Chapter Twenty-Six
Lord Ingram still wondered how his brother had turned into someone who ordered the killing of others with little compunction.
Many of his most beloved childhood treasures had been presents from Bancroft. The windup toy soldiers that marched in formation, the marble chess set with figurines in correct medieval garb, the expansive train set that, over time, had grown to the size of an entire room.
The terrible thing about being in Bancroft’s orbit was that he wasn’t always or even consistently evil. When it was convenient to him, he was perfectly capable of giving time, attention, and gifts, making one feel valued—loved, sometimes.
But individuals who stood in his way, or who could be sacrificed to achieve a greater goal, found themselves eliminated without a second thought—including those who had once been the recipients of his time, attention, and gifts.
Mrs. Watson, always sensitive to the moods of others, glanced at Lord Ingram several times while Holmes chronicled the events that led to Mimi Duffin’s death. Holmes did not mention Moriarty by name, but spared very little else, including Bancroft’s betrayal of his official duty.
Lord Ingram wished he could stop feeling this scalding shame on his brother’s behalf. Perhaps his robust sense of shame was what separated him from Bancroft. But in the meanwhile, it was excruciating to be anywhere near Mrs. Farr, who’d had to bear the human cost of Bancroft’s schemes.
Holmes had relayed the vow of vengeance on Mimi Duffin’s tombstone. Yet instead of blazing with fury at the end of Holmes’s concise account, Mrs. Farr seemed to shrink further into despair.
“So…” she said, her voice so low it could barely be heard, “my Miriam died to provide a corpse. Yet in the end, her body wasn’t even used in the intended manner but was thrown away as rubbish because someone substituted a better body?”
“Unfortunately, yes.”
She turned, very slowly, toward Mrs. Claiborne. “And your Mr. Underwood participated in this butchery?”
Her words were not spoken with menace, only a great weariness, yet Mrs. Claiborne blenched.
“He would never have done anything like that!” she cried. And then she looked to Holmes, as if Holmes were Solomon himself, able to settle any disputes. “Would he?”
The anguish in her voice—did anyone truly dare to confront the possibility that a beloved someone could be a monster?
Holmes, her calm unwavering, asked, “What manner of man would you say he was, Mrs. Claiborne?”
Mrs. Claiborne was taken aback by the question. “I don’t know how much my opinion will count, since I desperately do not want him to have had anything to do with Miss Duffin’s death…But since you asked, Mr. Underwood is—was an excellent man.”
After this initial appraisal, her voice grew a little steadier. “He was loyal and took his responsibilities seriously. But he was also kind—and not only to me. He was kind insofar as kindness was possible. I would have a remarkably difficult time believing him of senseless killing—and if you do manage to convince me, I shall be completely devastated.”
Holmes turned to Mrs. Farr. “Your foster children gave good reports on Mr. Underwood, I believe?”
To Lord Ingram’s surprise, after a moment of silence Mrs. Farr nodded.
“Did Mr. Underwood ever tell you anything about Giovanni Esposito, the first boxer he took on?”
This question was for Mrs. Claiborne, who leaped to it. “Yes, he accidentally ran over Johnny’s father when he was chasing down suspected foreign agents for Lord Bancroft. He couldn’t stop in the heat of the chase but went back as soon as possible and then did everything in his power to make sure that the man’s family was taken care of.
“He always felt guilty about it, even though it was the senior Mr. Esposito who had stumbled drunkenly into the street. Mrs. Esposito even told him that her husband would have left them if he hadn’t died, and still Mr. Underwood never forgave himself.”
On the divan, Jessie gave a slight jerk. She turned still again, but it would not be long now before the effects of the chloroform wore off.
In the parlor, Holmes had more questions. “It might appear that Mr. Underwood took on Miss Ferguson and Mr. Waters because he wanted to give Johnny companions who were even more despised by the general public?”
Something that was almost amusement curved Mrs. Claiborne’s lips. “I wouldn’t put it quite that way. He wanted Johnny to have friends—the boy worked constantly and had few solaces in life. But he didn’t want random lads who’d mock Johnny for being poor, foreign, and Catholic. He liked how Mumble and Jessie looked out for each other and how well they managed their lives. He thought Johnny would feel safe and happy with them, and he was right.” She turned to Mrs. Farr. “Mr. Underwood told me that Johnny is never happier than when he is with your foster children.”
Mrs. Farr’s right hand closed into a fist.
Holmes rose and came to Lord Ingram. He thought she had some information to impart, but she only stood beside him and addressed the parlor. “I used to think Mr. Underwood heavily involved in Miss Mimi Duffin’s death, but now I’m less certain.”
Mrs. Claiborne, who had at last picked up the glass of water Holmes had poured for her, clutched it with both hands and stared at Holmes.
“Here’s what I think might have happened. Lord Bancroft told Mr. Underwood that he was looking for a dark-haired young woman with a beauty mark at the corner of her lips—and who had allowed risqué images of herself to be captured for public consumption. In hindsight, we can pinpoint Lord Bancroft’s purposes—the physical resemblance to make this woman a better duplicate for Lady Ingram, the profession so that when she went missing, her family, having likely already disowned her, would not mount a search. But Mr. Underwood did not have such foreknowledge to guide him.
“Mr. Constable, the accountant who dispensed funds to the boxers for Mr. Underwood, had instruction from Mr. Underwood that his transactions could be inspected by anyone who wished to do so.
“Mumble and Jessie took advantage of that, and so did I. But given that the stipulation was handed down long before Mr. Underwood took on Mumble and Jessie, he did not have them in mind—or me for that matter. Who did he think would want to see those accounts then?”
“Lord Bancroft,” murmured Mrs. Claiborne.
“Indeed,” agreed Holmes. “It’s possible that while they continued to work well together, the trust between them, or at least that Mr. Underwood felt for Lord Bancroft, had corroded somewhat: He believed Lord Bancroft might check on his personal pursuits, and he did not want to be seen as hiding anything.
“By the same token, Lord Bancroft might have grown increasingly suspicious of Mr. Underwood for the exact reason others came to love and depend on him: his scruples. As Lord Bancroft’s ventures sailed further and further from the shores of acceptability, a lieutenant who was fundamentally decent and principled became less and less of an asset.
“Most likely, then, Lord Bancroft concealed what he truly intended with that dark-haired woman with a beauty mark—and declared his reasons private.
“Mr. Underwood, having looked into Mumble’s and Jessie’s backgrounds, happened to know that Mrs. Farr’s sister suited Lord Bancroft’s needs. Mrs. Claiborne, did he ever ask you, explicitly, whether Lord Bancroft had any unusual proclivities?”
Mrs. Claiborne set down her water glass with an audible thunk. “My goodness, he did, somewhere in the middle of last year. He rarely asked about my years with Lord Bancroft—or about Lord Bancroft himself—and then, out of the blue, a question like that.
“He told me that Lord Bancroft was looking for a woman of certain attributes. He didn’t say what those attributes were—the word postcard never crossed his lips—only that he wanted to make sure that if he did find such a woman for Lord Bancroft, it wouldn’t lead to anything intolerable for her.
“Once I was assured that he wasn’t faultfinding me, I told him that Lord Bancroft was a rather inconsiderate lover, but not a cruel or bizarre one.” With a hesitant glance in Mrs. Farr’s direction, Mrs. Claiborne added, “Miss Holmes, you think Mr. Underwood asked the question for Miss Mimi Duffin’s sake?”
“I do,” concurred Holmes. “If Mr. Underwood was assured that Lord Bancroft would not mistreat a lover, and if he had no reason to believe that Lord Bancroft wanted a postcard girl for anything other than personal titillation, then he likely informed Lord Bancroft of Miss Mimi Duffin’s existence.
“When he learned of the horrifying truth, it was too late. Soon after that, he had to go on the run himself. If not, today he might very well be trying to make it up to you, Mrs. Farr, the way he was trying to make it up to Johnny and his family.”
Mrs. Farr stared at nothing in particular.
“Miss Ferguson and Mr. Waters are waking up,” said Lord Ingram.
Mrs. Farr shot up and had to steady herself on an armrest before she charged into the boudoir. Mrs. Watson had half a mind to follow her. But as Mrs. Farr probably preferred some privacy, Mrs. Watson remained in the corner chair where she had been seated since she walked Mrs. Farr back into the parlor.
Miss Charlotte left Lord Ingram’s side and retook her own seat. While Mrs. Farr whispered to her foster children, Miss Charlotte addressed Mrs. Claiborne: “Madame, I believe you already know who killed Mr. Underwood?”
The Frenchwoman shuddered.
“When did Mr. Underwood begin to change his mind about Lord Bancroft?” continued Miss Charlotte.
Mrs. Claiborne gripped the engagement ring on her left hand, her lover’s token of devotion and commitment. “That happened before Mr. Underwood became my protector, I think, but I didn’t perceive it right away. My first inkling came when he said that at least on the night he ran over the senior Mr. Esposito, he’d been doing something genuinely important, but he wasn’t so sure about his assignments since then.
“At the time I thought he meant that he’d received mundane, tedious tasks. Until he started to talk about Lord Bancroft. I already mentioned that Lord Bancroft rarely came up as a topic of conversation between us, as he was awkwardly both my former paramour and Mr. Underwood’s then still-current superior.
“Yet Mr. Underwood abruptly began to share his recollections of Lord Bancroft—and he did so compulsively. Lord Bancroft plucking him out of obscurity to become his right-hand man. Lord Bancroft enabling him to leave service altogether. Without Lord Bancroft, he would not have achieved a similar level of financial security. Without Lord Bancroft, he would never have met me.
“After a while I realized that these paeans of praise were not expressions of faith and gratitude but manifestations of fear: His faith and gratitude were fading and must be bolstered with recitations of old favors.”
Mrs. Claiborne rubbed her thumb over the old-mine-cut sapphire on her ring. “I let go of most of my staff when I accepted him as a protector, so I had some light housework every day. He used to dust and polish alongside me and frankly did everything better, thanks to his training in the Duke of Wycliffe’s household when he was young.
“I loved those moments—I’d never had a protector who was also something of a partner. When the work was done, we would sit down at the piano and I would teach him how to play.
“Around the time he began to forcibly recall all the ways in which Lord Bancroft had been a positive influence in his life, he started doing heavier and heavier work around the house, tasks I usually left for the charwoman who still came in a few times a week. He would haul coal, shine grates, scrub and polish floors, even in the attic. It was as if he was trying to exhaust himself—or to remain occupied with something, anything.
“And instead of playing music, sometimes he would simply sit on the piano bench and stare at the keys. One day he smashed his fist into the keys and made such a ruckus that I very nearly dropped the book I was pretending to read. After that, he never spoke again of the Lord Bancroft of yesteryear, the one to whom he owed eternal allegiance.
“Not long after that, Lord Bancroft lost his favor with the crown. Before he went into hiding himself, Mr. Underwood sat me down and told me that Lord Bancroft had sold state secrets. But even then he couldn’t bring himself to say anything about Mimi Duffin. It’s only now, knowing everything I do, that I can look back and see that he’d smashed the piano and stopped talking about Lord Bancroft right around the time Miss Duffin went missing.”
“Why didn’t the two of you leave the country after Lord Bancroft was arrested?” asked Mrs. Watson.
It was the most useless question and certain to be painful, but for once Mrs. Watson couldn’t help herself. These two lovers’ failure to escape to a new life saddened and frightened her in equal measure. It made the world seem too cruel, too indifferent.
Mrs. Claiborne gazed down at the engagement ring on her hand that would now never nestle against a wedding ring. “If Lord Bancroft hadn’t been caught soon after Miss Duffin’s murder, if he’d killed her and blithely went on to sell more state secrets and perhaps arrange for other innocent people’s deaths in cold blood, I believe Mr. Underwood would have found a way to take me and leave.
“But Lord Bancroft had been brought low. He was born a lordship, he’d risen high on his own merit in service to the crown, and now, all of a sudden, he was a prisoner. Mr. Underwood was loyal to a fault; he could not find it in himself to abandon Lord Bancroft right when he had been toppled off his pedestal.
“Another reason it wasn’t so easy for him to flee to the other side of the world was that Lord Bancroft had entrusted him with two keys. He’d never been told what the keys were for or where the locks they would open were located, only that he should guard the keys with his life. Mr. Underwood could not pass the keys to anyone else. But had he absconded with them, he would have ensured retribution from Lord Bancroft.”
Mrs. Watson’s heart thrashed—did the keys lead to Lord Bancroft’s ill-begotten gains? Miss Charlotte listened with the guileless expression of someone who had never schemed to rob Lord Bancroft of his unlawful proceeds.
Mrs. Claiborne sighed. “Around April of this year, Mr. Underwood was told to hand over one of the keys to a stranger at a pub just shy of East London. This worried him greatly. He believed the keys opened safe-deposit boxes and the contents of those boxes must be highly valuable. That Lord Bancroft was willing to give up half of his greatest treasures meant that he was planning something. Or rather, that something had already been planned and would soon be carried out.
“Also, he worried because he considered his—and my—safety linked to his possession of the keys. With one key left, he felt we were only half as safe.
“Six—no, seven weeks ago he received further instruction: I was to move out of the villa. I didn’t object to that. Though the house was in my name, I hadn’t bought it, and I’d only ever considered myself Lord Bancroft’s tenant, subject to eviction at any moment.” So much for the scar-faced man Mrs. Watson had been on the lookout for. Lies, all lies.
“But the strange thing was that this woman, Mrs. Kirby, came. She said she was sent by Lord Bancroft and asked me all sorts of intimate questions about myself and Mr. Underwood. When Mr. Underwood learned of this, he told me that he’d been cautioned to stay out of sight—not that he wasn’t already—but to stay out of sight in such a manner that no one could find him. I believe it had been strongly suggested that he ought to vacate London for the time being.
“So there I was, staying in a flat near Victoria Street, with no idea what was going on. One day Mr. Underwood came and said I had to leave immediately. He had a hackney waiting. We got in and he confided that he was in trouble. He’d found out that Lord Bancroft’s recent shenanigans were meant to entrap someone. He wanted to warn that someone but believed that his efforts had been discovered. And now Lord Bancroft had asked for the other key.
“Once Lord Bancroft had the other key, Mr. Underwood would become disposable. But if he didn’t give it, he was afraid that Lord Bancroft would use me to threaten him. So he had to get me to safety. And safety, as I later learned, meant Mrs. Farr’s house.”
She flicked the corners of her eyes with her fingertips. “Mrs. Farr did keep me safe. But Mr. Underwood…there was no one left to save him.”