Page 78 of Miss Moriarty, I Presume?
Livia received Charlotte’s note in the morning, but could not leave then. The evening before, she and Mrs. Newell had run into Mrs. Graham, a friend of Lady Holmes’s, and Mrs. Graham had insisted that Livia and Mrs. Newell come with her for a morning drive in the park.
At Mrs. Graham’s suggestion, the drive was followed by a visit to the modiste’s. Livia enjoyed fashion, but not so much that she wanted to spend hours at a mantua-maker’s when she couldn’t buy anything.
She could afford a new dress now: Between what Charlotte had paid her for her contributions at Moriarty’s château in France and what she’d received for her Sherlock Holmes novel, she had a bit of money on hand. But Mrs. Graham would have tattled and she had no way of explaining to her parents where her funds had come from.
So she gritted her teeth and waited. Thank goodness Mrs. Newell, sensing her impatience, allowed her to rush off as soon as they’d returned to their hotel. At Mrs. Watson’s, Livia found Charlotte in the late Dr. Watson’s study, flipping through a heavy medical tome.
In her note Charlotte hadn’t said anything about the Garden of Hermopolis. She had not even mentioned Cornwall, only that they’d returned to London. Livia’s gladness upon receiving the note had been quickly punctured by doubts. They’d come back so fast. Too fast. Was it possible that the problem had been solved that easily? Or had the place been so awful that they’d had no choice but to abandon their post?
But seeing Charlotte peaceably reading, Livia’s nerves settled. Her sister looked fine. No, better than fine. Why, Charlotte was practically radiant.
They walked to 18 Upper Baker Street. Once there, Charlotte told Livia that she had seen Miss Baxter with her own eyes and that Miss Baxter was not only alive but looked magnificent and masterful.
Overcome with relief, Livia hugged Charlotte tight. The next thing she knew, she’d launched into a breathless account of her encounter with Mr. Marbleton in the Reading Room and her subsequent discovery of the address he had put down when he’d renewed his reader’s ticket.
“Well done,” said Charlotte when Livia mentioned how she’d recalled the alias Miss Marbleton had used the previous summer. “I must have brought up the name Ellie Hartford in front of you exactly once.”
“It was a near thing,” said Livia, flushing with pleasure. “And then, when I actually went to the address provided by Elliot Hartford, it turned out to be the last thing I expected, a souvenir shop for the queen’s Golden Jubilee.”
Charlotte raised a brow, an expression of great surprise on her part that further gratified Livia.
“But just as I was beginning to despair about being completely wrong, I saw a cockade in the display window and realized that it was what he had worn on his lapel!” Livia exclaimed in triumph. “So I went ahead and bought one of everything that was in the display window, in case we couldn’t examine them to our satisfaction in the shop.”
She hadn’t made the purchases solely to bring them before Charlotte’s gaze, of course. Mr. Marbleton had been to the shop. He had seen and possibly touched these items. To Livia, they commemorated not Victoria’s fifty years on the throne, but the trail of breadcrumbs he’d left—and that she’d understood him well enough to follow it.
From her reticule she pulled out a sheet of paper. She’d drawn a picture of the display window, sketched the placement of all the items, and even penciled in the number of each.
“They were laid out like this,” she said, and arranged her purchases on Sherlock Holmes’s neatly made bed according to the illustration.
“You were very thorough,” said Charlotte, who had followed her into the “convalescent brother’s” bedroom.
Livia again warmed at the compliment. “I also spoke to the people in the shop but they didn’t have much to tell me.”
Charlotte reached out a hand. “This is the kind of cockade Mr. Marbleton wore when you saw him in Reading Room?”
“The colors and the materials may not be identical, but they are similar enough.”
Livia went to the parlor to bring back a cup of tea—she was thirsty from recounting her tale, and in need of something to do so her excitement wouldn’t get the better of her. Her excitement and anxiety. She’d followed the trail of breadcrumbs this far, what if she could proceed no farther? Or, what if she could? What did the trail actually lead to?
Charlotte, as composed as ever, picked up the items Livia had laid out one by one. “Nice hat. Decent fan. The ribbon is also serviceable. One can have a game of whist with these Jubilee playing cards while drinking from a Jubilee teacup.”
“These were all the items closest to the cockade,” added Livia unnecessarily, as she’d already told her sister that the arrangement on the bed duplicated that in the display window. “And the Stanhope, too.”
The Stanhope, at first glance, resembled an ivory fountain pen. “What does it show?”
“The queen’s homes, I think?” said Livia, setting aside her now empty teacup. “There were others that showed her family. Some even showed famous naval ships, but I preferred the scenery.”
Charlotte put the optical device close to her eye. “Yes,” she murmured. “I can see photographs of Buckingham Palace, Balmoral Castle, and Osborne House.”
“You don’t think Mr. Marbleton is trying to hint that Moriarty is planning to sabotage the Jubilee, do you?” asked Livia, choking on her own question.
Charlotte put down the Stanhope. “No. If that were the case, Mr. Marbleton would have been taking his own life far too lightly, writing down the address of a Jubilee souvenir shop right in front of Moriarty’s men.”
Livia rubbed her throat, breathing easier. “But if he isn’t hinting at Jubilee-related schemes, why did he point us to these gewgaws?”
Her fear of being completely wrong came back. “It isn’t all coincidental, is it?”
Charlotte had removed her turban to put on the Union Jack-festooned toque Livia had bought, which, like the purple turban, did not go with her dusty rose dress at all. “Everything is possible, but this is Mr. Marbleton we are speaking of. Few people in the entire world are as instinctual about clandestine communication as his family must be.”
