A Conspiracy in Belgravia (Lady Sherlock #2)

“Oh,” said Mrs. Watson. “So the poor doctor has never had a chance.”

Mrs. Burns chortled again. “Now if he were a duke, maybe I’d have considered. I know duchesses go around and take lovers. But a doctor is going to expect me to be all prim and proper. Mind you, I am. There’s never been anyone for me except Gabrielle, but old Dr. Swanson would have an apoplectic attack if I told him I’d rather sleep with her than him.”

“Or he might ask to join you. You never know.”

Mrs. Burns gaped at Mrs. Watson before breaking into giggles. They laughed together for a minute, then started on a basket of potatoes.



“Hmm, the plot thickens—or does it thin?” asked Penelope. Her aunt was taking a nap and Miss Holmes had given a concise account of what Aunt Jo had learned at the soup kitchen—never a dull moment in the Sherlock Holmes business. “If Mrs. Burns isn’t the least bit interested in Dr. Swanson, then was Mrs. Morris deluding herself after all?”

“She hasn’t complained about her health since she first came to me,” said Miss Holmes. “On each of the subsequent occasions we met, she appeared to be in robust shape and glad for it.”

“So what do you plan to do?”

“I’ll call on Mrs. Morris again and ask a few more questions.”

Penelope shook her head, relieved it wasn’t her problem. They spoke a bit about the de Blois ladies, who had already sent two postcards from their travels. Then Penelope decided she’d put in enough small talk.

“Do you really carry suspicions concerning Lord Ingram, Miss Holmes?”

Miss Holmes’s face was Madonna-like in its serenity. “Not particularly.”

“But yesterday you told Aunt Jo that you thought it was possible that the man asking around after Mr. Finch could be him.”

“It could still be someone he sent.”

“Surely you don’t think he did away with Mr. Finch?”

“I don’t. But how can I be certain that he hadn’t tried to learn everything he could?”

Penelope tried to imagine Lord Ingram skulking about, secretly gathering information on Lady Ingram’s former swain. She couldn’t—but like Miss Holmes, neither could she completely dismiss that possibility. He might not love Lady Ingram anymore, but she was still his wife and the mother of his children. Who, except the person in those shoes, could be certain of what he had or hadn’t done?

“My father considers himself a clever man,” Miss Holmes went on, “and he believes my mother to be of mediocre intelligence. So he signaled his affairs to her in some subtle way. But as far as I can tell, she always knew well before he bothered to send those signals.

“A household can hide many secrets. But Lord Ingram is observant. Perhaps Lady Ingram has been able to conceal everything from him before this summer. But given her frenzy of activity in the wake of Mr. Finch’s disappearance, it’s not outlandish to suppose he has some idea that all is not well.”

“But that man we are talking about—the one you think Lord Ingram could have sent—he visited Mr. Finch’s village a month ago. And Mr. Finch’s disappearance was more recent than that.”

“Lady Ingram is not to be entirely trusted on her version of events. She said she knew nothing about where to find Mr. Finch. But her visit to my father’s solicitor showed that she knew more than she told us. If she lied about one aspect of the case, she could very well have lied about other aspects, too.”

Penelope sighed. “I wish I could be sure Lord Ingram wasn’t involved.”

“And he may not be—not actively in any case. But no matter what, if his wife is involved, then he, too, cannot escape entanglement.”

Telltale signs of disappointment must have crossed Penelope’s face, for Miss Holmes said, very charitably, “Miss Redmayne, I have a medical question. Do you think you might be able to help me?”



It had been years since Lord Ingram had last stepped into his wife’s bedroom in their town house. There had been changes—the new clock on the mantel, two small seascapes he didn’t remember being there earlier. But overall, the room felt so familiar, he almost expected to meet her gaze in the vanity mirror as she brushed her beautiful hair, a delighted smile on her face.

No, the delighted smiles were from earlier in their marriage. The last time he had stepped into this room, she had smiled, but the smile had been perfunctory, almost forced.

He had wished to make love to her, hoping that physical closeness could bridge the distance that stretched between them, a distance that he could not close, no matter what he did. But in the end, he left after saying good night and little else, so unwelcome had he felt in her private space.

The next week his godfather had passed away unexpectedly. And he had told her that he had inherited only a five-hundred-pound annuity, rather than the fortune that was in his godfather’s will. And she had flown into a rage. She had married him because of the expectation he would be a very wealthy man, she’d shouted, and now she had married him for nothing. Now her children had Jewish blood for nothing.

At first he was encouraged by her anger—anger was solid, anger was real, anger was something he could investigate and find out more about. Anything was better than the polite remoteness that made him despair.

What she’d actually said took minutes, hours, days to sink in.

To become real.

They’d never spoken again, except by necessity.

Why, then, was he here, in her room?

His action was the answer he was reluctant to put into words. Half ashamed yet inexplicably compelled, he searched the room with a thoroughness that should be reserved only for those suspected of selling the crown’s secrets.

When her room yielded nothing, he searched his study, which he knew she sometimes used when he wasn’t home. When that turned up no clues—alas that typewriter ribbons did not retain a legible record of the text last prepared on them—he looked carefully at his collection of books. The maids did dust the books regularly, but it was not part of their daily routine, and it should be possible to tell whether any given volume had been recently taken off the shelves.

The first book that showed unmistakable sign of having been used lately—the dust on top had been flicked off—was a volume on matrimonial law.

He had no particular interest in law. The set of treatises had been a present—and he could recall neither the occasion nor the gift-giver. The pages were entirely uncut, except the section concerning the dissolution of marriages.

Was that what she was up to? Had she been discreetly inquiring into a divorce?





Nineteen





MONDAY

“Miss Holmes, Mrs. Hudson, what a lovely surprise.” Dr. Swanson rose and warmly shook hands with Charlotte and Mrs. Watson. “Clarissa won’t be back yet for at least another half hour—she’s at the park, taking her morning constitutional. I hope that in the meantime, my company will serve.”

Miss Holmes smiled. “It will serve perfectly well.”

“Shall I ring for some coffee? Mrs. Burns is at home today and we can all enjoy some of her wonderful coffee.”