Chapter Thirteen #2
Alas, it was difficult to make sense of the faint indentations on the paper. She went outside, where the light was stronger. Still she could only be sure of two words, the Lord.
Charlotte wasted no time before queuing up to the window where the woman had sent her cable.
When it was her turn, she said, with some anxiety, “I do apologize, sir, but my aunt thinks she might have made a mistake in the cable she sent just now. She sent it to the Illustrated London News, but she actually meant to send it to the Times instead.”
“If you are speaking of the woman who sent the cable for a shilling and two pennies, you may rest easy, miss. She did send it to the Times.”
“Oh, wonderful. My goodness, you wouldn’t believe how panic-stricken she was—she was too embarrassed to come and check herself.”
“That isn’t a problem at all, miss.”
“Just to be sure, we are speaking of the one with the biblical verse, yes?”
“Yes, miss.”
“Thank you. You’ve been so helpful.”
She turned around, only to see someone else she recognized: Mott, the Holmes groom who had been instrumental in getting Livia and Charlotte’s letters to each other. And she was right about his nearsightedness: He wore a pair of wire-rimmed glasses.
This was her day for unexpectedly running into people she didn’t mind coming across. Mott appeared equally astonished at the sight of her but did not need her to gesture a second time to meet her at the telegram form stand, putting away his specs as he did so.
“Do you have anything from my sister for me?”
“No, Miss Holmes. I’m just here to see whether there’s anything for her from you.”
“There is, but I haven’t put it in the post yet.” She pulled the letter from her handbag and gave it to him. “She can use the stamp.”
“I’ll give it to her.”
“How is she?”
“She is . . . carrying on,” said Mott, rather diplomatically.
“And Miss Bernadine?”
“She I don’t see. And I don’t hear much about her. I can ask for you, next time I’m in the servants’ hall.”
“Will you do that? Thank you.”
She gave him some money for his trouble, walked out of the post office, and returned to the tea shop.
She saw Mott again, leaving a few minutes later, hunched under his mackintosh. But she did not see Lady Ingram, not then, and not for the remainder of the hours she spent at the tea shop, staring out.
Charlotte arrived at Mrs. Watson’s house shortly after one o’clock in the afternoon—and for the first time in her life believed that she not only didn’t need lunch, but could also do without tea.
She climbed up to her room, closed the door, and sat down heavily before her writing desk. From the beginning she had believed there was something wrong with the state of affairs between Lady Ingram and Mr. Finch. Now, everything felt wrong.
The purely logical part of her wanted to investigate both Lady Ingram and Mr. Finch equally. In practice, she must concentrate on Mr. Finch. He was the unknown entity, the one who kept eluding her, the key to making sense of all the incongruities of the situation.
The evening before, when Miss Redmayne asked what she planned to do, she had said that she wanted to take a look at Mr. Finch’s room. Now she needed to examine Mr. Finch’s room. She needed to understand exactly what was going on.
Perhaps a bit of Lady Ingram’s hysteria was rubbing off on her. Or perhaps it was some of Livia’s wretchedness. An urgency escalated in her that had no rational basis—yet felt all the direr and most ominous.
She found Mrs. Watson in the afternoon parlor, reading the paper. “Ma’am, did you mean to tell me last night that Mr. Lawson was once an expert lock picker?”
Mrs. Watson rose, the paper clutched in her hands. “Surely, Miss Holmes, you don’t mean to—”
“I do,” she said quietly. “Every time we learn anything about Mr. Finch, it only serves to make the situation more incomprehensible. I don’t wish to proceed piecemeal any longer. The time has come to find out the truth.”
Fear darkened Mrs. Watson’s beautiful eyes.
Her jaw worked. The paper crinkled under the pressure of her fingers.
And then she squared her shoulders and said, “It isn’t what I would have advised or wished for, but I’ve grown more and more uneasy, too—my innards feel like a spring that’s been wound up too tight.
If you are sure it can be done safely . . .”
“I can’t make any promise about the risks—I know nothing of such things. All I know is I fear picking Mr. Finch’s lock a great deal less than what I might learn next if I didn’t.”
Mrs. Watson exhaled audibly and tossed aside the crumpled newspaper. “Then let’s not waste any more time.”
Mrs. Watson took it upon herself to speak with Mr. Lawson, Charlotte in tow.
The groom and coachman had a healthy fear of going back to prison again.
But when Mrs. Watson mentioned the amount of the reward she was offering, in exchange for the risks he would take, his eyes widened and his decision was made.
He asked for exactly the types of locks they were to encounter, then asked for the rest of the day to prepare.
“Haven’t done anything illegal in years—not even betting, mind you, mum. ”
Charlotte spent the remainder of her afternoon acquiring an outfit, in a shade of dark blue-grey, that allowed her to move freely—no fashionable narrowing of the skirts at the knees.
At dusk, the rain stopped, but a peasouper rolled in, turning London into a sea of vapors. Charlotte took this as an auspicious sign: A peasouper would keep both pedestrians and carriages off the streets and send people to bed early.
She and Mr. Lawson left Mrs. Watson’s shortly after midnight, driven by Mr. Mears, who would also serve as their lookout, even though one was scarcely needed under the current atmospheric conditions.
At Mrs. Woods’s, Charlotte guided Mr. Lawson to the service door, which he opened after a quarter of an hour.
The basement was dark and quiet, the service stairs equally so.
Charlotte felt completely unafraid—she had not lied when she told Mrs. Watson that she didn’t fear picking Mr. Finch’s lock.
Certainly it was a great deal more criminal, but in essence the act was no different from stealing into her father’s study when he was away.
Once inside Mr. Finch’s room, she would discover everything she needed to know.
She led the way up to the first floor. The darkness smelled of linseed oil and beeswax, reassuringly domestic.
The carpet in the passage muffled their footsteps.
An almost imperceptible glow emanated from the high window at the far end of the passage, light from the streetlamps that had somehow managed to penetrate the fog.
By Mr. Finch’s name plaque they stood and listened, Mr. Lawson with his ear against the door. When he was satisfied, Charlotte let some light out from the pocket lantern she was holding. Mr. Lawson unrolled his pouch of tools and got to work.
One floor up someone was tapping slowly on a typewriter. From time to time the house creaked, shrinking in the coolness of the night. And twice there came the unmistakable whistle of a distant train.
But it was quiet enough that the tiny flame inside the pocket lantern seemed to whoosh and crackle like a bonfire.
Mr. Lawson’s breaths, through a slightly blocked nose, brought to mind the wolf huffing and puffing at the third little pig’s house.
And his lock-picking implements, which had sounded so soft and gentle in the beginning, now made Charlotte think of her walking stick clashing against Mrs. Watson’s.
Mr. Lawson stood up, almost colliding with Charlotte. In the dim light cast by the pocket lantern, his face was tense.
What’s the matter? she mouthed.
He put his ear to the door. She did likewise, her fingertips tingling, her heart beating fast.
Silence, deep, wide silence. Clack, clack, clack—but that was only the typewriter, still being used. Wait. Was that a footstep? There it was again, closer.
A succession of quick clicks—the unmistakable sound of a revolver cocking.
She and Mr. Lawson looked at each other—and ran.