truly frightened Mrs. Watson was that she might have been taken by her own family, stuffed into a railcar, and shunted to the country, never to be heard from again.

Such abductions had happened when Mrs. Watson was young. They still happened. And what could anyone do, when it was the family who acted as judge, jury, and jailer?

Miss Holmes stood very still, her skirts wrinkled, her ringlets droopy from humidity. She looked at Mrs. Watson unblinkingly, and Mrs. Watson found that she couldn’t read the younger woman’s face at all.

Uncertainty gnawed at Mrs. Watson. Had she been too shrill? Had she given offense? Had she overstepped the bounds of friendship?

“I’m sorry, ma’am,” said Miss Holmes softly. “I didn’t mean to be so late.”

Relief washed over Mrs. Watson, relief and a measure of mortification that she hadn’t put a stronger leash on her anxiety. “No, I should apologize. Do please excuse me for acting like the old worrywart that I am.”