There was nothing amiss with the letter Charlotte had forged, which had been typed on proper stationery: The letterheads had been ordered from a good stationer’s, and the signature was masterful, if she did say so herself.
Unfortunately, she had hesitated at the expense of acquiring new clothes that would have completed the illusion. The clothes wouldn’t be costly in absolute terms—they were meant to make her look like a young woman who must contribute to her own support. But compared to how little money remained to her, every price was dauntingly exorbitant.
So she’d come to the interview in her own clothes—a jacket, a blouse, and a skirt—which, while not extravagant, were still of a level of quality and workmanship far exceeding what a typist ought to be able to afford.
Were she observing herself, she’d draw the obvious conclusion that there was something incongruous about her, that she might not be the humble position seeker she claimed to be. Why should Miss Oswald, whose business depended on accurately judging the trustworthiness of the applicants, come to a different verdict?
“And what is the reason you moved to London?”
“My parents are no more and my aunt asked me to come live with her.”
“Where does she live, your aunt?”
“Lambeth, ma’am.”
After losing her pound note to the girl beggar, a rundown boarding home in Lambeth was the best Charlotte could do. The district was grey, industrial, and in constant danger of flooding, but safe enough during daylight hours—and an acceptable place for a typist’s aunt to live.
Except Charlotte wasn’t dressed like a typist at all. This was what she would have worn for a day at the Reading Room of the British Library—and no one there had ever treated her as anything but a lady.
Miss Oswald pursed her lips. “Your typing speed, Miss Morrison?”
“Forty-five words a minute. I’m also familiar with Pitman’s system of phonemic orthography.” An honest answer. In her former life, she had many, many hours to fill—learning shorthand was as good a way to pass time as any. “If there are employers willing to have a female secretary, I’m sure I can handle the demands.”
“Indeed,” said Miss Oswald coolly. “I shall be astounded if you aren’t equal to the task, Miss Morrison. But first I must get in touch with Broadbent, Lucas and Sons.”
Charlotte sucked in a breath. The reason she’d gone to the trouble to counterfeit a law firm’s stationery was so that its authenticity wouldn’t be questioned.
“We’ve had word of a lady journalist masquerading as an applicant,” Miss Oswald continued, “trying to dig up dirt on those of us in the business of matching qualified women with reputable employers. I’m not saying that you are she—of course not—but you will understand why I have no wish to unwittingly assist in such muckraking.”
“Naturally not.”
“It will take me ten days or so to complete the check and to review my openings. You may return Friday of next week to see whether I have found anything appropriate to your background and skills.”
If Miss Oswald had heard about such a lady journalist from others in the business, then no doubt she would pass along that she had encountered the very woman, one who dressed too well for an applicant and bore with her a letter of character from Broadbent, Lucas and Sons.
Her stomach clenched, Charlotte rose, said her thank-you, and left.
Inspector Treadles, back at his desk at Scotland Yard, scanned the papers for their coverage of the Sackville case. Speculation was rampant, as much regarding the mysterious Sherlock Holmes as concerning the identity and motives of those dastardly individuals who might have done away with Mr. Sackville, Lady Amelia Drummond, and Lady Shrewsbury.
Theories on the deaths were wildly inventive—everything from dangerous secret societies to the testing of a new, untraceable chemical. About Sherlock Holmes, opinions were sharply divided. Some insisted that he was no relation to Miss Olivia Holmes, the young woman who had quarreled with Lady Shrewsbury the night before the latter died—Holmes was hardly a rare surname. Others pointed out that one was far more likely to find this man by searching more obscure branches of the family tree than among the general public: Didn’t it make more sense for a kinsman, however remote, to come to the aid of the beleaguered Olivia Holmes?
“Your post, sir,” came Sergeant MacDonald’s voice. “Something from Inspector Waller for you.”
Before Inspector Treadles left Devonshire, he had sent a cable to Inspector Waller of the West Riding Constabulary, calling in a favor. “Excellent!” he exclaimed, accepting the letter from MacDonald. “Any further response from Lord Sheridan’s secretary?”
“Not yet.” MacDonald pulled out his watch. “But the next post is only fifty-five minutes away.”
He sauntered off. Treadles looked fondly at his retreating form, remembering himself as a bright-eyed young sergeant, eager to learn the tricks of the trade.
With a wistful shake of the head, he returned his attention to Inspector Waller’s missive.