Chapter 21
“So . . . you have sacrificed me in your opening gambit,” said Lord Ingram to his extravagantly mustachioed visitor. “How is your game progressing?”
“Patience, my lord,” she answered. “I nearly starved, by the way, waiting for you to return with tea and supper. Had to go to Harrod’s myself for a basket.”
She’d known, of course, that once he stepped out of the house he would be nabbed by the police—he had timed his departure from Stern Hollow so that Chief Inspector Fowler would be informed in time for her carriage to be followed, after she left the interview.
At first she thought he had come too soon—their original plan had called for him to remain in Stern Hollow for as long as possible.
But once he explained everything that had taken place, she had agreed that he had chosen the right time.
And now here he was, behind bars, the basket from Harrod’s his only companion for the long night to come.
He had been in worse surroundings—the jail cell, out of consideration to his station, was not too filthy; even the smell in the air was not too foul. But he had never been in worse circumstances, even if he had allowed himself to be put up as bait.
He had trusted his fate to her. But if she was wrong . . .
“Don’t worry,” she went on. “I brought two other baskets for the guards, so they should leave yours alone.”
As if he would worry about a food basket at a time like this. “They can have mine.”
“So speaks a lordship who’s never had to dine on cuisine de prison. You will be denied bail. Guard your basket with your life.”
He set a hand on the basket, his fingers digging into its wicker exterior. He wanted out of this place. He wanted to see his children. He wanted a wall behind which to hide, damn it, and not be exposed to every passing guard’s curiosity.
“Come here,” she said.
He rose and went to her. “I’m afraid.”
Terrified.
“As you should be. As am I. But don’t forget, sir”—she reached through the bars and took hold of his hands, her own hands steady, her gaze clear and calm—“that I am a queen upon this board—and I do not play to lose.”
Livia grabbed the envelope.
It was the day after she’d made the devastating discovery at Moreton Close. She’d arrived home in numb despair and had to spend the rest of the day fending off her mother’s angry comments about Mrs. Newell’s inconsideration at not providing a maid to accompany Livia on her trip.
She wrote Charlotte a letter, begging her sister to do something. Anything. She hoped to be able to post it away from Lady Holmes’s prying eyes—and feared it would be just like a peevish Lady Holmes not to let her out for a day or two.
But the early post had brought a letter from Charlotte. The short note was written in the code that they’d devised for themselves—not the one Charlotte had made up for her to give to the police, but the modified Caesar cipher they had been using since childhood.
Translated, the message read,
Dear Livia,
My apologies. B is with me and has been all along. Please do not worry anymore. I will explain everything when I see you next.
C.
P.S. Until then, please make no decisions with regard to Mr. Moonstone.
Inspector Treadles had done his best to ensure that Lord Ingram was put up in a clean cell and treated with due respect and courtesy. But still he felt guilty, as if it had been his machinations that had put his friend behind bars, and not Chief Inspector Fowler’s.
“You mustn’t abandon hope, my lord,” he said.
Lord Ingram did not look worse for wear—yet. It had been only a day. “I have not. I have friends working on my behalf.”
“Sergeant Ellerby is seeking the other body specified by Sherlock Holmes with all his might,” said Treadles, feeling more than a little stupid. He wasn’t sure how that would help Lord Ingram.
“You must thank him on my behalf until I can do so in person. He has been very kind.” Lord Ingram smiled a little. “And how are you, Inspector? How is Mrs. Treadles? Cousins Manufacturing running smoothly under her stewardship?”
“I think so. Or as smoothly as can be expected now, since she is still relatively inexperienced. But I’m quite astonished at how much she has learned.
” There was a lingering sweetness on his tongue.
It took Treadles a moment to recognize it as pride—he always used to speak of his wife with pride and now he was once again doing so.
“I would find the management of such a large organization overwhelming, but she enjoys herself immensely.”
“I’m happy to hear that. I hope to have you both to Stern Hollow someday soon.”
He imagined his friend, free again. The Treadleses, walking arm-in-arm on that beautiful estate, talking and laughing. And himself, bathed in forgiveness and understanding, neither of which he deserved, but he hoped to.
Someday.
“I will be most gratified to have that come to pass.”
Lord Ingram smiled slightly. “Holmes is on the case. We have nothing to fear.”
Lord Ingram was in custody for more than thirty-six hours before the message Charlotte had been waiting for came, typed on plain paper, posted from one of the busiest corners of London, in an envelope addressed to Sherlock Holmes.
Hand over Mr. Finch and exculpatory evidence will be offered for Lord Ingram. You may post your reply in the papers as a +10 Caesar cipher.
She immediately sent in her reply. Hand over exculpatory evidence first.
The response came two hours after the morning editions became available, this time delivered to the mail slot at 18 Upper Baker Street itself. You are not in a position to negotiate. Give your answer as a Vigenère cipher. Keyword: STERN.
She took a deep breath and dispatched her next message to the evening papers, coded as specified: 22 Compton Lane, Hampstead Heath.
The man in the parlor of 22 Compton Lane had become accustomed to making himself at home in different surroundings.
He always carried the same Darjeeling tea and the same pair of house slippers wherever he went, so that there would be some sense of familiarity and coziness, no matter how strange and inhospitable his new dwellings.
This house was not so bad. Close enough to London to be convenient, but with slightly cleaner air and somewhat less clogged streets. There was a bookstore nearby he enjoyed browsing—in fact, he’d spent too much money there—and the food at the tea shop on the next street was downright decent.
He had just settled into his chair, a glass of Armagnac at his side, a Mrs. Braddon novel in hand, when he heard suspicious sounds at the front door.
He rose and extinguished all the lights in the parlor.
The firelight from the grate couldn’t be helped, of course, but he did take the poker in hand, before he secreted himself behind the grandfather clock.
Men came into the house. Two of them. One went deeper, ascending the stairs. The other came toward the parlor.
He recognized those footsteps.
The intruder walked into the parlor. He glanced at the glass of Armagnac and the hastily cast aside book—and cocked his revolver.
The occupant of the house stepped out from behind the grandfather clock.
The intruder raised his firearm. Then his expression changed.
The firelight was not brilliant, but it was illumination enough in such close quarters.
“Remington,” said the intruder coldly. “What are you doing here?”
Lord Remington shook his head. He’d thought he had steeled himself, but still he was close to tears. “I had hoped it wouldn’t be you. Even after everything I’ve learned, I still hoped that we were wrong and that it wouldn’t be you, Bancroft.”