Page 8 of The Art of Theft
Her mood lost some of its buoyancy. Her house had been under watch before, the surveillance conducted by minions of Moriarty.
At the end of the Stern Hollow investigation, that name, hitherto known to few and spoken only in whispers, was abruptly thrust into the bright glare of publicity. Given that development, and givenMoriarty’s general preference for operating in the shadows, Mrs. Watson had rather thought that they’d go a while without dealing with those minions again.
The front door opened once more, startling her, but it was only Miss Charlotte Holmes walking in, clad in a rather somber tailor-made jacket-and-skirt set.
“My dear!” This was the longest time they’d spent apart since they first met during the summer. “Have you been well?”
They exchanged their latest news as they walked upstairs to the afternoon parlor. Rather than bringing up the carriage that had stayed in place too long, Mrs. Watson rang for tea. She didn’t want to spoil the warm mood with the specter of Moriarty. Instead she presented Miss Charlotte with a limited selection of miniature confections that she and Penelope had chosen together.
“I hope you may still take one or two of thesemignardises.”
Miss Charlotte considered the matter: The approach of Maximum Tolerable Chins was, in this household at least, treated with all the gravity of an outbreak of war. “I suppose, if I eliminate all puddings from my other meals, I may take one of these a day at tea.”
Mrs. Watson exhaled, resting her palm against her heart.
“And perhaps we can resume ourcanne de combatpractice. We might yet stave off Maximum Tolerable Chins, if you put me through my paces, ma’am.”
Mrs. Watson chortled. Miss Charlotte was not otherwise the most eager participant in vigorous activities. Maximum Tolerable Chins might be doing her a favor, forcing her to exercise more.
They spoke of Paris. Mrs. Watson glowed again, describing the farewell banquet Penelope and her friends put on the day before her departure. Part of her felt ridiculous, at her age, to take such pleasure in being popular. But a different part told her she was too old to feel shame in such harmless enjoyments: If she liked being popular then she liked being popular; what was there to berate herself about?
After a while she yawned and begged Miss Charlotte’s indulgence. “Oh, dear, I don’t know why traveling makes me so tired. You would think that I should be fresh as a daisy from having sat from Paris to London.”
“I might have been there at London Bridge Wharf, ma’am, to welcome you back. But I had a prospective client.”
“Oh, have you already advertised Sherlock Holmes’s return?”
Miss Charlotte gave a firm shake of her head. “This was someone who didn’t know that Sherlock Holmes is still officially on sabbatical. But her need seemed great so I agreed to see her.”
Mrs. Watson exhaled in relief—she didn’t think Miss Charlotte would have announced Sherlock Holmes’s availability without consulting her. “I’m sure you managed to solve her problem.”
“I didn’t. The lady chose not to use our services.”
“She—what?” Mrs. Watson couldn’t help the sudden rise of her voice. How could anyone, having met the marvel that was Miss Charlotte Holmes, make such a decision?
“She seemed to be in need more of a cat burglar than a consulting detective. And once she learned that the consulting detective was bedridden, she made up her mind very easily,” said Miss Charlotte, sounding not only unsurprised but unaffected.
“I find myself speechless,” muttered Mrs. Watson, who was nowhere near as unaffected. She felt personally insulted, in fact. Personally rebuffed.
“It had to happen at some point. And between you and me, ma’am, I am relieved not to be attempting cat burglary.”
Mrs. Watson was going to ask for the identity of this foolish woman, but when Miss Charlotte reached for areligieuse, a choux pastry concoction, Mrs. Watson understood that her young friend was done with the subject.
And somehow, Mrs. Watson already knew the topic Miss Charlotte would broach next, even before the latter spoke. Despite the lively fire in the grate, the room suddenly felt colder.
With a sigh Miss Charlotte set thereligieusedown again and turned her large, limpid eyes to Mrs. Watson. “By the way, ma’am, why were you looking out of the window of the dining room earlier?”
?Charlotte was in Bernadine’s room again when Mr. Mears came with a message. “Miss Charlotte, there is a gentleman to see you. He says his name is Wiggins.”
Charlotte knew the name and had expected to hear from the gentleman, though perhaps not in person. “Please show him to the afternoon parlor.”
Wiggins turned out to be a rather shabby-looking man with thinning hair and droopy whiskers—a rather good disguise. Charlotte offered him a seat. They chatted sedately about the weather—cold, dreary drizzles in London, and similar conditions where he’d just been—until the arrival of the tea tray.
Once they were alone again, Charlotte said, “You have concluded your visit with my family, Mr. Marbleton.”
He had laid down a letter on the occasion table next to his chair. On the envelope was Mrs. Watson’s address, written in Livia’s hand.
“The rest of my family have already dispersed to Dover and Southampton, on their way out of the country.”
