She did remember locking the door of her room before she lifted up a wide band of lace ruffle on her skirt to check the opening of the pocket. It had two buttons, both securely fastened when she’d left the house. Now one button was open, leaving more than enough room for small, nimble fingers to reach inside and extract the pound note.
Which accounted for nearly forty percent of her remaining funds.
All at once she became aware that someone was banging on her door. “Miss Holmes. Miss Holmes!”
She opened the door to Mrs. Wallace’s resident sycophant. “Yes, Miss Turner?”
“Miss Holmes, are you suffering from deafness? I spoke to you downstairs—you didn’t even react. And I’ve been knocking for at least two minutes now.”
“Is everything all right?”
“Mrs. Wallace would like a word with you in her parlor at the earliest possible moment,” said Miss Turner with a smug mysteriousness.
Why would Mrs. Wallace wish to speak with Charlotte? She was paid up until the end of next week and she had come nowhere near the house rules, let alone broken any. “Certainly. I’ll be right down.”
At the far end of the corridor was a simple galley, open for two hours every afternoon, where Mrs. Wallace’s boarders, who weren’t allowed to do more than boil water in their rooms, might fry some sausages or heat up tinned beans to have with their tea. Today someone had scrambled eggs and the rich aroma made Charlotte’s stomach tremble in longing. She had skipped both lunch and tea—an unprecedented event in her life.
Her brain was dull from hunger. When she looked at Miss Turner, she saw few of the details that usually leaped out at her, except to note that the woman, a good fifteen years older than Charlotte, was practically skipping down the stairs.
A gong went off in her head. When a woman who adored authority and revolved as close to power as she could became this excited, it was probably because authority and power were about to be put to use—to someone else’s detriment.
To Charlotte’s detriment.
Mrs. Wallace had a small apartment on the ground floor, consisting of a parlor, a bedroom, and most likely a private bath. This apartment was accessed via a corridor that led out from the common room. A door barred the way a few feet into the corridor. On the wall next to the door was a bell and next to the bell a sign that read, PRAY DO NOT RING AFTER 8 O’CLOCK IN THE EVENING, EXCEPT IN CASE OF EMERGENCY.
The door had been left ajar. Miss Turner ushered Charlotte past to another door, which led to Mrs. Wallace’s parlor.
Charlotte had stepped into the parlor once before, for her initial interview with Mrs. Wallace. She had been very ladylike and Mrs. Wallace had declared herself pleased to offer the vacancy to Miss Holmes.
But this Mrs. Wallace did not look at all pleased with Miss Holmes. Her expression was forbidding, which seemed to only further excite Miss Turner.
“I’ve brought Miss Holmes, ma’am,” she announced breathlessly.
“Thank you, Miss Turner,” said Mrs. Wallace. And then, after a moment, when Miss Turner showed no inclination to depart, “I will see you at supper.”
“Of course, ma’am.”
When she was gone Mrs. Wallace commanded, “Have a seat, Miss Holmes.”
Charlotte sat down—then stood up again. She walked to the door and yanked it open. Miss Turner stumbled into the parlor, unembarrassed. “Do excuse me. I wanted to ask Mrs. Wallace a question about her policy for the washings. I’ll come at a more convenient time.”
Charlotte accompanied her as far as the barricading door in the middle of the corridor, which she locked before coming back into the parlor and closing the door firmly behind herself.
She did not bother to take a seat again. “Is something the matter, Mrs. Wallace?”
Mrs. Wallace considered her a minute. “Miss Holmes, you have deceived me.”
Charlotte took a deep breath. “Have I?”
“Miss Whitbread’s cousin, Miss Moore, called on her this morning—and saw you leave as she came in. Miss Moore works at a Regent Street dressmaker’s and told me that she had seen you more than once at Madame Mireille’s.
“Unfortunately she also told me that you are not Caroline Holmes of Tunbridge, a typist newly arrived in London, but Charlotte Holmes, daughter of Sir Henry Holmes, who was recently caught in a compromising position with a married man. Do you deny that?”
How ironic. Mrs. Wallace’s establishment in the West End had not been Charlotte’s first choice. There was a more highly recommended place in Kensington and Charlotte had passed on it because she hadn’t wanted to run into anyone she knew. West End, a relatively safe, well-maintained district, with a large population of doctors and other professionals, but with Society having decamped decades ago to more fashionable addresses further west, promised greater anonymity.
It would appear that she had chosen badly in everything.
“Well, Miss Holmes?”