A Conspiracy in Belgravia (Lady Sherlock #2)

“We won’t mind at all.”

They passed time in small talk until a maid delivered the coffee. Dr. Swanson poured ceremoniously and his callers were generous with their praise for the beverage’s aroma and flavor.

Miss Holmes enjoyed hers with an abundance of sugar and cream. Then she set down her cup, and said, “You must forgive us, Dr. Swanson—and your daughter, too—for not having been perfectly honest with you at our previous meeting. You see, Mrs. Morris did not meet us at the ladies’ knitting circle. Instead, we made her acquaintance when she arrived on our doorstep not long ago to consult Sherlock Holmes, my brother, because she was secretly distraught, fearing that she was being poisoned in her own home.”

Dr. Swanson blinked at the name Sherlock Holmes. He recoiled at the word poisoned. “That poor child—I had no idea she was beset to that extent. But it’s only London. Our very air is noxious. Most are inured to it, but from time to time some become unbearably sensitized to pernicious particulates that are breathed in.”

“That isn’t what Mrs. Morris believes. She believes that Mrs. Burns intends to get rid of her so she may better pursue you.”

Dr. Swanson gaped at her. “But that’s ridiculous. Mrs. Burns isn’t that kind of woman at all. My goodness, that view is so utterly divorced from reality I haven’t the slightest idea how to address it.”

Miss Holmes leaned forward. “The only way you can address it is to tell Mrs. Morris the truth.”

Dr. Swanson stared at her. “I’m—I’m afraid—”

“You’re afraid you know exactly what I’m talking about, Doctor. Your daughter believes that your housekeeper put something in the biscuits to make her ill. But it wasn’t the biscuits, it was the coffee she drank, which you had tampered with.”

“I didn’t put any poison in the coffee.”

“No, you wouldn’t do that to her. But you wanted her to be unwell enough to leave London. As things stood, Mrs. Morris’s hostility might cause Mrs. Burns to hand in her resignation, and you desperately did not want that to happen.”

Dr. Swanson swallowed.

“Your daughter has proclaimed to us a profound distaste for tropical fruits. Sometimes people dislike something because they cannot abide the taste. Other times, it’s because they react severely to even the minutest quantity.

“My brother considered it a possibility that she is allergic to some variety of tropical fruit. But she avoids them assiduously—avoids even dried fruits that aren’t tropical in origin. How then, would it be possible to introduce such an allergen into her diet?

“He was puzzled until I recalled to him that in the stillroom, which you are familiar with because you used to make your own coffee, there is twine made of coir, which comes from coconuts. It shouldn’t be too difficult for you to cut—or grind up—a small quantity so that it resembles ground coffee. The stillroom isn’t very bright and in any case Mrs. Morris should have no reason to suspect anything amiss with coffee she’d ground herself only hours ago.”

Dr. Swanson gripped the arms of his chair. “Are you—are you going to tell Clarissa?”

“Should we not?”

“Please, please don’t. It would devastate her. I swear to you my purpose was not to hurt her. It was as you said, I’d hoped she would leave London.”

“You saw how she suffered, yet you still did it a second time.” Mrs. Watson could hold herself back no longer. “What kind of father are you?”

“You must understand, after my wife died, I began to think of myself as a man near the end of his life. An old man. I lost interest in things. I stopped reading the papers. I had to force myself to reply to letters when I’d always been a prompt correspondent before.

“And then my old housekeeper retired and Mrs. Burns came. And . . . and suddenly I felt like a young man again. Whereas before I could only see the end, now I saw a future. She is beautiful and cultured. We could attend theater and lectures together. We could travel all over the world.

“I sold my practice so I would have more time to woo her, but she is so proper and inscrutable. Finally I thought she was warming up to me. Then Clarissa came to visit—and never left. And I began to feel quite frantic. She is a gem, Mrs. Burns. What if the tradesmen who come to the house, what if one of them wins her hand instead? And then—and then I remembered Clarissa’s allergy . . .”

It was an old man who looked beseechingly at Miss Holmes and Mrs. Watson.

Mrs. Watson set her jaw. “Dr. Swanson, there are two things you need to know. One, you were never going to succeed with Mrs. Burns. She has someone and is fully intent on spending the rest of her life with that someone, as soon as they both leave service.

“Two, your daughter is not going back to her husband. Sherlock Holmes had his suspicions. Miss Holmes and I, on his instruction, visited Devonport yesterday. We learned that Captain Morris had brought another woman into his household. Mrs. Morris obviously chose not to accept such an arrangement.”

“That—that bounder!”

“She has not been very fortunate in the men in her life,” said Mrs. Watson acidly.

Dr. Swanson grimaced but did not dispute her claim. “I’ll look after her. Please don’t tell her.”

“We won’t. You are right that it would devastate her—and I’m not sure at the moment how much more devastation she can take. But we will need a signed statement from you, which will be kept in a locked box in the Bank of England. And we plan to call on her regularly to make sure she is all right.”

Dr. Swanson swallowed but did as they demanded. It was only as they rose to leave that he asked, “So what will you tell her?”

“You may tell her we called and told you of the results of our investigation, which is that this particular batch of coffee beans had been stored with some coconuts. You confirmed for us that she is severely allergic to coconuts, and voilà, mystery solved.”



“I still think we should have told Mrs. Morris the truth,” said Miss Holmes, as they walked out of Dr. Swanson’s house.

Maybe she was right. But Mrs. Watson simply couldn’t bear to do that to the poor woman. She had nowhere else to go. The truth would only make her miserable for all her days, that the father she had counted on to shelter her from the husband who betrayed her had, in the end, also betrayed her.

“I’ll use the service entrance here,” said Mrs. Watson.

Miss Holmes nodded, not belaboring her point. “And I’d better head for the Times to keep my appointment at the archive.”

After she left, Mrs. Watson sighed and tried to recall the occasions when they were able to help clients without breaking anyone’s heart, including her own. She’d been afraid at times, but this sorrow felt worse than any fear.