A Conspiracy in Belgravia (Lady Sherlock #2)

“And where was he found?”

“We’re not privy to that—it was a great deal of trouble just to obtain this photograph. But we thought it would be easier for you to see the picture here rather than having to go to Scotland Yard.” Penelope paused for a moment. “Surely you have contemplated the possibility.”

Lady Ingram looked away. “Of course I have. And after what you said last time about his recent carefree ways, I have wished again and again that he were dead instead. Now—now I think I have cursed him.”

Penelope, caught in the undertow of Lady Ingram’s despair, felt her own eyes sting with tears. “I’m sorry to cause you such distress, ma’am. Please remember that it may not be Mr. Finch in the picture. We only wish to eliminate that possibility.”

Lady Ingram’s lips quirked, but without humor. “So my choices are that he is dead or that he is having the time of his life without me.”

“I’m sorry.”

“No need to apologize. I knew that in the end you couldn’t possibly discover anything good. But I held out hope that perhaps there was a one in a thousand chance that . . .”

Her hands balled into fists. She grabbed the envelope and yanked out the photograph. The expression on her face was indescribable, halfway between revulsion and utter euphoria. “This—this isn’t Mr. Finch!”

Penelope gulped down air. “It isn’t? Thank goodness!”

Lady Ingram tossed aside both envelope and photograph. Her breaths came in like bellows, her eyes tightly shut. “I never thought I’d see the day when I’d prefer that he forgot about me. But here we are.”

Penelope retrieved the picture from where it had fallen, shuddered at the dead man’s grotesque expression, and shoved it back into the envelope.

To her surprise Lady Ingram took the envelope from her. She pulled out the photograph, flipping it around as it had come out facedown, and stared. After a few seconds she panted again. “I’m sorry. For a moment I was assailed by doubt. What if I hadn’t looked carefully enough? What if in my desire for him to be alive I’d made a mistake?”

She gave the envelope back to Penelope. “But no, that truly isn’t Mr. Finch.”

Penelope wondered if the ordeal hadn’t been too much for her. After all, she was a sheltered woman who, despite her heartaches, had never dealt with the rougher elements of life. She didn’t know what to say, so she stirred her tea and let Lady Ingram be.

After a few minutes, Lady Ingram rose and winced at the pain the motion must have caused her bad back. “I should go, or my absence will be noticed.”

“Of course.”

She sighed, a heavy sound. “Last time I was here, you admonished me. I think I finally see your point, Miss Holmes: There is nothing I could possibly gain from the continuation of my inquiry.

“I’m glad Mr. Finch isn’t dead. And I hope he is as well as you have described. I’ll keep our appointment next year at the Albert Memorial—and every year thereafter. Maybe I’ll see him again someday. Maybe I won’t. But I shan’t trouble you again.”



“So he’s alive then, Mr. Finch,” said Mrs. Watson, still limp with relief. “Or at least the man murdered in Hounslow wasn’t him.”

Lady Ingram had departed. The ladies of 18 Upper Baker Street had gathered in the parlor for tea and biscuits. Or rather, Miss Holmes partook in tea and biscuits; Mrs. Watson and Penelope each nursed a finger of whisky. The grandfather clock had gonged midnight a while ago, but no one seemed the least bit interested in retiring.

Miss Holmes polished off a madeleine. “I had better send word to Lord Bancroft that facts have laid waste to my brilliant hypothesis.”

She appeared as unmoved as ever, but earlier, when Lady Ingram had declared the man in the photograph a stranger, she had let out an audible breath, which had been quite enough to inform Mrs. Watson that she was beyond relieved to be wrong.

“What should we do about Mr. Finch then?” asked Mrs. Watson. Lady Ingram might have come to her senses, but the only Mr. Finch they were able to locate had turned out to be counterfeit.

“You remember Mr. Gillespie, the solicitor Mr. Mears impersonated?” Miss Holmes poured herself another cup of tea. “I stopped by his office this afternoon on my way back and made an appointment to see him tomorrow. Though I haven’t a ready story yet on what to say to extract maximum information from him without alerting my father of my involvement in the matter.”

“I have an idea,” said Penelope. “I can play the part of Lady Ingram—under a different name, of course. My point is I can use the bones of her story, tell Mr. Gillespie that Mr. Finch is missing, and worm out some information.”

“I like that idea,” said Miss Holmes decisively. She turned to Mrs. Watson. “I didn’t have a chance to ask earlier, ma’am, but did you learn anything from going to the soup kitchen today?”

Mrs. Watson recounted her conversation with Mrs. Burns. “It didn’t appear that she was at all interested in her employer. Of course, one could make the case that she’s canny and careful and wouldn’t spill the beans even to an absolute stranger. But she struck me as truthful, bluntly so.”

Miss Holmes nodded and made no further comment on Mrs. Watson’s observation. They discussed their plans. Mrs. Watson would go back to the soup kitchen on Saturday—Mrs. Burns had indicated that was when she planned to give her time again. Miss Redmayne would beg off accompanying the de Blois ladies on a trip to Bath so she could meet with Mr. Gillespie.

“I will go with Miss Redmayne,” said Miss Holmes. “The presence of a friend will help make Miss Redmayne’s claims seem more convincing.”

“But are you sure it’s wise to meet with a close associate of your father?” Mrs. Watson couldn’t help but imagine all the undesirable consequences should Miss Holmes be recognized.

“Mr. Gillespie and I have never met,” said Miss Holmes. “But even if he does know what I look like, at this point, it’s a risk I’m willing to take.”

They were quiet for a minute, Mrs. Watson busily planning how to use theatrical makeup to change Miss Holmes’s appearance.

Penelope cleared her throat. “I hope, Miss Holmes, it will not shock you to know that I have been apprised of Lord Bancroft’s matrimonial intentions.”

Mrs. Watson cleared her throat, too, embarrassed to have been revealed as a gossip. But, as Penelope said, it could scarcely have shocked Miss Holmes.

Miss Holmes only waited for Penelope to continue.

“You met with Lord Bancroft today—or yesterday now, since we’re past midnight. I’m curious to know, did he press you for an answer?”

“He did, though not in so many words.” Miss Holmes sipped her tea and eyed the rest of the madeleines on the plate with a combination of longing and apology. “I believe Lord Bancroft thinks that I am the perfect woman for him.”