Chapter Twenty
Twenty
TUESDAY
Livia continued to be amazed at herself.
The Friday before, after her euphoria over having never committed incestuous thoughts, not even accidentally, had faded somewhat, she’d worried that the pages she’d produced had resulted solely from the emotional abyss she had been thrown into.
That if she felt more like her normal self—not that there was anything enviable about it—she wouldn’t be able to pen another word.
But the story had continued apace. The murderer had sent an old woman to claim the sentimental item he’d left behind at the scene of the crime.
She’d managed to escape pursuit by Sherlock Holmes.
And now a Scotland Yard inspector had come to tell Holmes that they had arrested someone—obviously the wrong someone—on circumstantial evidence.
She set down her pen and flexed her fingers.
From time to time she thought longingly of Charlotte’s typewriter.
But then again, it wouldn’t be of as much use to Livia.
That thing was loud. And Livia’s best—or at least her most uninterrupted—writing time had proved to be early morning, before her parents rose.
A maid entered the breakfast parlor, bringing with her the early post. Livia gave the pile a cursory glance, not expecting anything, but the typewritten name on the topmost letter clearly said Miss Olivia Holmes.
And when she opened the thick envelope, she discovered not a letter, but a large, hand-illustrated bookmark, depicting a young woman in a white dress reading on a park bench.
Charlotte arrived at Mr. Gillespie’s office at the hour specified by Parsons, the secretary. Parsons, his face already a few shades past florid, insisted that she enter into Mr. Gillespie’s office.
“I have no business with Mr. Gillespie,” she said quietly. “I only need a quick question answered from the diary you keep for the office.”
“But I have instructions from Mr. Gillespie to show you in.”
Charlotte folded her hands around the handle of her parasol. “Is that so? If Mr. Gillespie is so eager for my company, he can come out and see me here. You may convey my sentiments to him.”
“Will you . . . will you remain here?”
“Of course. You haven’t answered the question I came for.”
Parsons blinked rapidly, then sidled away, turning back to look at Charlotte every few steps. By and by he returned, and along with him came not only Mr. Gillespie, but Sir Henry, Charlotte’s father, with the groom Mott in tow.
“Enough of this nonsense, Charlotte,” Sir Henry bellowed. “You will leave with me right now.”
“Ah, Father. How do you do? Mr. Gillespie. Mott.” Her hands tightened on the parasol.
She couldn’t be entirely certain of Mott’s loyalty in this matter, but even if he were to stand neutral, she still faced three grown men.
Mrs. Watson’s weighted parasol, however well made, would not prove sufficient to safeguard her freedom.
“Unfortunately, Father, I’m quite busy today and must decline your invitation. ”
“Charlotte.” Her name was a growl.
“Yes, Father?”
“Must I tell you specifically what is going to happen if you do not come willingly?”
“I’d like to hear it, but I may find it difficult to believe a man who has been known to break his word.”
Mr. Gillespie and the secretary both glanced at Sir Henry, aghast, though she couldn’t tell whether they were shocked by the charge or only that such an accusation had been spoken aloud. Mott, though, seemed to be trying not to give in to nervous laughter.
Her father turned almost as red as the secretary. “You come with us or you will be carried out.”
“I don’t think so.”
She reached into her handbag, pulled out a Remington derringer, and cocked it—she wasn’t one to entrust her safety to only a parasol.
Sir Henry’s eyes widened. Both Mr. Gillespie and Parsons took a step back.
“You will shoot your own father?”
“I will shoot Mr. Gillespie first—not to worry, only in the foot. And then I will shoot you, also in the foot. After that I don’t believe anyone else will be particularly interested in taking me anywhere against my will.
” She smiled slightly. “You taught me how to use firearms, Father. You know my aim is excellent.”
A knock came on the door. The four men glanced uncertainly at one another. A knock came again. The men remained paralyzed.
The door opened and in walked Lord Ingram. He took a look around the room and tsked. “Are you trying to take these men hostage, Holmes?”
“Hardly, my lord. And good morning to you.”
“Have you been keeping her?” Sir Henry’s voice was high and harsh.
Lord Ingram turned a face of innocent surprise in his direction. “Sir, I am a married man. And unlike some I can name, I have never betrayed my vows. Miss Holmes is keeping herself, in admirable style, too, as far as I can tell.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“Why shouldn’t you? Unlike some in this room, I have also never reneged on my word.”
Mr. Gillespie and the secretary swallowed in unison. Mott was seized by a coughing fit. Sir Henry, who had now been accused of untrustworthiness twice in the space of five minutes, stared blankly, as if he couldn’t believe what was happening.
“Then what are you doing here?” he at last managed to say.
“I am here at my brother’s behest. He has proposed to Miss Holmes and would very much prefer that she remain in London until she can give him her answer.”
“Lord Bancroft wants to marry her?”
“Yes.”
Sir Henry turned to Charlotte, looking as if he desperately needed to throttle someone. “Then why haven’t you said yes, you stupid girl?”
“For the same reason I didn’t say yes to him last time. I’m not enamored of the idea of being married to Lord Bancroft.”
“Even though you could—”
“Even though I could make you happier, you who have no respect for my wishes?”
“Is this all the respect you have for those who raised you?” Sir Henry’s spittle flew.
“No, I have quite a bit more respect for you than that. In fact, I plan to send you and Mother one hundred pounds a year.”
“You can never repay us for the unhappiness you have caused us!”
Charlotte raised a brow. “I take it you do not want the hundred quid a year then.”
“I—I didn’t say that.”
“Do you want it or not?”
“Y-yes.”
“Excellent. But do understand that I’m not giving you this money out of the goodness of my heart. I’ll want something in return.”
Sir Henry wiped a hand across his forehead. “What? What will you want?”
“You’ll see. But don’t worry, it won’t be anything you’ll miss.” She smiled, widely this time. “Now, gentlemen, I came to ask a question of Mr. Parsons and I’d like to get on with that. As I said, it will be a busy day for me and there is no time to waste.”
“Thank you, my lord,” Charlotte said to Lord Ingram, once he had helped her into a hackney.
He shook his head, laughed, and shook his head some more. “At times I have wanted to punch your father, but I’m not sure I’d have shot him.”
“Only in the foot,” she pointed out, “and only if he refused to show any sense.”
“And the poor solicitor?”
“The poor solicitor was a willing party to an attempted abduction.” She sighed.
Mr. Gillespie’s participation was hardly unexpected, but the whole affair still sent a chill down her spine.
“The problem is that he believed he was doing something good. That forcing a grown woman to be locked up for the rest of her life figured as part of his duty to her father.”
Lord Ingram leaned forward and squeezed her hand. “You know I wouldn’t have stood by and let you rot in the country.”
The contact of their gloved hands lasted a fraction of a second—and the jolt shot all the way to her shoulder. “I know. I’m all too glad to have you for a friend.”
But would he still be her friend, after he had heard what she had to say?
The old silence threatened to descend. On any other day she would have let it.
But today she spoke. She asked him about his children.
She asked him about the archaeological sites he planned to revisit, now that the Season was coming to an end.
She even asked him about the ball he and his wife would be hosting, in honor of her birthday, considered the last major function of the Season.
And in turn she told him about her recent cases—as well as Mrs. Watson’s attempt to turn her into London’s foremost swordswoman, which made him laugh.
The hackney was approaching 18 Upper Baker Street when she said, “I’m glad Bancroft sent you today, since I need to speak with you anyway. Will you come for a cup of tea?”
He regarded her warily but only said, “Of course.”
They settled themselves in Sherlock Holmes’s parlor. She made tea and served a plate of macarons, Madame Gascoigne’s latest triumphs, light-as-air meringue biscuits sandwiched together with a delicious filling of buttercream.
And now, the moment of truth.
“I asked for your forgiveness earlier. You are about to learn why I did so.”
He had been stirring his tea without drinking. Now he pushed it aside, abandoning any pretense of interest in refreshments. “I almost don’t want to hear it.”
But he had no choice. She also had no choice.
“Little more than two weeks ago, Lady Ingram came to me. She was upset. She told me that she had loved someone before she married you and that they had a pact to walk past each other once a year at the Albert Memorial, on the Sunday before his birthday.”
His face turned expressionless.
“This year the man missed the appointment. She didn’t know what to do because she didn’t know how to find him.
When she saw the article in the papers about Sherlock Holmes, she decided to consult him.
Once I learned that the person she was looking for was Mr. Myron Finch, my illegitimate half brother, I had to carry on until I had some notion of his fate. ”
He gazed at her. “Did you know who she was before you agreed to see her?”
She exhaled. “Yes.”
“I thought so,” he said softly, almost inaudibly. Amazing how such quietly uttered syllables could contain so much condemnation. “Go on.”
And from there, he did not say another word for the next hour.
When he did speak again, after a silence that lasted twice the duration of the Hundred Years’ War, it was only to tell her, “I never thought I’d say this, Charlotte Holmes—or even think it. But I wish to God I’d never met you.”
Charlotte hadn’t lied about it being a busy day. After Lord Ingram had gone, she traveled by rail to Oxford and called on Mr. Finch’s old boarding school, an establishment with no national renown but a modicum of local prestige.
Since her visit to the Glossops’ the previous week, she had been corresponding with Mr. Finch’s old boarding school.
As pretext, she concocted a ladies’ charitable society where several of the most admired matrons had sons who attended the school and had been on the cricket team together.
The society wished to publish an article about the team’s accomplishments in its newsletter, as a surprise to the matrons.
Could she, the one responsible for writing the piece, come and see what photographs the school might have?
The response had been unequivocal: Yes, of course. We would be delighted to share our archival images.
And now more than a hundred boys clad in frock coats and striped trousers gazed solemnly at her, from a decade and a half ago.
“That was Jones,” said the headmaster sadly, pointing his finger at one particular boy.
“I remember him, Archibald Jones. One of the best batsmen in the history of the school. A shame his father didn’t want to further educate him.
He would have excelled on many a college team—perhaps even a university one. ”
Charlotte was busy scanning the tiny print at the bottom of the photograph, listing the names of the boys. There it was, M. H. Finch. Fourth row, ninth from the left. But before she could find him in the throng, the headmaster thrust another picture at her.
“Here’s another one of Jones, the year he captained the school team.”
Eleven boys in the team photograph and one face immediately leaped out at Charlotte. There were no names at the bottom. She turned it around. On the back was written in pencil, Standing, L to R, T. J. Pearson, M. C. Curthoys, O. A. Murray, G. G. Barber, M. H. Finch.
Her stomach unknotted.
It would appear that her brother was alive and safe after all.
Lady Ingram exited the modiste’s shop, limping. The final fitting had been interminable. The seamstresses had used her as a dress dummy and now her lower back felt as if a spike had been driven deep under her skin.
She didn’t much care for fashion—and she disliked spending so much money on fripperies even more. Unfortunately, others expected her to be on display in a new gown, at least at her own birthday ball, so she must waste both time and money to satisfy the demands of Society when she would rather—
An envelope lay on the seat of the carriage. She glanced at her coachman. He stood with his eyes cast down respectfully, waiting for her to climb up. She did, grimacing—the muscles in her back tightened so much they yanked her backward.
Her second confinement had been both quicker and easier.
She had expected to recover fully in no time, but the back pain never went away.
Nearly a dozen doctors consulted and no one had been able to do anything for her except prescribe laudanum and morphine—as if she would ever be so weak as to indulge in those.
She didn’t even look at the envelope until the carriage had pulled away from the curb. And then only after she had lowered the shades on the windows.
An unsealed envelope, no addressee on the front, a typed sheet inside.
Could it be?
She pressed it to her heart. After all this time, he had at last contacted her. She pulled a pencil from her handbag and busied herself deciphering the message as the carriage turned and swayed.
Trust him to bring a smile to her face: He wanted to meet on the night of her birthday ball. Good thing she didn’t give a damn for that nuisance.
She only wanted to see him.