Page 61 of A Ruse of Shadows
“Her sister was just leaving—that was the first time I met Mrs. Farr—and Mimi was in a mood. She railed against Mrs. Farr and said that she was too obdurate, and too antiquated in her opinions. She said she hated that Mrs. Farr would not leave her alone to lead her own life.”
So Mrs. Farr berated her sister in private but refused to let her be berated by the Mrs. Osbornes of the world?
“And then she wept,” continued Mrs. Lane. She now had a different hairpin in hand, this one studded with green paste jewels, resembling a leaf. “I was flabbergasted by her tears, but she sobbed that she was a terrible person for saying such things about someone who had not only sacrificed endlessly for her but was a literal angel, an angel who managed to bring up half a dozen street urchins and even adopted one of them.
“ ‘I just don’t know why we can’t get along anymore,’ she said to me. ‘Everything I want to do is wrong in her eyes, and everything she does is controlling and interfering. We love each other so, but wecan’t be in the same room these days without getting into a huge quarrel. I’m exhausted just thinking about her. And I hate that.’ ”
Mrs. Lane fell silent—and carefully jabbed the sharp end of the leaf pin into the palm of her opposite hand, as if trying to gauge how much pressure she could apply before she caused pain to herself. And then, very gently, she placed the hairpin back in the penguin tin.
“I went to Mimi’s funeral last year. I was devastated by her death, and I was only more devastated for Mrs. Farr. She didn’t shed a single tear, but every time I looked at her, I would start crying again. Even now when I think back to that day, I can feel the force of her grief—and beneath that, the burn of her anger.”
?Mrs. Lane accompanied Charlotte to a large cemetery, where Mimi Duffin was buried in a quiet corner. Charlotte placed a bouquet of roses on her simple grave, next to the handful of wildflowers already there.
On the headstone were engraved her name and the dates that spanned her all-too-brief life. Underneath those, the wordsGone, but not forgotten.
And underneath that,Vengeance is mine; I will repay.
Mimi Duffin, in the full bloom of life, would not have bought herself a headstone. The words, then, represented not her own sentiments but those of Mrs. Farr: She would see to it that justice would be done.
Had she already succeeded? Was that why Mr. Underwood was dead?
In its consideration of Lord Bancroft’s crimes, the crown had given barely a thought to Mimi Duffin’s brutal murder, except to order Charlotte’s silence on the matter. There was never any chance that he would stand trial for such a trivial crime. After all, the crown could not afford for his threats to be made good and the indiscretions of a certain royal exposed to the public.
Charlotte, on the day she had traveled with Mrs. Farr to identify Mimi Duffin’s body, had to tell her that this limited success was allthat Sherlock Holmes could deliver. That there was too little to go on for a full investigation into the identity of Mimi Duffin’s killers.
In the face of Mrs. Farr’s despair, it had taken every ounce of Charlotte’s inborn talent for dissemblance to lie convincingly, not to give away the fact that she knew exactly who had killed Mimi Duffin and for exactly what despicable reason.
“I would like to call on Mimi’s sister, if I could,” she said. “I remember her from all those years ago. And even then she was extremely protective of Mimi. I don’t know if she can bear yet another condolence call, but I feel I ought to do something. Send a note, at least.”
Mrs. Lane set a fabric rosette on the gravestone. “I know what you mean. I accidentally ran into her one day, right here. We both came with flowers for Mimi. At the time she wasn’t in the mood for prolonged conversation, but she was kind and told me that if I ever needed any help, I could send word to her via Kramer and Carnahan on Badger Lane.”
And Kramer and Carnahan on Badger Lane happened to be the chemist’s shop that Charlotte had visited earlier, where the clerk had known nothing about Mrs. Farr.
Twenty
Livia had thought that she wouldn’t be able to get much out of Lieutenant Atwood, the man in charge of operations in Aix-en-Provence. To her surprise, he had been quite forthcoming and even invited her to visit their headquarters, situated almost directly across the street from the house belonging to Moriarty.
They were in a large drawing room that faced the Cours Mirabeau, its walls covered with academy-style paintings of peasant girls who somehow maintained spotless feet and milky complexions.
“Did you enjoy your outing, Miss Holmes?”
The day before, Livia had visited Mount Sainte-Victoire in order to appear more like a real tourist.
“I did—I always relish the outdoors. What about you, sir—have you had any chance to visit the surrounding countryside?”
Immediately she realized she’d asked a silly question. He couldn’t possibly have had the time.
“Actually, I have,” said Lieutenant Atwood, setting down his coffee. “We visited a quarry and bought some tools shortly after we arrived in Aix. The quarry was halfway to the Luberon and made for an agreeable excursion.”
Quarry tools. Were they working with stones or—
“Surely—surely you’re not digging a tunnel.”
He smiled, white teeth against suntanned skin. “Of course not, Miss Holmes.”
He seemed sincere, but she had no idea how to gauge his cordial denial.
“It’s for storming Moriarty’s house,” he added, “if it came to that.”
