Page 10 of A Conspiracy in Belgravia
Miss Holmes’s announcement yanked her out of this pleasant reverie of colors and patterns. “What is it?”
Miss Holmes spooned a whipped-cream-cocooned blueberry into her mouth. “At four o’clock a new client will be calling. She knows me. I have a sneaking suspicion that she might also know Mrs. Watson by sight, even if they have never been formally introduced. So Miss Redmayne, provided she can keep a secret, must take on the part of Sherlock Holmes’s sister.”
Penelope’s dessert spoon hovered above her own serving of trifle. She glanced at Mrs. Watson. They had come to a stalemate concerning the role Penelope would or wouldn’t take with regard to Sherlock Holmes. Miss Holmes’s request broke the deadlock.
Mrs. Watson grew alarmed—Miss Holmes would not give up her neutrality unless something extraordinary had happened. “I thought we had no appointments for the day. Who is this client?”
“Lady Ingram,” said Miss Holmes.
Placidly.
Mrs. Watson exchanged another look with Penelope, now slack-jawed in astonishment.
Three years ago, during intermission at the Savoy Theater, Lord Ingram had come to Mrs. Watson’s box to pay his respects. As he was about to leave, her eyes happened to alight on Miss Holmes in the auditorium, headed for her own seat.
Oh, look at that young woman in rose moiré, Mrs. Watson had exclaimed.She must be the most darling girl in attendance tonight.
Lord Ingram glanced down.That’s Charlotte Holmes, the greatest eccentric in attendance tonight.
Mrs. Watson had been incredulous.That sweet young thing? Are you sure, sir?
Her friend had smiled slightly.I’m quite certain, madam.
The theater’s electric lights dimmed—the next act was about to begin. Lord Ingram took his leave. But Mrs. Watson rememberedthat smile, a fond smile that said,The stories I could tell. No doubt the stories would have been delightful—yet Mrs. Watson had felt strangely dejected for the rest of the evening.
It was only the next day that she had been able to articulate why she had been so affected: In that smile had been a wistfulness that encroached on regret.
Mrs. Watson had not brought up Miss Charlotte Holmes again. Neither had Lord Ingram, until he came to see her the evening of Miss Holmes’s unfortunate “incident,” and asked for her help.
Mrs. Watson knew then that her instincts had been correct all those years ago. She had no doubt that Miss Holmes reciprocated Lord Ingram’s sentiments: When these two young people had been alone in the same room, despite their reserve—or perhaps because of it—the tension had been palpable. Mrs. Watson, sitting in the next room and pretending to look after the nonexistent Sherlock Holmes, had departed hastily, her own face flushed from the latent heat of their unacted-upon desires.
How then, did Miss Holmes manage to utter Lady Ingram’s name with such ease—such casualness, almost? Even Mrs. Watson, who considered herself not ungenerous of spirit, could not speak or even think of that woman without a swell of hostility.
But this was not the question she posed to Miss Holmes. “Lady Ingram does not realize that you are Sherlock Holmes?”
“It would appear not.”
“Did she say why she wished for a meeting in her letter?”
Miss Holmes dug up half a strawberry from the decadent depths of her trifle. “No, only that she urgently needed one.”
“And she sent it to Upper Baker Street? How did she know the address?”
“My guess is via Mr. Shrewsbury. I have heard now that themystery behind his mother’s death has been solved, he’s told certain parties that he’s been to see Sherlock Holmes. It would not have been difficult for Lady Ingram to ferret the address from him without disclosing that she wanted it for herself.”
A silence fell. Penelope blinked slowly, as if unable to believe what she’d heard. Miss Holmes ate with great solemnity and concentration, giving every appearance of encountering this most familiar dessert for the very first time. Mrs. Watson took sip after sip of water and tried to convince herself that she ought to trust the decision Miss Holmes had already made.
After all, that extraordinary mind was usually allied to a lot of good sense and pragmatism.
“I can’t help but feel that we shouldnotsee Lady Ingram,” she heard herself state emphatically. “She is known to us and we are known to her, or at least Miss Holmes is. If hers is a problem she wanted Miss Holmes to know, she would have told Miss Holmes. Instead she chose to put her trust in a stranger. Shouldn’t that tell us that she values her anonymity in the matter?
“What if her concern has to do with Lord Ingram? Does the confidence we owe her outweigh our duties of friendship to him? What if we learn something that he would want to, indeed,deservesto know? Worse, what if his wife’s disclosure should prove detrimental, were he to remain in a state of ignorance?”
Miss Holmes did not deviate from her imperturbable self, but Penelope stared at Mrs. Watson with more than a little concern. Mrs. Watson realized that her voice had risen a good half octave. That instead of giving calmly reasoned objections, she had let herself be carried away on a current of righteous dismay.
For a minute, everyone busied herself eating. Then Miss Holmes set down her spoon.
“By seeking an appointment with Sherlock Holmes, LadyIngram has already informed me, however unwittingly, that she has a problem. Knowing what I do about her, I have a fair idea of the nature of the problem. Suffice to say that it does not involve Lord Ingram, except in the sense that she is his wife and any problem of hers ought to concern him, too.
