Page 64 of A Conspiracy in Belgravia
The basement was dark and quiet, the service stairs equally so. Charlotte felt completely unafraid—she had not lied when she told Mrs. Watson that she didn’t fear picking Mr. Finch’s lock. Certainly it was a great deal more criminal, but in essence the act was no different from stealing into her father’s study when he was away.
Once inside Mr. Finch’s room, she would discover everything she needed to know.
She led the way up to the first floor. The darkness smelled of linseed oil and beeswax, reassuringly domestic. The carpet in the passage muffled their footsteps. An almost imperceptible glow emanated from the high window at the far end of the passage, light from the streetlamps that had somehow managed to penetrate the fog.
By Mr. Finch’s name plaque they stood and listened, Mr. Lawson with his ear against the door. When he was satisfied, Charlottelet some light out from the pocket lantern she was holding. Mr. Lawson unrolled his pouch of tools and got to work.
One floor up someone was tapping slowly on a typewriter. From time to time the house creaked, shrinking in the coolness of the night. And twice there came the unmistakable whistle of a distant train.
But it was quiet enough that the tiny flame inside the pocket lantern seemed to whoosh and crackle like a bonfire. Mr. Lawson’s breaths, through a slightly blocked nose, brought to mind the wolf huffing and puffing at the third little pig’s house. And his lock-picking implements, which had sounded so soft and gentle in the beginning, now made Charlotte think of her walking stick clashing against Mrs. Watson’s.
Mr. Lawson stood up, almost colliding with Charlotte. In the dim light cast by the pocket lantern, his face was tense.
What’s the matter?she mouthed.
He put his ear to the door. She did likewise, her fingertips tingling, her heart beating fast.
Silence, deep, wide silence.Clack, clack, clack—but that was only the typewriter, still being used. Wait. Was that a footstep? There it was again, closer.
A succession of quick clicks—the unmistakable sound of a revolver cocking.
She and Mr. Lawson looked at each other—and ran.
Fourteen
THURSDAY
“This is unacceptable. Completely unacceptable,” said Charlotte, with an extra sniff for emphasis.
She was back at Mrs. Woods’s, this time in the parlor, in a gold-and-scarlet visiting gown that Livia, whose sensibility was better suited to classical Greece, had variously deemed “dire,” “ghastly,” and “absolutely tasteless.” Charlotte hadn’t thought much of whatelsethe gown could accomplish—her eyes were simply drawn to things that Livia considered “absolutely tasteless.” But as it turned out, such an ensemble was perfect for intimidating the Mrs. Woodses of the world, its ostentation translating into stature and authority.
The landlady, who no doubt had hoped not to see “Mrs. Cumberland” again for a millennium or so, was all but wringing her hands. “I beg your pardon, ma’am, but exactly what is unacceptable?”
“Any number of things, Mrs. Woods, any number. Of course you are not solely to blame for them—my brother is a grown man, after all. But I am deeply disappointed nonetheless. I had expected better of this establishment.”
“Ma’am, please, if you will only let me—”
“Oh, yes, I will let you know. I visited my brother’s firm day before yesterday. He submitted his resignation two months ago—they have no idea where he is. Now this is not your doing. But I also visited the other two references you furnished. The landlady in Oxfordshire has never heard of him. And the solicitor retired six months ago. Did you not check either of those references?”
Mrs. Woods’s mouth opened and closed, opened and closed. No doubt in dismay, to be caught at being less than thorough in her selection process. Also, astonishment, at being blamed for Mr. Finch’s less-than-laudable conduct.
But this was how Henrietta derived a large part of her dominance, because those she accused of various shortcomings were often too rattled to defend themselves—and too polite to tell her that she was being an unfair arse.
“I... um... It must have been a very busy week when Mr. Finch applied for a place. And you must understand, Mrs. Cumberland, he’s amostwinsome young man. I never imagined that—”
“That is what references are for, Mrs. Woods, so that we are not so easily guided by mistaken impressions. I am further disturbed to find out, upon inquiring about your place, that according to some sources, you allow overnight female guests. What kind of lassitude is that? Do you uphold no standards here? Is that what my brother has been doing, entertaining women in his rooms instead of going to work, as he properly ought?”
Mrs. Woods’s horror was complete. “Certainly not! These are baseless rumors. I am a Christian woman running a most respectable establishment for Christian men.”
“Then let me see his rooms,” said Charlotte with a severity she did not need to manufacture. “Let me see for myself that it is not crawling with disreputable females.”
Mrs. Woods shot up the stairs with the speed of a racing greyhound. As Charlotte followed in her wake, she reflected rather grimly that this was what she ought to have done in the first place. Why break the law when all she needed was to cast a few aspersions?
Thankfully, nothing had happened the night before. She and Mr. Lawson had sprinted down to the basement, out the service door, and into the waiting carriage. Mr. Mears, witnessing their flight, had needed no urging to get the coach moving. And the fog, which had offered concealment when Mr. Lawson had worked on the service door, had quickly obscured them from potential pursuers.
But Mr. Lawson had been sincerely frightened. Charlotte had been sorry to be the cause. And this morning it had taken rather a lot of convincing for Mrs. Watson to let Charlotte out of her sight.
Mrs. Woods stopped before Mr. Finch’s door and knocked.
