Page 75 of A Ruse of Shadows
The patience and tenderness that had come into Mrs. Farr’s countenance at the sight of her adopted child fled at Charlotte’s words. But Charlotte did not allow her to make yet another attempt at eviction.
“To be perfectly honest, Mrs. Farr, I also don’t care about the Christmas Eve Murder, for the exact same reasons you listed. As you were a former client, I merely consider it an obligation to caution youof potential trouble on the horizon. But that’s not the only reason why I have called on you today, not even the primary one.
“You see, around the time I was asked to look into your late husband’s death, I also accepted another commission, to investigate the disappearance of one Mr. William Underwood.”
Mrs. Farr’s eyelids twitched, but she said nothing.
“Lord Bancroft Ashburton, Mr. Underwood’s former superior and the one who asked me to inquire into the matter, suggested that perhaps Mr. Underwood’s ties to boxing had turned out to be troublesome. As I had no other clues, I started by finding his protégés, two of whom are apparently closely connected to you.
“Mumble and Jessie have been described to me as foster siblings. Were you their foster mother, Mrs. Farr?”
Mrs. Farr still said nothing.
“I will take your silence as a non-denial then.” Charlotte took a sip of her tea—she had decided to think of it as sweetened water, a decent enough beverage for a woman who had walked many miles this day. “It soon came to my attention that Mumble and Jessie had been at the villa where Mr. Underwood and his mistress once resided. The mistress moved to a town house about six weeks ago. There is a strong suggestion that Mumble and Jessie were also at the town house in recent days.
“And that is a dangerous position for these two foster children of yours. He is Roma—it is almost assured that any hint of misdeed on his part would become guilt itself. Jessie’s situation is not much better. She is an orphaned girl who boxes. A woman with a propensity toward violence? Who knows what else she would be capable of? Criminality would be the easiest assumption.”
Mrs. Farr’s jaw clenched.
“Why are you so interested in Mr. Underwood, Mrs. Farr, to an extent that you have steered these otherwise promising young people onto a path of potential ruin?”
“That is none of your business.”
“Indeed not. But I admire their dedication to you and do not wish to see their future thrown away for an old woman’s whim.”
Mrs. Farr’s fingers dug into the armrests of her chair.
Somewhere outside the parlor, footsteps sounded on a creaky staircase, followed by a whispered conversation, which sounded like someone trying to convince Eliza to go back upstairs and resume her reading.
“However,” Charlotte carried on, “if you think I am trying to put a stop to your madness, you are mistaken. I’m here to tell you that Mumble and Jessie are in far greater trouble than you can imagine. The woman whose houses they broke into to search for clues to Mr. Underwood’s whereabouts has been found dead, shot three times in the back. Mr. Underwood, too, is dead.”
The whispers outside the parlor stopped.
“I don’t believe you,” said Mrs. Farr.
“You don’t need to believe me,” said Charlotte, “but that will not change the facts. Mr. Underwood is no more, and whatever you wanted of him—unless Mumble and Jessie killed him—”
Mrs. Farr slammed her hand down on the table. “Of course they didn’t!”
The tea service rattled. Charlotte drained her sugared and milk-cloudy hot water. “That aside, whatever you wanted from Mr. Underwood, you will never have it now. Best tell Mumble and Jessie to leave London for a while, if you still care about them.”
Twenty-five
Charlotte stood outside the street entrance of her hotel suite, Mrs. Watson’s parting words still echoing in her ears.
Be careful, the dear lady had said. These days, they were always saying that to each other.
Charlotte looked around and made a left turn. Several streets away she got in a hansom cab and asked to be taken to Great Russell Street.
The most notable landmark in that part of the town was the British Museum. At this time of the night, even with the establishment’s extended summer schedule, the last museumgoer had departed hours ago.
Despite streetlamps and lights that illuminated the façade of the museum, the area was shadowy and starkly empty. The houses that surrounded the great institution stood as silent as stone sentries around a mausoleum, all shut doors and blind windows: It was late enough in summer that those headed for the country had already departed and those remaining in London had gone to bed at a reasonable hour.
Charlotte marched past the museum’s front gate, swinging her cane a little. She turned right, then turned right again. Behind the museum it was even quieter. Her footsteps echoed. The tapping ofher cane on the pavement, inaudible in the rush of the day, boomed in the nocturnal silence, loud as a door slamming.
She barely saw the shadow swim toward her on the ground. Spinning around, she lifted her weighted cane just in time to intercept a strike of her attacker’s umbrella. The clash was muted by the umbrella’s neatly rolled canopy, only a dullthumpthat barely rippled the air.
The impact, however, jolted Charlotte’s shoulder. She had not neglected hercanne de combatpractice with Mrs. Watson; still, it felt as if her cane had met with a sledgehammer. She stumbled backward. Her attacker’s umbrella swooped down almost before she could parry again.
