Page 6 of The Art of Theft
It has come to my attention that you are someone to whom one could appeal, if one needed important objects retrieved.
I should very much like such a retrieval. May I call on you at your earliest convenience?
Yours,
A Traveler from Distant Lands
She read the letter again, then she picked up the newspaper she’d just discarded. If she was correct in her assumptions, then this was a woman in need.
And Charlotte Holmes could use the distraction of a woman in need.
Two
The woman in need was indeed a traveler from distant lands. It was obvious that she hailed from the Indian subcontinent—and she was exceptionally lovely.
Well,lovelywas a lazy description. Her features were clean and sharp, her eyes large and dramatic. But more than beauty she possessed magnetism, a commanding presence that mesmerized without ever needing to be something as commonplace as pretty.
Lifting one elegant hand, she adjusted the diaphanous shawl draped around her hair. The shawl, which matched her dark green tunic and trousers, was a translucent green, embroidered with golden flowers and leaves. The hair it covered contained a few traces of grey. But her face was very nearly unlined; only her hand, with its faintly crepe-like skin, gave away her age.
“I am very sorry to hear of Mr. Holmes’s misfortune,” she said, her voice soft and cultured, her accent as subtle as the fragrance of a rose petal.
But Charlotte heard her disappointment.
From the moment she had walked into the parlor at 18 Upper Baker Street, and had seen that she would be received by Charlotte and Charlotte alone, that disappointment had been palpable. She’d politely listened to Charlotte’s usual explanation of Sherlock Holmes’sincapacity. But whereas other clients became anxious, wondering whether the consulting detective would still be able to help them, what Charlotte read on this woman’s face was an absolute certainty that she had wasted her time.
“Despite his handicap,” Charlotte pressed on, “my brother has helped a number of clients, many of whom are happy to provide testimonials for the services they have received. Would you like a list of names to whom you may apply for such reassurances?”
A vertical crease appeared at the center of the woman’s forehead. “That will not be necessary. I thank you for your time, Miss Holmes, but I do not believe that your brother is the right person for the task I have in mind.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. Are you sure, ma’am, that there is nothing we can do to convince you otherwise?”
The woman looked as if she were on the verge of another emphaticno. But then she glanced toward the closed door of the bedroom. “Frankly, Miss Holmes, I am not even convinced that there is indeed someone in that room.”
Different clients reacted differently to news of Sherlock Holmes’s incapacity, but this was the first time anyone had openly called into question the fundamental conceit of Charlotte’s masquerade.
Charlotte raised a brow. Her client’s tone was not adversarial—in fact, her voice remained as soft as a shower of feathers. But there was no mistaking the challenge in her claim.
“Madam, I cannot satisfy your wish in that regard. My brother cannot speak due to his injuries, and you must forgive me for not allowing clients to intrude on his privacy. So my word will have to suffice on this matter—my word, that is, and a demonstration of Sherlock’s mental acuity.”
“And how will this demonstration proceed, given all Mr. Holmes’s infirmities?”
Despite her disinclination to use Sherlock Holmes’s services, there was still a note of curiosity in her voice.
“We have built a camera obscura between those two rooms, so he has observed your image as projected on his walls. And he can communicate by touch via a modified Morse code.” Charlotte rose from her chair. “I will be a very short while. And when I return, I will relay my brother’s deductions and you can judge to what extent he is correct.”
She stayed inside for three minutes. During that time, her client did not move, nor did she take either tea or cake.
“Thank you for your patience, madam,” said Charlotte, upon her return. “Or perhaps I should say, Your Highness.”
The woman had not been relaxed in her demeanor—no one who came to these premises for help was. But now she tensed, and Charlotte was put into mind of an eagle about to take flight. But to flee or to hunt?
“Not every Indian woman in London is a maharani, Miss Holmes.” Her voice was still soft, as soft as a velvet glove around a hand that had just drawn a sword.
“Indeed not. The last one I came across was an indigent widow of a British soldier, trying to gather enough funds to go home. But you wrote from the Langham and expressly labeled yourselfa Traveler from Distant Lands.
“Upon seeing your note my brother recalled reading in the papers that a princely delegation from India had landed in the Langham last week. After he said that, I found another article concerning said delegation’s reception at Windsor Castle two days ago, in which it was mentioned that Her Majesty the queen was particularly gracious to the Maharani of Ajmer, holding a conversation with the latter lasting nearly three quarters of an hour.”
The maharani’s face shuttered. She now regarded Charlotte as if she, too, had drawn her weapons.
