Page 24 of A Ruse of Shadows
Mrs. Claiborne swallowed. Possibly in an unconscious imitation of Miss Charlotte, who radiated composure, she, too, clasped her hands in front of her. But her new posture only made Mrs. Watson feel tense from shoulder to wrist.
“Ladies, will you promise never to tell Mr. Underwood what I’m about to tell you?”
“We take client confidentiality very seriously,” answered Miss Charlotte.
This was no promise at all, yet Mrs. Claiborne exhaled. She crossed to the sideboard and drank from a silver flask. With her fingertips, she flicked at the corner of her lips. “The last time Mr. Underwood visited me in person, six weeks ago, I woke up at night to the sound of men in a heated conversation. I recognized Mr. Underwood’s voice but not the other person’s.
“They were downstairs in the entry, and Mr. Underwood was warning the man not to come to the villa again. Shortly after that he showed the man the door. And the very next day, he found this town house and I moved.”
Mrs. Watson did think that the town house had all the signs of having been leased fully furnished and in a great hurry, as the décor was completely at odds with the soft-hued elegance of Mrs. Claiborne’s attire.
“Describe the man who argued with Mr. Underwood that night.”
“Mr. Underwood didn’t call him by name, only ‘you swine.’ As he was leaving, I saw a large scar on his face, running down the entire left side of his cheek. I assumed that he was someone Mr. Underwood knew from boxing—so many of them had that hard, battered look, and so many of them go from incarcerated criminals to feted boxers and then back again.”
She panted, as if the account had drained her of all her strength. Incongruously, a peal of laughter erupted outside, muffled by the closed window.
Mrs. Watson stared a moment at the drawn drapes and longed for fresh air.
Miss Charlotte did not reply, even after the last echo of mirth had died down. The silence dragged. Mrs. Watson’s breaths began to whoosh in her own ears.
“Have you decided against telling us the rest, Mrs. Claiborne?” said Miss Charlotte at last.
Mrs. Claiborne jerked, then keened in the back of her throat, a sound of torment.
“Sherlock Holmes’s effectiveness depends on knowing as much as he can, going into a case,” said Miss Charlotte, her tone inexorable. “What do you want more, Mrs. Claiborne, to find Mr. Underwood or to keep your secret?”
Mrs. Claiborne covered her face with her hand. It was another minute before she let that hand fall limply to her side. “Mr. Underwood and I have dealt favorably with each other from the beginning. And I believe we will be happy in the future, too. But after he went missing, I’ve had too much time to think. As good as I am at not thinking about what I do not wish to, sometimes I can’t help but remember that at times…at times…”
“Yes?” came Miss Charlotte’s implacable prompting.
Mrs. Claiborne squeezed her eyes shut. “At times I’ve smelled perfume on him—and I don’t use fragrance.”
Mrs. Watson sighed. She herself would have never expected a protector to be faithful. But an expectation to marry changed things. In her longing for a traditional life, Mrs. Claiborne had turned a blind eye. Until she could deceive herself no longer.
Mrs. Claiborne opened her eyes again; she looked nauseated. “In the past I told myself that it must have been a female relation he found after he’d come of age, or the widow of a colleague he was kind enough to visit. But now that he’s gone without an explanation to anyone, and Lord Bancroft is sure that he hasn’t been caught by the crown…
“Maybe someone in the boxing circles wished him ill. Maybe he went away with that other woman instead. Or maybe he has left us both behind. After all, women are everywhere to be had. It would bemore convenient for him to find a new mistress or two in the New World, wouldn’t it, rather than taking the trouble to export one from here?”
Silence fell again. Mrs. Claiborne returned to her seat and dropped into it.
Her motion felt like a collapse, her unhappiness a great numbness in the air.
“If I may ask, Mrs. Claiborne,” said Miss Charlotte, her bland expression unchanged, “what have you done with the villa, the one Lord Bancroft gifted you?”
She did not ignore Mrs. Claiborne’s distress but cut through it like a fast, sharp-hulled vessel parted the waves.
Mrs. Claiborne appeared bewildered. “The villa? It—it’s still there. But I don’t think you’ll find anything useful inside.”
“Nevertheless, I’d like to take a look.”
“Of course. One moment, please.”
Mrs. Claiborne returned two minutes later with a set of keys—and red-rimmed eyes.
She handed the keys to Miss Charlotte, her eyes swimming again. “Miss Holmes, in case—in case you find out that Mr. Underwood left the country with that other woman, please don’t let me know. Just tell me that he emigrated by himself.”
“I’m sure it won’t come to that, Mrs. Claiborne,” said Miss Charlotte, rising from her chair, looking as serene as the Madonna of Bruges. “I’m sure of it.”
