Page 5 of A Conspiracy in Belgravia
At the moment Mrs. Watson enjoyed a respite from Miss Redmayne’s determined appeal: The ladies were at church. Charlotte had not been to church since she ran away from home. God likely wouldn’t mind if she stepped inside His house—Jesus voluntarily associated with women of less-than-pristine repute—but His followers tended to be less magnanimous.
In any case, she had a prior appointment, one she hadn’t mentioned to Mrs. Watson.
Umbrella in hand, she made her way to 18 Upper Baker Street. The house belonged to Mrs. Watson and was usually let to a tenant. But recently it had been turned into a dwelling for the fictionalSherlock Holmes, who was stricken with a mysterious illness that left him bedridden and incommunicado by ordinary means, leaving his sister as the oracle with whom his clients must consult, in order to gain his great and terrible insights.
Normally Charlotte played the role of the sister, though Mrs. Watson had also, on occasion, taken the part.
The parlor of 18 Upper Baker Street was of a good size, furnished with comfortable chairs clustered around a fireplace. The air held whiffs of whisky and tobacco, enough to hint at a masculine presence, but not so much as to put one in mind of a public house. There was also the scent of convalescence, of camphor and linseed oil. And floating serenely above it all, the fragrance of flowers, courtesy of the fresh bouquet that always bloomed on the seat of the bow window.
At precisely eleven o’clock, the doorbell rang—Lord Bancroft, like his brother, possessed exquisite punctuality, one of the few traits they shared.
“You look well, Miss Holmes,” he said, as he settled himself into the seat she offered, his tone somewhat surprised.
Charlotte had timed a kettle to boil over the spirit lamp for his arrival. Now she warmed a teapot and set two spoons of first-growth Ceylon leaves to steep. “Thank you, sir.”
In some ways he was the antithesis of his brother. While Lord Ingram radiated physicality and magnetism, Lord Bancroft was devoid of any personal charisma. But instead of being forgettable, the consensus was that those stuck next to him at social functions emerged mere shadows of their former selves.
His “blandness” consisted of a singular lack of warmth, a dogged social persistence, and a heavy application of skepticism. Livia had been his dinner companion once. She was obliged to answer questions for hours on end, from the Holmes girls’ practicallynonexistent education to all the minutiae of a parliamentary election in their rural borough, in the wake of their father’s unsuccessful attempt at standing for office. Lord Bancroft had demanded that she source each fact and justify every opinion, while he played devil’s advocate and asked why she didn’t believe in the exact opposite of what she did.
Livia, who already suffered from a lack of confidence, came home in tears, convinced that she was the stupidest and most ignorant creature alive.
His social conduct did not stem from malice, but obligation as he understood it: One ought to keep the conversation going at table, and keep it going he would. But he had few interests and no hobbies, did not want to inform anyone what they should have learned from books and newspapers—and of course could not possibly recount to mere debutantes the clandestine work he did on behalf of the crown.
And so he asked questions of those with whom he socialized, men and women alike. Charlotte had heard gentlemen swearing foully after an encounter with him, because he had interrogated them on their management of estate, friendship, and horseflesh, and they had come away feeling as immature and incompetent as Livia had.
Charlotte, on the other hand, got along well with Lord Bancroft. She sourced her facts and was not particularly attached to her opinions—opinions, by their very nature, were subject to change. Possessing neither the desire to please nor the need to impress, she answered his questions as long as he had questions to ask and when he ran out of them, she was happy to eat in silence.
As she did now, nibbling on a slice of excellent pound cake while Lord Bancroft looked around the parlor.
“Pleasant surroundings,” he said, after a while. “And very fine pound cake.”
“Thank you,” she said.
Many people, women especially, she had observed, responded to a compliment by explaining what they had—or hadn’t done—to merit it. But with Lord Bancroft, simple, unembellished answers were the way to proceed, unless one stood ready to verify the provenance of one’s chairs by producing affidavits from long-dead carpenters and upholsterers—or to admit that said chairs were inexpensive reproductions manufactured in Leeds.
Though in this case, she was half tempted to say something about the pound cake, which deserved every praise. She touched the side of the teapot, gauging the temperature of the brew within. “You wished to see Sherlock Holmes about something, my lord?”
“Was that what I wrote in my note? No, I have come to see you, Miss Holmes.”
The evening before, in delivering Lord Bancroft’s message, Lord Ingram had said, half jokingly,I was always afraid this day would come. That Bancroft would discover you for your mind.Charlotte, on the other hand, had not been as sanguine. Lord Bancroft was accustomed to solving his own problems. He had vastly more resources than Inspector Treadles. And most likely he rarely thought of women as useful outside their biological functions.
His tone, a peculiar mix of pushiness and hesitation, further solidified her suspicions. But she only folded her hands in her lap. “Oh?”
“We were all dismayed when you left home,” he began. “It was reassuring to learn that you had landed on your feet.”
He looked at her; she poured him a cup of tea. “You take it black, if I recall correctly.”
“Yes.”
She added cream and sugar to her own tea while gazing at him with her usual lack of facial expression, which was almost always misinterpreted as a look of sweet hopefulness.
He took a sip. “But of course the situation is still highly irregular.”
She remained silent, stirring her tea.
“Ash tells me that you have been to the house near Portman Square.”
Ash was what Lord Ingram’s intimates called him. Recently, when 18 Upper Baker Street had suffered from a bout of housebreaking, they had met, along with Inspector Treadles, at the house Lord Bancroft referred to.
