Page 85 of A Conspiracy in Belgravia
“Lady Ingram is not to be entirely trusted on her version of events. She said she knew nothing about where to find Mr. Finch. But her visit to my father’s solicitor showed that she knew more than she told us. If she lied about one aspect of the case, she could very well have lied about other aspects, too.”
Penelope sighed. “I wish I could be sure Lord Ingram wasn’t involved.”
“And he may not be—not actively in any case. But no matter what, if his wife is involved, then he, too, cannot escape entanglement.”
Telltale signs of disappointment must have crossed Penelope’s face, for Miss Holmes said, very charitably, “Miss Redmayne, I have a medical question. Do you think you might be able to help me?”
It had been years since Lord Ingram had last stepped into his wife’s bedroom in their town house. There had been changes—the new clock on the mantel, two small seascapes he didn’t remember being there earlier. But overall, the room felt so familiar, he almost expected to meet her gaze in the vanity mirror as she brushed her beautiful hair, a delighted smile on her face.
No, the delighted smiles were from earlier in their marriage. The last time he had stepped into this room, she had smiled, but the smile had been perfunctory, almost forced.
He had wished to make love to her, hoping that physical closeness could bridge the distance that stretched between them, a distance that he could not close, no matter what he did. But in the end, he left after saying good night and little else, so unwelcome had he felt in her private space.
The next week his godfather had passed away unexpectedly. And he had told her that he had inherited only a five-hundred-pound annuity, rather than the fortune that was in his godfather’s will. And she had flown into a rage. She had married him because of the expectation he would be a very wealthy man, she’d shouted, and now she had married him for nothing. Now her children had Jewish blood for nothing.
At first he was encouraged by her anger—anger was solid, anger was real, anger was something he could investigate and find out more about. Anything was better than the polite remoteness that made him despair.
What she’d actually said took minutes, hours, days to sink in.
To become real.
They’d never spoken again, except by necessity.
Why, then, was he here, in her room?
His action was the answer he was reluctant to put into words.Half ashamed yet inexplicably compelled, he searched the room with a thoroughness that should be reserved only for those suspected of selling the crown’s secrets.
When her room yielded nothing, he searched his study, which he knew she sometimes used when he wasn’t home. When that turned up no clues—alas that typewriter ribbons did not retain a legible record of the text last prepared on them—he looked carefully at his collection of books. The maids did dust the books regularly, but it was not part of their daily routine, and it should be possible to tell whether any given volume had been recently taken off the shelves.
The first book that showed unmistakable sign of having been used lately—the dust on top had been flicked off—was a volume on matrimonial law.
He had no particular interest in law. The set of treatises had been a present—and he could recall neither the occasion nor the gift-giver. The pages were entirely uncut, except the section concerning the dissolution of marriages.
Was that what she was up to? Had she been discreetly inquiring into adivorce?
Nineteen
MONDAY
“Miss Holmes, Mrs. Hudson, what a lovely surprise.” Dr. Swanson rose and warmly shook hands with Charlotte and Mrs. Watson. “Clarissa won’t be back yet for at least another half hour—she’s at the park, taking her morning constitutional. I hope that in the meantime, my company will serve.”
Miss Holmes smiled. “It will serve perfectly well.”
“Shall I ring for some coffee? Mrs. Burns is at home today and we can all enjoy some of her wonderful coffee.”
“We won’t mind at all.”
They passed time in small talk until a maid delivered the coffee. Dr. Swanson poured ceremoniously and his callers were generous with their praise for the beverage’s aroma and flavor.
Miss Holmes enjoyed hers with an abundance of sugar and cream. Then she set down her cup, and said, “You must forgive us, Dr. Swanson—and your daughter, too—for not having been perfectly honest with you at our previous meeting. You see, Mrs. Morris did notmeet us at the ladies’ knitting circle. Instead, we made her acquaintance when she arrived on our doorstep not long ago to consult Sherlock Holmes, my brother, because she was secretly distraught, fearing that she was being poisoned in her own home.”
Dr. Swanson blinked at the name Sherlock Holmes. He recoiled at the wordpoisoned. “That poor child—I had no idea she was beset to that extent. But it’s only London. Our very air is noxious. Most are inured to it, but from time to time some become unbearably sensitized to pernicious particulates that are breathed in.”
“That isn’t what Mrs. Morris believes. She believes that Mrs. Burns intends to get rid of her so she may better pursue you.”
Dr. Swanson gaped at her. “But that’s ridiculous. Mrs. Burns isn’t that kind of woman at all. My goodness, that view is so utterly divorced from reality I haven’t the slightest idea how to address it.”
Miss Holmes leaned forward. “The only way you can address it is to tell Mrs. Morris the truth.”
