Miss Hartford glanced at Miss Holmes. And then she stared, as if unable to believe such a severe command could issue from someone who looked as if she’d freshly stepped off a Valentine card, all wide eyes and blond ringlets.
“What right you got to tell me to stop? There ain’t other babies left at Westminster Abbey. There—”
“For a woman who works as a cook’s assistant in a pub, you certainly arrived in a very nice carriage, which is waiting for you around the corner, with a well-dressed gentleman sitting inside.”
Miss Hartford took a step toward Miss Holmes. “You’re lying. You’ll do anything to claim Mrs. Jebediah as your own mum, won’t you?”
“I certainly wouldn’t. I happen to know exactly where my mother is and she would be very cross with me—not that she isn’t already—if I dared to find myself a new mother.”
“Then what are you doing here?”
“I came to return Mrs. Jebediah’s reticule, which she left behind when we took tea together.”
“Oh,” said Miss Hartford, at a loss for further words.
“I believe you intend to show yourself out, Miss Hartford,” said Miss Holmes, her voice cool.
Miss Hartford lifted her chin. “I sure ain’t staying for more insults.”
She flounced out with great vigor. Mrs. Not-Jebediah stared in the direction of her departure, still not sure what had taken place.
“I apologize for shooing off your caller, Mrs. Watson,” said Miss Holmes softly. “It is Mrs. Watson, is it not? Mrs. John Watson?”
Mrs. Watson realized she was on her feet—and slowly sat down again. “How did you find out, Miss Holmes?”
“I enjoy fashion. I recognized that your hats are from Madame Claudette’s on Regent Street. Chances are, not that many clients ask to have little black crape details appended to their millinery. So I went to the shop, knocked on the living quarters, and told the women inside that I’d met you on the train, that you’d left your reticule behind with no address to be found inside, and that the only way to return it was to identify you via your hat. They were very glad to help.”
“Thank you for taking the trouble.” Mrs. Watson sounded tremulous to herself. As if she were the woman in dire straits who’d been helped, rather than the other way around.
“I should be the one to thank you, for taking the trouble.”
“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.”
Miss Holmes smiled. She had dimples. Of course she did—the Good Lord went to ridiculous lengths to make sure that one of the finest minds in existence was housed in a body least likely to be suspected of it.
“I can accept that a kindhearted woman would want to feed a stranger a good meal,” said Miss Holmes. “But when she also leaves her reticule behind, a reticule that contains far too much money for a trip across town, in far too usable a combination of coins and notes, I begin to ask questions. I begin to wonder whether it is merely my luck—or your design.”
The butler returned with the tea service.
“Thank you, Mr. Mears,” said Mrs. Watson.
Mears left silently.
Mrs. Watson poured for her guest, her fingers tight around the handle of the teapot. “Both milk and sugar, if I recall correctly, Miss Holmes.”
“Yes, please.”
Mrs. Watson couldn’t remember the last time she saw anyone’s face light up at the sight of a cup of tea. Miss Holmes half closed her eyes as she took that first sip.
“Some macaroons, perhaps?” asked Mrs. Watson, gesturing toward the plates of comestibles that had been brought in with the tea. She had appeared before audiences of thousands—and yet now she was nervous before an audience of one. “And if you like cake, the madeira is very good. But if I do say so, my cook makes the best plum cake I’ve ever tasted.”
“I don’t believe I’ve ever turned down plum cake in my life—and I certainly won’t start now,” answered Miss Holmes, helping herself to a slice. “Oh, you are right. This is scrumptious. Absolutely scrumptious.”
Mrs. Watson smiled with some effort. “I’m glad you agree.”
She took a macaroon, so that she, too, would have something to do while Miss Holmes polished off her slice of cake. When Miss Holmes finished, she sighed. Mrs. Watson half hoped she would take another slice—the girl certainly had the appetite for it. But Miss Holmes set down her plate and folded her hands neatly in her lap.
“Thank you. You are so very, very kind,” she said, gazing fully upon Mrs. Watson.
Her eyes were clear and remarkably guileless. Mrs. Watson, blood pounding in her ears, braced herself for what was coming.
“You know who I am, don’t you, Mrs. Watson?” asked Miss Holmes. “You know my story.”
Charlotte watched as Mrs. Watson stirred her tea.