A Conspiracy in Belgravia (Lady Sherlock #2)

Had that been her first and last look at Mr. Finch?

“Precisely,” she said. “If Mr. Finch’s former sweetheart hadn’t come around begging for help because she was convinced something terrible had happened to him, no one would have known anything about his disappearance and the police would simply have one more unidentified corpse on their hands.”

“That isn’t entirely true in this case. The victim has been identified as a Mr. Richard Hayward by a friend.”

This was news to Charlotte. “Let me guess. Mr. Hayward was new to London, or at least new to this friend. The friend knows nothing of his origins. And the police haven’t been able to find out anything either.”

“That . . . does happen to be the case.”

“Then it doesn’t matter by what name the victim has been identified.”

“Let’s put aside for a moment the name of the dead man. What I do not understand is why Stephen Marbleton introduced himself to Miss Livia. To contact her was to court your attention. The moment you saw him, his guise would be penetrated—which was more or less what happened. Do you mean to tell me that the Marbletons had no idea of the connection between Livia Holmes and Sherlock Holmes?”

Good. He didn’t dismiss her theory out of hand. Instead, he challenged it on reasonable grounds and left it up to her to justify her assertions.

It was a sad comment on the state of humanity that his willingness to take her seriously counted as a very large point in his favor, when really it should be considered a bare minimum in civil discourse.

“In Mrs. Marbleton’s letter to me near the end of the Sackville case, she specifically wished me success in my endeavors as Sherlock Holmes—given the resourcefulness of that clan, it would be careless to assume that they didn’t know I am none other than the disgraced Charlotte Holmes, daughter of Sir Henry Holmes. As for why Mr. Marbleton approached Livia, I can only suppose it must have been a matter of necessity.

“Mr. Finch had been removed for a reason. Mr. Marbleton is impersonating him for a reason. It’s possible Mr. Marbleton believed that Mr. Finch’s relations knew something—something crucial.”

“But you yourself told me just now that no one in your family ever had any personal interactions with Mr. Finch,” Lord Bancroft pointed out. “Your father, only via his solicitors. Your sisters, resistant to the idea of becoming acquainted with their illegitimate brother. What could they possibly know about a man they had never met?”

“Sometimes one knows things without understanding what one knows. I, without having ever met Mr. Finch, could be said to have known of his demise for days—I have even examined his body. But until more information came to light, I didn’t know what I knew. Perhaps Mr. Marbleton sought a single missing piece, which he was convinced a member of my family might unwittingly possess.”

Lord Bancroft’s brows drew together—he really wasn’t an unhandsome man. “I’m not sure I’m fully convinced of your theory, Miss Holmes, but I’m willing to look into this business with Mr. Finch.”

Yet another point in his favor: Not only was he willing to listen, but he was willing to act—even if it would be only a simple command issued to a subordinate. “The real Mr. Finch, or the imposter?”

“Both.”

But she was not finished yet with her theories. She was curious to see what he thought of the next one. “After the conclusion of the Sackville affair, I went to Somerset House and looked up marriage records for Sophia Lonsdale. When I found out that she was married to someone named Moriarty, I asked Lord Ingram whether he knew of the name. He went to you, and you warned him to steer clear of the man.”

“I did.”

“Officially, Sophia Lonsdale died many years ago. From what I’d been able to gather, it had been reported as a skiing accident. Upon learning that Moriarty was not a man to be trifled with, I assumed that she had begun to find life with him intolerable and had therefore staged her own death in order to escape. But now I’m not so certain.

“What if, instead of a one-sided scheme, it was a jointly planned, jointly executed ruse? Perhaps they realized that she was a potential weakness for him—that his enemies could harm him by targeting her. But if those enemies believed her dead, then that was one significant vulnerability neutralized.”

Lord Bancroft leaned forward an inch. “Are you implying that Moriarty is involved in this affair?”

“More than implying, I should hope,” said Charlotte. “I am stating it outright. That Vigenère cipher always struck me as excessive. And the Braille on the dead man’s garments—ridiculously complicated. Then I remembered the ciphers Mrs. Marbleton presented when she first called on me. They were much simpler, of course, but still had a similarly Baroque feel.

“It may be that for those in orbit around Moriarty, communicating in code is deemed as necessary and indispensable as wearing hats for going out. I posit that the Vigenère code I deciphered wasn’t a transmission of vital information so much as a test, to see whether the recipient could find his way to the house in Hounslow. It’s my further contention that the dead man, in the Braille he left behind, wasn’t trying to signal a detective from the Metropolitan Police but a fellow member of the organization, someone more accustomed to looking for such clues everywhere, especially in unexpected places.”

“You think the dead man, Mr. Finch by your contention, was one of them?”

“Yes.”

“It would imply that there had been a schism in the organization, that the death was fratricidal.”

“Yes.”

Lord Bancroft’s expression turned speculative. “I’d like for you to be correct. Any division on their part is good news for me.”

“But perhaps not for long. After they stamp out dissension, they could become more efficient and more ruthless.”

“Or it could embroil the entire organization in upheaval and reprisals.” He looked at her. “I’m an opportunist, Miss Holmes. I must be prepared for any and all opportunities.”

Such as a time when a woman who had previously turned him down found herself no longer in a position to do so? “Naturally,” she replied.

“And opportunist that I am, I must seize the occasion to invite you to remain for luncheon.”

Charlotte consulted her watch. It was almost time for luncheon, yet another point in his favor for not neglecting his—or her—stomach. “Thank you. I’ll be glad to join you.”

She must still eat, even on the day she found out that she had most likely met her brother as a dead man.



Luncheon was the afterthought among meals. Breakfast was a necessity, dinner had its swagger, tea everyone was fond of, but luncheon usually limped by with a few leftover cuts from the night before, a bit of bread and cheese thrown in.