Page 56 of A Conspiracy in Belgravia
“I didn’t think much of it at the time—some people are jumpy. But knowing what happened to him, I can’t help but wonder ifhedidn’t expect something awful to come his way. Maybe whenever he heard someone in the hall at an unexpected time, he got nervous. And had to make sure it was only me, coming back with a rasher of bacon or Mr. Ainsley’s shaving powder, and not someone here to harm him.”
Temple thought for another moment, then nodded. “Yes, I reckon he must have been scared.”
“Well, that was quick,” said Mrs. Watson, as they walked out of Norton & Pixley, Chartered Accountants.
Apparently, Mr. Finch had resigned from his post after only six weeks. Which meant that for the past two months, he hadn’t been working—at least not at Norton & Pixley.
Mrs. Watson didn’t want to say it aloud, since he was a close blood relation to Miss Holmes, but she was beginning to be convinced that Lady Ingram was entirely mistaken in Mr. Finch’s character. Maybe he was well liked at his place of lodging, but at this point, one certainly couldn’t call himdependable.
“Harrod’s, please,” said Miss Holmes to Lawson, as they climbed up into Mrs. Watson’s carriage.
Harrod’s? “Do we need anything from there?”
“We are being followed,” said Miss Holmes, settling herself intothe seat. “Harrod’s would be a good place to get rid of this unauthorized addition to our party. Also, it has been a while since I browsed their cheese selection.”
Mrs. Watson’s heart pounded. Of course she had steeled herself for the possibility that those who had watched her house earlier would resume their surveillance at some point, but she had hoped much more fervently that all such potentially Moriarty-related troubles had gone away for good.
The carriage didn’t have a window in the rear, but she still turned and stared at the burgundy-brocade-upholstered surface, anxiety churning in her stomach.
“Don’t worry,” said Miss Holmes quietly. “We’ll shake them loose before long.”
“But they’ll simply go back to the house and wait for the next opportunity to follow us.”
Miss Holmes said nothing.
They maintained their silence inside Harrod’s, marching through various departments and stopping briefly at the cheese counter. But Miss Holmes being Miss Holmes, when they left from a service entrance, she was holding a freshly purchased tin of biscuits.
Only when they were being driven away in a hackney did Mrs. Watson ask, “This is about the wheel of cheddar Mr. Finch bought Mrs. Woods, isn’t it?”
Miss Holmes nodded. “Very fine deduction, ma’am. Our little jaunt to the cheese counter confirmed that not only is it possible to buy a wheel of prize-winning cheddar without going to Somerset, it’s almost as easy as a trip to the corner post box.”
Their next stop was the house of Mrs. Morris’s father, Dr. Swanson. When they arrived Miss Holmes announced that they were free of followers, but Mrs. Watson’s relief was only momentary.
Mrs. Morris received them with much pleasure. It wasn’t the servants’ half day but the housekeeper, Mrs. Burns, had leave from her employer to help at the soup kitchen for a couple of hours. She took her maids with her, which left the coast clear for Mrs. Morris to give Miss Holmes and Mrs. Watson a tour of the housekeeper’s office, the stillroom, and the stockroom.
“I assume you’ve been well, Mrs. Morris?” asked Miss Holmes.
“Yes, thank goodness,” said Mrs. Morris fervently. “But then again, I haven’t had anything that came out of Mrs. Burns’s stillroom.”
The stillroom was superbly organized; clearly labeled jars of jams, jellies, and preserved fruits and vegetables sat in alphabetic order on the open shelves. There were also jars of crystallized ginger, confected pineapple, and candied peels.
Miss Holmes examined everything closely, especially the candied peels. “There’s the making of a good fruitcake.”
Mrs. Watson didn’t know how she could concentrate on their client’s problem. Mrs. Morris had an allergy; Miss Holmes had caught the attention of a man so nefarious that his wife staged her own death to get away from him.
So iniquitous he gave Lord Bancroft Ashburton pause.
Mrs. Morris made a face. “I don’t like dried fruits. Raisins I hate above all, but the rest of them aren’t much better.”
Which might explain why Mrs. Burns’s supply of dried fruits had remained so high.
“I’m surprised there is pineapple, though,” said Mrs. Morris. “No one in the family likes tropical fruits.”
“No?” Miss Holmes ran her hand along several spools of twine.
Mrs. Watson, to distract herself, did likewise. Most of them were made of jute, but the last one felt a little different: stiffer and coarser. Coir?
“I was born in India. But according to my father, India disagreedwith everyone in the family. My mother contracted malaria, my father had dengue fever, and I had the most terrible heat rashes. And none of us ever cared for mangos, jackfruits, or what have you.”
