A Conspiracy in Belgravia (Lady Sherlock #2)

Miss Holmes tapped her index finger twice against her chin. “I’ve seen all I need to of the domestic offices. Will you invite us for tea—or coffee—when Mrs. Burns is here? My brother would wish me to observe her at work.”

“I almost certainly can, but it won’t happen immediately. Father and I are going on a short holiday,” said Mrs. Morris, perking up. “You see, he still thinks I’m reacting to London and that I’d feel better in a less polluted place. So we’re off to the seaside tomorrow.”

“I’m sure you’ll find it very enjoyable.”

“Yes, just like old times. But, in the meanwhile, I would be delighted if you ladies would stay for tea today. I have some lovely biscuits from Fortnum and Mason.”

“We will if we can also make a contribution,” said Miss Holmes. “I happened to acquire some biscuits from Harrod’s just now and I would dearly love to see how they compare to the biscuits from Fortnum and Mason.”

Mrs. Morris was taken aback—it wasn’t every day a guest asked to serve her own biscuits. But she said, “Certainly. Why not?”



Dr. Swanson’s drawing room seemed to have been recently redecorated—it was strikingly simple in its ethos. All the patterns were stylized flora and fauna, the furnishings were almost rustic in their appearance, and there was such a remarkable lack of clutter that Mrs. Watson, who enjoyed a bit of old-fashioned clutter—a home ought to give the impression of having been lived in—felt the place was too empty.

“A very modern room,” observed Miss Holmes, opening a tin of lemon biscuits and holding it out in Mrs. Morris’s direction.

“So they say.” Mrs. Morris’s lips slanted. She took a biscuit from Miss Holmes’s tin. “I prefer how it was before. I can understand not displaying every knickknack my mother ever acquired, but I can’t help feeling a little injured on her behalf that they were put into storage wholesale. And it’s all Mrs. Burns’s influence, I daresay.”

“Oh?” asked Miss Holmes with her usual neutrality.

“My father thinks Mrs. Burns has good taste. Oh, but this is a good biscuit. Where was I? Right, I’ve never heard him say that about any other woman. I tell you she has her claws deep in him, Miss Holmes.”

As if they’d conjured her father, the front door of the house opened. A minute later, a man poked his head into the drawing room. “There you are, Clarissa. I hope I am not interrupting.”

Dr. Swanson, then. He was a tall man, erect of carriage, with a fast gait and a full head of salt-and-pepper hair. Mrs. Watson had no idea why she expected a doddering old man. Mrs. Morris had told them he was sixty-three, which was only ten years older than her current age—and she had by no means expected herself to arrive at full senility in a mere decade. She could only conclude that even for those who are no longer so young, old age remained an alien land, its residents regarded with both pity and suspicion.

Mrs. Morris introduced her guests as new friends from the charitable knitting society. Mrs. Watson laughed inwardly. Having made theatrical costumes for herself and others, she sewed very well, but couldn’t knit to save her life. And Miss Holmes, hmm, she would have to ask Miss Holmes at a later time whether the latter was acquainted with any feminine arts.

Dr. Swanson offered them his hand to shake—he had a strong, but not overpowering, grip. “I would have made coffee had I known Clarissa was expecting guests.”

“Ah, a pity. I enjoy coffee very much,” said Miss Holmes.

“Our housekeeper also makes excellent coffee, but unfortunately you came on her day to help at the soup kitchen.”

Miss Holmes sighed dramatically. “I can only wish my housekeeper had mastered the art of coffee making. Alas, she makes a bitter brew.”

“We have been very fortunate in Mrs. Burns. I can’t complain about her predecessor, a very conscientious woman. But her coffee had nothing to recommend it.”

Mrs. Morris, having probably heard enough talk of Mrs. Burns, placed her hand on her father’s sleeve. “I was just telling these ladies about our imminent holiday.”

The rest of tea was spent in agreeable chatter about the trip. As Miss Holmes and Mrs. Watson rose to take their leave, Mrs. Morris said, “Oh, your biscuits, Miss Holmes. You mustn’t forget them.”

“Keep them,” said Miss Holmes. “I think you’ll enjoy them more than I do.”



The rest of Charlotte and Mrs. Watson’s day was spent checking Mr. Finch’s other two references, both in Oxfordshire. Neither, in the end, proved remotely trustworthy.

The address he gave for his prior residence was indeed a lodging house for single gentlemen, but the landlady had no recollection of having ever hosted a Mr. Myron Finch, let alone written him a letter of character.

The other, a solicitor, had retired six months ago and embarked on a grand tour of Europe and the Levant. He was not expected back for another year and a half, at least.

They returned to Mrs. Watson’s house hungry and stiff from their travels—or at least Charlotte was hungry and Mrs. Watson muttering about her aging back. Mrs. Watson received a massage from Miss Redmayne; Charlotte sequestered herself with a sandwich made with Madame Gascoigne’s secret-recipe paté.

They reemerged to meet in the drawing room, both commenting on how much better they felt.

“I can only hope that someday I will prove to be as useful as that paté sandwich.” Miss Redmayne laughed. “Truly, what heroic service it has rendered.”

“You are young and ambitious, Miss Redmayne,” said Charlotte. “I have already learned that I will never be as valuable as a paté sandwich.”

“In that case I must have a new objective. Aha, I have decided that my goal is never to be as troublesome as Mr. Finch.”

“Under normal circumstances, I might chastise my niece for being too blunt. But I’m afraid I agree with her tonight. I am very glad, Miss Holmes, that when you were in need of assistance, you didn’t go to your brother.”

For Mrs. Watson, this was strongly worded condemnation.

Charlotte remembered that sensation she had from the very beginning, of something being not quite right about this case. If only she knew exactly what it was. “I won’t defend Mr. Finch,” she said, sorting through the letters that had arrived while they were out, wondering when, if ever, she’d hear from Livia again. “But he is still my brother—and this is a highly irregular situation.”

“What do you plan to do?” asked Miss Redmayne.

“I’d like to take a look inside his rooms. That could give me a better idea of what he’s up to. Would either of you ladies know someone conversant in lock picking?”

“Funny you should ask,” said Mrs. Watson. “When you first met my staff, you warned me that Mr. Lawson had spent some time in a penitentiary. Care to guess what he did?”

Charlotte barely heard her. A note from Livia!

“If you’ll excuse me for a minute,” she said, slicing the envelope open. “My sister might have some information about Lady Ingram to pass on.”

But at this moment she didn’t give a farthing about Lady Ingram. Livia had written, at last.

Dear Charlotte,