Page 85 of The Hollow of Fear
Charlotte did not pity Lady Ingram—the woman played no small role in her own fate. But she sometimes thought of the former Miss Alexandra Greville, brought to London and told to smile, told to be happy that an eligible man loved her, told that upon marriage she would have everything a woman could desire.
When it should have been obvious to all who knew her that such a life would unravel her. Yet they’d pushed it on her with all their might—and made it plain that for her to do anything else would be a gross betrayal to her family.
Perhaps she had always been a monster, but even the lady monsters of the world couldn’t escape the expectations that came of being women.
It waspast eleven o’clock when Charlotte’s train pulled into Paddington station again. She hailed a hansom cab to take her to a small house in St. John’s Wood, the address of which Mrs. Watson had given her earlier in the day.
Mrs. Watson herself opened the door. “I think we have done it,” she said in a whisper.
“This house looks exactly the kind of place for a kept woman,” Charlotte whispered back.
Mrs. Watson smiled. “Glad to oblige, my dear.”
Behind Mrs. Watson stood Frances Marbleton, Stephen Marbleton’s sister, though Charlotte had never been entirely convinced that they were, in fact, siblings.
“Come,” said Miss Marbleton.
In the parlor, a woman sat rigidly in a high-back chair, dressed in somber clothes that were neither new nor fashionable but hardy of material and well made. At Charlotte’s entrance she looked up: One of her eyes was an ethereal blue, the other milky and blind.
In the first days after Charlotte ran away from home, she’d come across a beggar woman and her child and had been so moved by their plight that she’d given them some of her scant coins. Only to realize later that her pocket had been picked during the encounter.
This was that woman.
Stephen Marbleton, who had been seated across from the woman, rose. “I hope your journey has been a pleasant one.”
Charlotte found her voice—or, rather, Sherrinford Holmes’s voice. “It has been, thank you.”
Even so the woman stared at her, as if trying to recall where she’d heard her before.
Charlotte was not very often unnerved, but she sensed in herself a strong quiver of apprehension.
“This is Mrs. Winnie Farr,” said Mr. Marbleton.
A notice had gone into the papers the evening before, seeking those with a young, dark-haired sister or daughter who had been missing for more than a fortnight. And Mrs. Winnie Farr had answered, Mrs. Farr, who had already written Sherlock Holmes for help with her missing sister.
Except Sherlock Holmes had been too preoccupied of late to take on any other case.
“Sherrinford Holmes, at your service, Mrs. Farr,” Charlotte said to the woman who stole a solid pound from her. “How do you do?”
“Your man said you can find out what happened to my sister.”
Her voice had a heavy quality, as if words had to be dredged up from her larynx. Her expression was almost as heavy. But her good eye was alert and piercing, and Charlotte found herself having to take a deep breath.
The reverberations of alarm were only partially brought on by Mrs. Farr’s presence. They were echoes of a difficult time, of the closest Charlotte had come to the edge of desperation. The loss of one pound had been disastrous; the loss of hope, far worse.
But she was in a different place now. And this was no time to lose her concentration, because a primitive part of her mind was too busy wallowing in old fears. She owed Mrs. Farr her undivided attention. She owed Lord Ingram her utmost effort.
She owed herself the clarity to know when she was in danger and when she was not.
“Wemaybe able to help,” she answered. “Did you bring photographs?”
Mrs. Farr opened a shabby handbag and took out two small pictures. When Charlotte held them in hand, she realized that they were not photographs but postcards—or, rather, a young woman’s face cut out of postcards.
Postcards came in many varieties: some scenic, some sentimental, and others highly risqué. There was no need to ask which category these ones fell into.
The young woman in the postcard was full of vitality, her eyes mischievous, her hair shiny even in the grainy print.
“How old was she at the time these photographs were taken?”
