A Conspiracy in Belgravia (Lady Sherlock #2)

“I don’t know why I should have been so surprised that Lady Ingram didn’t tell us everything,” said Mrs. Watson, at last giving voice to the cloudburst of thoughts that had flooded her head since she’d learned of Lady Ingram’s visit to Mr. Gillespie. “Looking back, it’s beyond obvious that she would have held back everything she didn’t need to tell us. She was on an illicit mission, after all.

“And it makes sense that she would first go to a solicitor, rather than a consulting detective. It would be only after she had run out of options that a visit with Sherlock Holmes becomes thinkable. But this, of course, means that the address from Mr. Gillespie will lead nowhere.”

She tightened her hat ribbons with rather unnecessary force. “Anyway, please don’t listen to me blathering on about things you already know, Miss Holmes.”

They were back in Oxfordshire. The most recent address Mr. Gillespie had for Mr. Finch had brought them to a picturesque village. Mrs. Watson, a longtime denizen of London, loved the sight of green, open country and the quintessentially English beauty of a hamlet centered around a modest stone church. She had lived in precisely such a place as an adolescent and had found it difficult to overcome the prejudice of the villagers against outsiders, especially outsiders who entertained thoughts of leaving. But it was not in her nature to think ill of all small country settlements simply because one had proved unpleasant. She much preferred imagining that most such places were as lovely in their residents as they were in their scenery, that the peace and quiet of village life coexisted with a spirit of curiosity and magnanimity.

At the village pub she ordered a plate of sausage and mash—steak and kidney pudding for Miss Holmes. The plain but substantial dishes were washed down with the pub’s own ale, a light, refreshing brew. When the publican’s wife came to inquire whether they wanted anything more, a spirited discussion broke out on whether they ought to have summer trifle because summer was ending or the jam roly-poly in hot custard since neither of them had enjoyed one in a while.

They settled on one serving of each and when the publican’s wife returned, Mrs. Watson was ready.

“If you have a minute, Mrs. Glossop, may I ask you a question about a young man who might have lived on these premises for some time?”

Mrs. Glossop’s eyes widened. “Are you interested in Mr. Myron Finch, by any chance?”

This time, Mrs. Watson was not surprised. After all, what good would Mr. Finch’s address have been to Lady Ingram, if she hadn’t made use of it?

“Yes, we are. We are making inquiries on behalf of a client of Mr. Sherlock Holmes’s, who is trying to locate Mr. Finch.”

The name Sherlock Holmes didn’t have any effect on Mrs. Glossop, but she did consider the two women at the table with something between curiosity and alarm. “You ladies are private investigators?”

“My brother is a consulting detective,” said Miss Holmes. “Mrs. Hudson and I assist him in his endeavors. At the moment his health isn’t what it used to be. Ventures that require traveling therefore fall to us.”

“How brave you must be.”

“We try not to take on clients who would require too much traveling,” said Mrs. Watson modestly. “But in any case, not long ago, a lady came to us worried that Mr. Finch wasn’t where he ought to be. Since we haven’t managed to locate him in London, we thought we’d try and see whether anyone from back home might have news of him.”

Mrs. Glossop shook her head. “I’d like to help, but I don’t know anything. And if anybody ought to know anything, that’d be me, wouldn’t it? After that man what came a month ago, asking about Mr. Finch, I got curious. So I asked Mr. Glossop. His uncle was publican here before him—and married Widow Finch twenty years ago.

“She had no roots here—just her and the boy in an old cottage on Sweetbriar Lane for ten years before she married old Mr. Glossop. Folks here don’t have much to say about her—she kept to herself even after she became the publican’s wife. And they know even less about her son. He was sent off to school early. They said he played cricket at school but never played it with the village boys when he came home on holidays. He just looked after old Mr. Glossop’s horses and read books.

“The last time anyone here saw him was more than a dozen years ago, at his mother and old Mr. Glossop’s funeral—they died within forty-eight hours of each other. A bad winter for pneumonia, that was. Mr. Glossop and I didn’t know old Mr. Glossop all that well—we didn’t even know he’d died. Quite shocked we were, when we got a letter from his lawyer telling us he’d left us the pub. Mr. Glossop felt bad that young Mr. Finch didn’t even get a share in the pub. He wrote Mr. Finch and said that he could come and stay with us anytime.”

“Where did he write Mr. Finch?” asked Miss Holmes.

“Oh, at his school. He was at a boys’ school near Oxford. And Mr. Finch wrote back all polite like and said thank you very much but he didn’t expect to return anytime soon. Mr. Glossop wrote again after a year or two had passed, and again Mr. Finch wrote back saying the exact same thing. And that’s the last we heard of him.”

Miss Holmes had another question. “The second time you wrote, he was still in school?”

“We wrote to the school’s address, but it might have been forwarded. The address he wrote back from was a different one, in Oxford proper. When the man asked about Mr. Finch, I gave him that address. The next time Mr. Glossop and I went into Oxford, we went around, since so many people have been asking about him—”

“Wait.” Mrs. Watson interrupted her. “There were still more people asking about him?”

“Oh, I didn’t get to that part yet? Right, so after the man came, I started asking the villagers about Mr. Finch. They didn’t know anything. The one person I didn’t think to ask was my husband—I thought he didn’t know any more than I did. It was only later that it came up by chance—and that’s when he told me about the two men who came last April to ask about Mr. Finch. I was in bed with a cold that day and he served all the customers. Was a busy few days, too, so he forgot about it completely, until I brought up this other man.”

“Would Mr. Glossop be able to tell me if this is one of the two men who came in April?” asked Miss Holmes, holding out a small photograph.

“I can ask him.”

Mrs. Glossop returned two minutes later, looking excited. “Mr. Glossop can’t be altogether sure but he thinks so.”

Mrs. Watson held out her hand for the return of the photograph. It was the one of the young Marbletons that Miss Holmes had found in Mrs. Woods’s place, with Frances Marbleton facing the camera.

“Any other parties looking for Mr. Finch? Any ladies?”

“No, nobody else that we know of. And no ladies besides yourselves.”

“The man who came a month ago by himself, can you describe his appearance?”

“He was in his forties, I’d say. Medium height. Thin. Patted the top of his head with a handkerchief at one point—he was half bald. Can’t remember much of his face—one of those faces, you know.”