Page 24 of A Conspiracy in Belgravia
Charlotte shook hands with the woman, who was in her midthirties, pretty in an anemic fashion, her demeanor eager but brittle.
The usual pantomime ensued. Tea was offered. Mrs. Watson left to sit with “Sherlock Holmes.” This was usually the point at which Charlotte asked her clients whether they needed proof of Sherlock’s deductive powers. But to Mrs. Morris she wasn’t sure whether she ought to mention anything she had observed.
Regulations to the contrary, for as long as there had been a navy, the wives of naval officers—not all of them, but the more intrepidones—had gone on tours of duty with their husbands. And if Mrs. Morris didn’t care for life as one of a handful of women sharing cramped quarters with an overwhelmingly male population, she could always travel to ports of call where her husband would be spending considerable amounts of time ashore.
But Charlotte wasn’t convinced that Captain Morris was in fact at sea.
Or that Mrs. Morris was staying with her father solely because she wished to look after the latter.
She had arrived on foot. But the debris clinging to the soles and edges of her boots made it clear that she hadn’t been slogging through the streets of London. Rather, she had taken a walk in Regent’s Park. A vigorous one, too, judging by the grimy streaks on the inside of her boots, which could only have been made by herself.
It was not pouring outside—that had happened during the small hours of the night, while Charlotte was still bent over the Vigenère cipher. But it was drizzling and had been for a while. Would a woman who thought this a good day for a brisk walk in the park shy away from traveling the world with her husband?
More importantly, she was wearing her second-best pair of Wellington boots.
If one didn’t count the pair Henrietta had left behind when she got married, Charlotte didn’t have galoshes—not even in the country, as she preferred to enjoy rainy days from inside a firmly shut window, with a cup of hot cocoa by her side.
Livia, however, lived in her Wellington boots. And she had a second-best pair, which were ancient and used when she was certain she’d face plenty of sludge on her walk. As opposed to her best pair, donned when she suspected she might encounter, but still had hopes of avoiding, muddy puddles.
Even Livia brought only her best pair to London.
Would a woman who was only visiting bring her second-best pair?
“You mentioned in your letter, Mrs. Morris, that you learned about my brother from Mrs. Gleason, who came to see him not too long ago.”
“That’s right. Mrs. Gleason and I belong to the same charity knitting circle and she had nothing but high praise for you. So yesterday, when I couldn’t possibly go another moment without speaking to someone about my fears, I thought of you. Thank you for seeing me so soon.”
They could scarcely make her wait, when she wrote that she was afraid for her health, and possibly even her life.
“Not at all. Given that you’ve spoken to Mrs. Gleason, I assume you are familiar with how I help my brother in his work.”
“Yes. Mrs. Gleason’s account gave me every confidence in Mr. Holmes.”
“Excellent, now how may we help you?”
“I believe I told you that when my husband is at sea, I stay in London with my father,” began Mrs. Morris. “London is a livelier place, of course, but I also promised my mother, before she passed away, that I would always look after my father. Her own father, you see, retired at sixty and promptly went into a decline.
“My father was a very successful physician. He and his old housekeeper, dear Mrs. Foster, retired at about the same time. The new housekeeper, Mrs. Burns, came highly recommended. And I can’t complain about her work. But—” Mrs. Morris twisted her handkerchief. “But with my father home so much, I’m afraid, well, I’m afraid it has led to designs on Mrs. Burns’s part.”
“Oh?”
That simple prompt seemed to provoke a fit of uncertainty. Mrs. Morris reddened, swallowed, and twisted her handkerchief somemore. “I hope Mr. Holmes doesn’t think me ridiculous. After all, even as great a mind as his can’t prevent Mrs. Burns from wooing my father. But that isn’t all she is doing. I’ve reason to believe she’s trying to poison me.”
Charlotte had more or less expected such an account: To someone in Mrs. Morris’s position, danger was more likely to arise from inside her own household.
“What brought on this particular concern?” she asked.
“I know I don’t look it, but I’m in exceedingly robust health—everyone will tell you that. I never have the sniffles, never need smelling salts, never have any aches and pains at all. My father says that I can eat rocks and horseshoes without being the worse off. But this week I felt awful twice, both times after eating biscuits made by Mrs. Burns. And no one else in the house was the least bit unwell.”
Charlotte poured herself another cup of tea. “Please describe the circumstances of each occasion.”
“The first time was five days ago. I came home from calling on some acquaintances and took coffee with my father. A housemaid brought the biscuits. I handed the plate to my father; he took his pick and I took mine. We spoke for some time about our day. I didn’t eat the biscuit until we were almost about to rise from the table. By the time I reached my room, ten minutes later, I was in agony.”
“What were your symptoms?”
“My throat burned. And I don’t mean that it was scratchy. The whole of the back of my mouth felt as if it had been flayed raw with a rough rope. I hurt so much I could scarcely breathe.”
“How long did your symptoms persist?”
