A Conspiracy in Belgravia (Lady Sherlock #2)

She climbed up to her room, closed the door, and sat down heavily before her writing desk. From the beginning she had believed there was something wrong with the state of affairs between Lady Ingram and Mr. Finch. Now, everything felt wrong.

The purely logical part of her wanted to investigate both Lady Ingram and Mr. Finch equally. In practice, she must concentrate on Mr. Finch. He was the unknown entity, the one who kept eluding her, the key to making sense of all the incongruities of the situation.

The evening before, when Miss Redmayne asked what she planned to do, she had said that she wanted to take a look at Mr. Finch’s room. Now she needed to examine Mr. Finch’s room. She needed to understand exactly what was going on.

Perhaps a bit of Lady Ingram’s hysteria was rubbing off on her. Or perhaps it was some of Livia’s wretchedness. An urgency escalated in her that had no rational basis—yet felt all the direr and most ominous.

She found Mrs. Watson in the afternoon parlor, reading the paper. “Ma’am, did you mean to tell me last night that Mr. Lawson was once an expert lock picker?”

Mrs. Watson rose, the paper clutched in her hands. “Surely, Miss Holmes, you don’t mean to—”

“I do,” she said quietly. “Every time we learn anything about Mr. Finch, it only serves to make the situation more incomprehensible. I don’t wish to proceed piecemeal any longer. The time has come to find out the truth.”

Fear darkened Mrs. Watson’s beautiful eyes. Her jaw worked. The paper crinkled under the pressure of her fingers. And then she squared her shoulders and said, “It isn’t what I would have advised or wished for, but I’ve grown more and more uneasy, too—my innards feel like a spring that’s been wound up too tight. If you are sure it can be done safely . . .”

“I can’t make any promise about the risks—I know nothing of such things. All I know is I fear picking Mr. Finch’s lock a great deal less than what I might learn next if I didn’t.”

Mrs. Watson exhaled audibly and tossed aside the crumpled newspaper. “Then let’s not waste any more time.”



Mrs. Watson took it upon herself to speak with Mr. Lawson, Charlotte in tow. The groom and coachman had a healthy fear of going back to prison again. But when Mrs. Watson mentioned the amount of the reward she was offering, in exchange for the risks he would take, his eyes widened and his decision was made. He asked for exactly the types of locks they were to encounter, then asked for the rest of the day to prepare. “Haven’t done anything illegal in years—not even betting, mind you, mum.”

Charlotte spent the remainder of her afternoon acquiring an outfit, in a shade of dark blue-grey, that allowed her to move freely—no fashionable narrowing of the skirts at the knees.

At dusk, the rain stopped, but a peasouper rolled in, turning London into a sea of vapors. Charlotte took this as an auspicious sign: A peasouper would keep both pedestrians and carriages off the streets and send people to bed early.

She and Mr. Lawson left Mrs. Watson’s shortly after midnight, driven by Mr. Mears, who would also serve as their lookout, even though one was scarcely needed under the current atmospheric conditions. At Mrs. Woods’s, Charlotte guided Mr. Lawson to the service door, which he opened after a quarter of an hour.

The basement was dark and quiet, the service stairs equally so. Charlotte felt completely unafraid—she had not lied when she told Mrs. Watson that she didn’t fear picking Mr. Finch’s lock. Certainly it was a great deal more criminal, but in essence the act was no different from stealing into her father’s study when he was away.

Once inside Mr. Finch’s room, she would discover everything she needed to know.

She led the way up to the first floor. The darkness smelled of linseed oil and beeswax, reassuringly domestic. The carpet in the passage muffled their footsteps. An almost imperceptible glow emanated from the high window at the far end of the passage, light from the streetlamps that had somehow managed to penetrate the fog.

By Mr. Finch’s name plaque they stood and listened, Mr. Lawson with his ear against the door. When he was satisfied, Charlotte let some light out from the pocket lantern she was holding. Mr. Lawson unrolled his pouch of tools and got to work.

One floor up someone was tapping slowly on a typewriter. From time to time the house creaked, shrinking in the coolness of the night. And twice there came the unmistakable whistle of a distant train.

But it was quiet enough that the tiny flame inside the pocket lantern seemed to whoosh and crackle like a bonfire. Mr. Lawson’s breaths, through a slightly blocked nose, brought to mind the wolf huffing and puffing at the third little pig’s house. And his lock-picking implements, which had sounded so soft and gentle in the beginning, now made Charlotte think of her walking stick clashing against Mrs. Watson’s.

Mr. Lawson stood up, almost colliding with Charlotte. In the dim light cast by the pocket lantern, his face was tense.

What’s the matter? she mouthed.

He put his ear to the door. She did likewise, her fingertips tingling, her heart beating fast.

Silence, deep, wide silence. Clack, clack, clack—but that was only the typewriter, still being used. Wait. Was that a footstep? There it was again, closer.

A succession of quick clicks—the unmistakable sound of a revolver cocking.

She and Mr. Lawson looked at each other—and ran.





Fourteen





THURSDAY

“This is unacceptable. Completely unacceptable,” said Charlotte, with an extra sniff for emphasis.

She was back at Mrs. Woods’s, this time in the parlor, in a gold-and-scarlet visiting gown that Livia, whose sensibility was better suited to classical Greece, had variously deemed “dire,” “ghastly,” and “absolutely tasteless.” Charlotte hadn’t thought much of what else the gown could accomplish—her eyes were simply drawn to things that Livia considered “absolutely tasteless.” But as it turned out, such an ensemble was perfect for intimidating the Mrs. Woodses of the world, its ostentation translating into stature and authority.

The landlady, who no doubt had hoped not to see “Mrs. Cumberland” again for a millennium or so, was all but wringing her hands. “I beg your pardon, ma’am, but exactly what is unacceptable?”

“Any number of things, Mrs. Woods, any number. Of course you are not solely to blame for them—my brother is a grown man, after all. But I am deeply disappointed nonetheless. I had expected better of this establishment.”

“Ma’am, please, if you will only let me—”

“Oh, yes, I will let you know. I visited my brother’s firm day before yesterday. He submitted his resignation two months ago—they have no idea where he is. Now this is not your doing. But I also visited the other two references you furnished. The landlady in Oxfordshire has never heard of him. And the solicitor retired six months ago. Did you not check either of those references?”