Page 12 of The Art of Theft
The familiarity of it was both comforting and unsettling.
At the end of their brief “affair”—it still shocked him that they’d been lovers—she’d asked him whether, in some indeterminate future, they and those they loved couldn’t together go on a long trip abroad. He had answered emphatically in the affirmative.
Yes, I would like that.
But to what, exactly, had he said yes? And what was he to do with her—and himself—between now and that golden but distant tomorrow?
He hadn’t the slightest idea. And for once, he suspected that she didn’t either.
Holmes being Holmes, she remained silent and still until he’dmade three copies of the letter. He pushed them across the desk to her. “What do you think?”
She examined all three, studied the sample, then examined his imitations again. “She also used a feigned script, did she not?”
“A good thing.” The slight hesitancy of Mrs. Marbleton’s script was echoed in his, making it a better facsimile than he’d have otherwise been able to achieve, given the short notice.
“I think this is the best,” Holmes said, tapping at his third attempt.
“I agree, but we’ll leave the final choice to Mr. Marbleton.”
He returned the pen to its stand, put the blotting paper in the wastebasket, and began to tidy the loose papers on the desk.
“What brought you to London, Ash?” she asked suddenly.
He stilled, then arranged the papers into a neat stack.
You.
“The children wanted to come. London was where they last saw their mother—and they harbor hopes of seeing her again.”
She didn’t say anything.
He had wanted marriage, children, and an upstanding life. He still had the children, thank God, but a man who had salvaged his greatest treasures from the smoldering ruins of his home remained in the middle of smoldering ruins.
Down the hall, Mr. Marbleton and Mrs. Watson at last fell silent. Were they—or Mrs. Watson, at least—wondering whether too much time had passed since he and Holmes had left together?
Holmes rose. “Let’s go and show these to Mr. Marbleton.”
They did, walking into the afternoon parlor as Mrs. Watson was pouring a fresh cup of tea for Mr. Marbleton.
“Back so soon?” said Mrs. Watson, sounding almost disappointed. “I thought it would take you much longer.”
Ah, what could he have been thinking? Of course Mrs. Watson would wish to sequester him with Holmes for as long as possible.
Mr. Marbleton made his selection from the forged letters—the same one Lord Ingram and Holmes had favored.
“Will you also address an envelope for us, my lord?” asked Holmes. “Once we have that we can post the letter for it to arrive tomorrow evening at my parents’ house.”
“And when do you expect to hear back?” asked Mr. Marbleton.
“The day after that. Or two days later, at the very most. At which point, Mrs. Watson, will you kindly go and fetch my sister?”
Lord Ingram expected an immediate assent from Mrs. Watson. Instead the latter was silent for a few beats, then said, smiling widely, “My dear Miss Charlotte, I believe I have a better idea.”
Three
Livia had done her calculations. If Mr. Marbleton, upon arriving in London yesterday, immediately posted her letter, it would have reached Charlotte by evening. And if Charlotte worked fast and had a letter ready to post this morning, then it might arrive late today.
How much time her parents would take to debate the matter was unpredictable. Lady Holmes might react by being either deliriously thrilled or extremely suspicious. And Sir Henry would contradict his wife’s wishes, out of sheer habit and ill humor.
