“What did you hear from her accents?” Charlotte asked Mrs. Watson, as their vehicle veered around a large town coach.
“English. Or at least she grew up English. But she has spent time on the Continent. America, too—at least ten years there,” answered Mrs. Watson. “What do you know about her?”
“She was born into generous circumstances. But there was a reversal of fortune in her youth, of such severity that she didn’t fade into genteel obscurity, but plunged down to outright penury. She had to work at menial positions.”
Asking Mrs. Marbleton for help with writing down the a’s and b’s would make her think she was at least doing something for her husband. But just as importantly, it allowed Charlotte to observe her hands, which had been well cared for. But the repeated burns a young woman unaccustomed to work suffered in a kitchen did not fade away so readily, not even with the help of the best emollients.
“Obviously at some point her fortunes improved markedly. I can’t be sure whether it happened before or after she left England, but my guess would be after. And this is—or should have been—a triumphant return for her, until her husband’s disappearance.”
Mrs. Watson glanced outside before she looked back at Charlotte. “Will you be all right if it turns out we won’t be able to help her?”
Will you be all right? Charlotte wanted to ask. But it seemed far too intrusive a question.
“I should manage,” she said.
The package at Brown’s Hotel contained a key, along with a note that stated a room number.
Mrs. Marbleton gripped the key, seemingly paralyzed. Mrs. Watson was similarly immobile, peering at her anxiously. Charlotte mustered a big smile for the clerk. “We were told there would be a prize waiting here, but we haven’t the least idea who has prepared it for us. Would you happen to have a record of the person who left this package?”
The pimply young man reddened. “Ah, yes. Yes, of course. If you’ll give me a moment, miss.”
He brought out a book of registry. “This was left behind by a Mr. York.”
Charlotte glanced at Mrs. Marbleton. The name didn’t appear to signify anything for her. “Is Mr. York still here?”
“He left for Paris two days ago.”
“Was his luggage sent ahead to Southampton, then? Which liner did he take?”
“I believe porters came for his luggage. And I’m almost sure he left on a steamer of the French line.”
Mrs. Marbleton recoiled at this answer. Charlotte smiled again at the clerk. “It’s possible we might need to retrieve some heavy items. Won’t you be so kind as to send a pair of your stoutest porters?”
She didn’t anticipate an ambush but it didn’t hurt to be careful.
“Of course, Miss. I will have the porters wait outside the room. It might be a minute or two before they arrive.”
Charlotte guided a stricken-looking Mrs. Marbleton and a pale Mrs. Watson to a chaise. After a few minutes, she shepherded them to their destination. The porters were in the passage when they arrived, standing with their backs to the walls and tugging respectfully on their caps.
Charlotte turned the key and opened the door slowly. The sitting room was empty. But Mrs. Marbleton gasped, rushed toward the mantel, and clutched a fountain pen that had been left behind.
They searched the rest of the suite, but no more of Mr. Marbleton’s belongings were found. Charlotte tipped and dismissed the porters, then took out her magnifying glass and examined the entire suite square inch by square inch.
“I gave this pen to Mr. Marbleton as an engagement present. He wrote all his letters with it,” said Mrs. Marbleton to no one in particular.
The rooms had been cleaned thoroughly, probably by the maids in the morning. When Charlotte had satisfied herself that she would not learn of anything else—other than the fact that no one had slept in the suite overnight—she whispered to Mrs. Watson to keep an eye on their client, while she went down to the lobby and spoke with a different clerk.
“The gentleman who stayed in this suite last night”—she showed him the note with the number on it. “I might have found something that belongs to him. Do you know if he has already left?”
“Let me check for you, miss,” said the clerk, an older man with a portly figure. He pored over the columns of the registry. “Let’s see. You are in luck, miss. Mr. Marbleton will be with us for another several days.”
Seventeen
“How perfectly diabolical,” murmured Mrs. Marbleton, when Charlotte told her that the suite in which they stood was registered to a Mr. Marbleton.
“You don’t seem terribly surprised by this particular twist of events,” said Charlotte.