Page 78 of A Ruse of Shadows
“What?” Mrs. Claiborne’s voice now rose half an octave. “That is a despicable claim. I never visited Lord Bancroft at Ravensmere. I haven’t seen him since the day we parted ways.”
Mrs. Watson, now checking Mumble’s pulse, exhaled, as if relieved by Mrs. Claiborne’s declaration, even though she already knew it was a different woman who went to see Bancroft.
“Rest assured, I believe you—the guard at Ravensmere recognized the counterfeit version. I only bring it up because the initiative she displayed in visiting a former protector did not accord with the image she presented of a woman who was maladroit at mistressing and who longed for nothing more than the simplicity and security of married life.”
“Is that so?” the real Mrs. Claiborne murmured. “I did long for companionship that wasn’t based on buying and selling, but I had no idea I was so inept at my own line of work.”
She hadn’t touched her coffee; Holmes poured her a glass of water. Lord Ingram wondered why in the world he had believed, when they were children, that Holmes wouldn’t know how to look after others—was it because she had never been interested in catering to his every whim?
“Due to these incongruities,” said Holmes, “and because everything we know about the counterfeit Mrs. Claiborne came from the counterfeit Mrs. Claiborne herself, we did not place our entire faith in what she said. But when I examined the locket that was found with her body, it began to appear far more likely that something had been fabricated entirely: The locket was too new and handled too little.”
“I would not have worn a locket—it’s practically an invitation for people to wonder who matters enough for you to keep their image near your heart,” said the real Mrs. Claiborne quietly. “My photograph of Mr. Underwood is in the handle of my hairbrush, and his of me is inside the back of his watch. We decided that no one would be looking too closely at those items.”
In the boudoir, Mrs. Watson shook her head. She was near enough that Lord Ingram reached out and held her hand. She smiled rather tremulously at him, raised their combined hands, and rubbed the side of his palm against her cheek before letting go to straighten the pillow under Mumble’s head.
Holmes tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. Now that LordIngram was accustomed to how her short hair framed her features, he wondered that more women hadn’t adopted the style.
“Because of these inconsistencies presented by the counterfeit Mrs. Claiborne,” said she, “I was at a bit of a loss. If the woman who had introduced herself to us as Mrs. Claiborne wasn’t in fact Mrs. Claiborne, who could verify that? Mr. Underwood? The servants that the real Mrs. Claiborne had already dismissed a while ago—records of whom had disappeared from the domestic offices at the villa? And it was possible, indeed even likely, that the counterfeit Mrs. Claiborne had brought up a second woman in Mr. Underwood’s life just so that if her house of cards started to fall down, she could always claim that in fact she was Mrs. Anderson, who really truly had Mr. Underwood’s affection.
“The bigger question, however, was, if she was not the real Mrs. Claiborne, then what had happened to the real Mrs. Claiborne? She could have died; she could have fled the country; she could have left Mr. Underwood for less perilous pastures—and I had no evidence for any of it.
“But when I learned of the close ties between Mrs. Farr and Mumble and Jessie, a new likelihood arose. Assuming that Mr. Underwood knew himself to be in danger, assuming that he was terrified for Mrs. Claiborne’s safety, too, and assuming that—if it had so happened—they had missed the best opportunity to send her abroad, where could he trust her to be safe? And who could he trust not to betray her—and him?”
Tears rolled down Mrs. Claiborne’s face. Belatedly she reached for her handkerchief and wiped the moisture away. Mrs. Farr remained unresponsive, as if what was going on in the parlor had nothing to do with her—except, after a while, in an abrupt motion, she glanced toward the boudoir. Mrs. Watson, who could not have seen that look, nevertheless took a handkerchief and patted Jessie’s slightly perspiring forehead.
Holmes was the calm center of the maelstrom. As a boy Lord Ingram had found her calmness unnerving, but now he understoodthat it was not an absence of feelings but more an unruffled acceptance of other people’s emotions. “Would you say, Mrs. Claiborne, that before Mr. Underwood took on Mr. Waters and Miss Ferguson, he investigated them thoroughly?”
“Yes. He wanted only the best companions for Johnny.”
“And in that process, he learned that Mr. Waters and Miss Ferguson had been fostered by Mrs. Farr. He subsequently learned that among a certain subset of the population, Mrs. Farr is known to provide temporary refuge to those in dire straits, especially women and children. Am I still correct?”
“Yes.”
“But he went one step further, didn’t he? To ensure that you had Mrs. Farr’s personal attention, when you met her, he had you give her a letter. The gist of the letter promised that crucial information concerning Miss Mimi Duffin’s murder would be revealed to Mrs. Farr if she kept you away from all unfriendly gazes.”
Mrs. Claiborne nodded, even as another tear dropped down her face. Lord Ingram took a shaky breath. Sometimes people failed because they hadn’t prepared adequately. But no one could say that Mr. Underwood hadn’t done everything possible. And yet in the end, that still hadn’t been enough.
He, Holmes, and everyone—they, too, were doing everything possible. But what if their preparations still fell short? What if Destiny had its thumb on the scale and they could only ever toil in futility?
“Of course, upon reading this letter,” continued Holmes, “Mrs. Farr immediately questioned you. But you weren’t able to tell her anything—because you sincerely knew nothing, because Mr. Underwood forbade you to mention either himself or Lord Bancroft, or both. In any case, Mrs. Farr, whose desire for vengeance burned harsher with each passing day, had to wait, as you did, for Mr. Underwood to return and fulfill his promise.
“But then something made you defy Mr. Underwood’s strictures and confide in Mrs. Farr, at least to the identity of the letter writer.”
Mrs. Claiborne tucked away her handkerchief and glanced at Mrs. Farr. Lord Ingram was wary of Mrs. Farr, but in Mrs. Claiborne’s gaze there was no fear, only admiration and sorrow.
“My birthday was ten days ago,” she answered. “Mr. Underwood had told me that if by then I still hadn’t heard from him, I should go to Southampton and use the passage we’d bought for Freetown. But I couldn’t simply go. What if he needed help?
“I knew I’d only make a muck of things if I went about looking for him, but Mrs. Farr was no ordinary woman, and she was clearly prepared to go to great lengths to avenge her late sister. So I told her that Mr. Underwood had been the one who sent the letter; Mr. Underwood, well-known to Mrs. Farr’s foster children.
“As it turned out, Mrs. Farr had not allowed his sponsorship of her foster children without first looking intohisbackground. She had managed to learn that he worked for the crown, in a capacity that ordinary subjects were not to know. And that had seemed respectable enough for her. She did fret that his house—mine, that is—seemed a bit too grand, which she knew because she had Mumble follow him home once or twice. But she approved of how he treated Johnny, and felt that he did want the best for his boxers.”
An unhappy presentiment came over Lord Ingram: He had an idea now how Bancroft had found Mimi Duffin.
“Mrs. Farr,” Holmes asked, “Mr. Waters said he saw Mrs. Claiborne once, when she delivered something to Mr. Esposito’s house on Mr. Underwood’s behalf. He never identified Mrs. Claiborne to you?”
Mrs. Farr’s only response was to rise out of her chair and head for the boudoir. Lord Ingram stepped back to allow her inside. She drew up short at the sight of Mrs. Watson gently prying Jessie’s braid from underneath her shoulder, so the girl wouldn’t yank on her own scalp if she were to roll on her side. But when Mrs. Watson looked up uncertainly, Mrs. Farr sat down on the floor beside the divan and placed a hand on Mumble’s knee.
In the parlor, as it became apparent that Mrs. Farr would not return immediately, Mrs. Claiborne cleared her throat and replied for her. “Mr. Waters and Miss Ferguson were not involved in how I sought and found refuge with Mrs. Farr. And after I moved into Mrs. Farr’s house, I made sure to always remain in my room when she had visitors. But this time I was trying to keep young Eliza focused on her reading and chased her down the stairs when she wriggled too much…”
