A Conspiracy in Belgravia (Lady Sherlock #2)

Miss Holmes nodded. “If you wouldn’t mind going back a bit, Mrs. Glossop. You were saying something about the last time you and Mr. Glossop were in Oxford together?”

“Right. We decided to look up the address that Mr. Finch had given us. The place isn’t there anymore. I mean, the building still stands, but it’s no longer a boarding home. A dressmaker took over the premise. The ground floor is the shop; she and the seamstresses live upstairs.”

Mrs. Glossop brightened. “Mr. Glossop bought me a nice tippet while we were there, seeing how business has been good lately.”



After leaving the pub, Mrs. Watson and Miss Holmes visited the village church and cemetery. The church registry verified the date of the late Widow Finch’s wedding to old Mr. Glossop. The cemetery corroborated the time frame of the couple’s deaths. And the vicar, a kindly if rather frail-looking man who had been at this particular living for sixteen years, substantiated Mrs. Glossop’s claim that no one had known much about Myron Finch with his own rather profound ignorance on the subject.

“Does it occur to you, Miss Holmes, that there might be something cold in Mr. Finch’s character?” asked Mrs. Watson. “I understand that illegitimacy can act as a barrier to friendship, but an entire upbringing in this village and no rapport worth mentioning with anyone?”

She had hardly been fond of the village in which she had spent time after she was orphaned. But after she had fled into the wider world, she had maintained a correspondence with a young woman who had been kind to her, until the latter’s death in childbirth.

“But I suppose it’s possible for him to love one person ardently and to ignore, at the same time, the people among whom he’d grown up,” she said, answering her own question.

On their way to Oxford, they stopped by Lady Ingram’s ancestral home. The small estate looked trim and spruce—Lord Ingram’s fortune at work.

No one at the nearby village had heard of Myron Finch. And no one knew of any romantic entanglements concerning their old Miss Greville. They did, however, confirm that there had been rumors that when the Grevilles went on a grand tour to southern France and Italy, they had in fact stayed at a rather dilapidated house in Oxford itself.

“That’s probably where they met,” theorized Mrs. Watson.

Miss Holmes did not venture an opinion of her own.

Mrs. Watson was both rather happy and a little sad about it. When Miss Holmes had first become her houseguest, she had made more of an effort to speak. But now, understanding that silence was her natural habit, Mrs. Watson was relieved that she felt comfortable enough to remain silent unless otherwise compelled. But that did not take away from the fact that Miss Holmes, when she did speak, made for fascinating, if sometimes discomfiting, company.

They toured the address given by Mrs. Glossop and confirmed that it had once been a lodging house for young professional men in the city. As they were several hours past lunch, Mrs. Watson expected Miss Holmes to cast her eyes about for an attractive tea shop. Instead, the latter asked, “Have you ever visited Oxford University, ma’am?”

“I don’t believe I have.”

“May I tempt you with a quick tour? I’ve never been either.”

Of course, Miss Holmes had wished to be educated. She would have been interested in the women’s colleges at the country’s best universities. “Yes, absolutely.”

They spent a pleasant afternoon walking about the green swards of the various colleges, admiring their great fa?ades and punting on the gentle waters of River Cherwell.

It was only on the train back to London that the thought came to Mrs. Watson. “Who do you think that man might be, the one who asked about Mr. Finch a month ago? Do you think Lady Ingram hired someone else before she came to us?”

“I have no idea who the man is.” Miss Holmes paused for a moment. “But I’m glad he didn’t seem to be Lord Ingram.”

Mrs. Watson stared at her. “You think Lord Ingram—you think he could possibly be involved in all this?”

“At the moment, the only thing I know for certain is how little we know. Lady Ingram isn’t telling the whole truth. Why should we be so confident that Lord Ingram isn’t aware of everything that is going on—or has no hand in it whatsoever?” Miss Holmes exhaled slowly. “But, as I said, I’m glad that man did not seem to be him.”



Inspector Treadles received the pathologist’s official report shortly before he left Scotland Yard for the day: There was no water in the dead man’s lungs—he had died from strangulation.

He tapped his fingers against the report. There was nothing unexpected in there. And frankly, had “de Lacy” died from drowning, it would be all the same.

If he chose to write the report that he’d spent half the day composing in his head.

Richard Hayward, a young man of perceived means, had been living in London under an assumed name. He had come by his fortune via illicit means. When those illicit means caught up with him, he died at the hands of a professional killer known as de Lacy. De Lacy, upon attracting police attention, feared that he, too, would face reprisals from the same criminal elements who wanted Hayward dead. Under the influence of intoxicants, de Lacy confessed his life’s story to Mr. Lucas Boyd of Lambeth, whose testimony is hereby appended.

The truly elite criminal elements had less to do with Scotland Yard than Her Majesty the Queen. If he submitted this particular version of events, his superiors would be more than satisfied. Well done, Treadles. That’s as far as anyone can take a case like that. File it and take a look at this new one that just came in.

Except he knew that this version of events was, if not an outright lie, then at least a mirage. Someone had gone through a great deal of trouble to make sure that a dunce of Young Boyd’s caliber, a half-blind one, too, would tell this tale to the police. Not to mention, this same someone had to kill a man—or at least find a body—and make sure it ended up in the right place for Young Boyd to recognize the distinctive summer scarf.

Yet knowing it for the deception it was, Treadles still couldn’t be sure that he wouldn’t submit such a report.

He walked into his fine house and closed the door behind himself. The sound echoed in the empty place. His wife would be meeting with a women’s group—she’d taken up with them about six months ago. He used to miss her when she was gone. This evening, however, he was glad she wasn’t there.

That she wouldn’t see him like this, struggling with—and possibly losing to—this desire to appear supremely competent and efficient before his superiors.