Page 49 of A Conspiracy in Belgravia
Mrs. Hindle glanced at the clock. Miss Redmayne did not miss the signal: It was time for them to return to their duties. “Ladies, thank you for having me. I hope some of the remedies will prove to be of use. Perhaps we’ll meet again someday.”
More pleasantries were exchanged, with Mrs. Hindle issuing an invitation to her callers to return anytime.
Charlotte pulled both Mrs. Watson’s and Miss Redmayne’s sleeves. “Cheddar. Want cheddar. More cheddar.”
The ladies looked at her, then exchanged a look with each other. Mrs. Watson was the first to react. “I’ll serve you some cheese when we get home, my dear.” And then, as Charlotte hoped she would, she turned back to the staff, “Speaking of cheddar, did Mr. Finch go to Somerset, the village of Cheddar? I’ve always heard there are some good sights to be seen in that area.”
“Yes, there’s where he went,” said the most loquacious maid. “Told me about the gorge and the caves.”
“Thank you.” Mrs. Watson inclined her head. “Ladies, you have been a delight.”
“A woman in his rooms?” Mrs. Watson and Miss Redmayne exclaimed together.
They were all three in the former nursery, which Miss Redmaynehad jokingly rechristened the gymnasium when she joined Charlotte and Mrs. Watson for Charlotte’s second self-defense lesson.
Miss Redmayne, with years of training under her belt, moved with a pantherlike grace. Charlotte’s walking stick had flown everywhere for most of the session, though toward the end she did manage to disarm Miss Redmayne once.
“It isn’t terribly shocking,” Charlotte pointed out, still panting against a wall. “Every sign indicates that he has moved past his youthful passion for Lady Ingram. What I find odd is the timing: that he has a woman in his rooms in the middle of the day.”
“It wouldn’t have been easy to smuggle her in, in broad daylight,” mused Miss Redmayne.
“Perhaps she’s been there since the night before and hasn’t left,” said Mrs. Watson. “But shouldn’t he be at work? You said it sounded as if she was addressing someone.”
“What Mr. Finch may or may not be doing with another woman—or with any number of other women—isn’t what we have been engaged to find out,” said Charlotte. “Lady Ingram wished to know ‘whether he has passed away unexpectedly, whether he has married and no longer wishes to continue our acquaintance, whether he has been imprisoned or sent abroad.’ At this point we can answer all of her queries. He hasn’t died, been imprisoned, or sent abroad. He hasn’t married. But by his action it’s obvious he no longer wishes to carry on as they had.”
“So do we let Lady Ingram know?” asked Miss Redmayne.
No one answered.
The question was settled for them when they went to the general post office and checked Sherlock Holmes’s private box.
There was a letter from Lady Ingram and she wished to speak with them at six o’clock that evening.
Mrs. Watson studied Lady Ingram’s upside-down image, taking note of her mounting distress.
“I know this isn’t what you had hoped to hear,” said Penelope, concluding her account, “but it is what we found, Mrs. Finch.”
Mrs. Watson flinched to hear Lady Ingram’s alias, now that she understood its significance. Even Miss Holmes, she thought, thinned her lips.
Lady Ingram was silent for a long time. It was difficult to tell via the camera obscura, but Mrs. Watson thought she shook. Then she said, “No, I’m afraid this is all wrong. You must have found a different Mr. Finch.”
“Even in a city of London’s size, there can’t be that many illegitimate Myron Finches working as accountants.”
“But you never saw him. By your account you’ve spoken to his landlady and the servants who work in the residential hotel where he lives. But you never saw him with your own eyes.”
“We are not acquainted with Mr. Finch,” Penelope pointed out. “And you have supplied no portrait or photographs. Seeing him in person would have made no difference to our investigation.”
“ButIknow what he looks like. If you’ll give me his address, I’ll arrange to speak to this man myself. There must be some mistake.”
“That is not what you asked of us, ma’am. We were tasked to discover whether he was dead, abroad, or otherwise detained in such a fashion that he could not get word to you.”
Lady Ingram’s jaw moved. “I thought that would be enough for me. I thought that would be enough either way. But now that I know he’s well and nothing untoward has befallen him, now that all my frenzied worries have proven to be nonsense, I—I can’t simply let it go. We loved each other. And I love him still. I always will.”
Unshed tears shimmered in her eyes. She looked at Penelope. “Please, Miss Holmes. I need to speak to him, face to face. I need to hear from his own lips that we are never to see each other again. I need this. And he owes me as much.”
“Mrs. Finch, listen to yourself,” Penelope said sharply. “You are a married woman. You have a husband who has treated you with honor and kindness. And here you are, pining after a man who has happily moved on to other things. Nothing but further heartbreak and disillusionment await you down this path.
“Go home. Reconsider. Stop grasping at a past that has already receded beyond all reach.”
