Page 51 of The Hollow of Fear
Bernadine was thirty years of age and it had been a quarter century since she last stepped out of the house. As far as Livia could remember, her name had never crossed anyone’s lips in a polite conversation. When Livia arrived in London, she was presented as simply Miss Holmes and not Miss Olivia Holmes, indicating that she was the eldest unmarried Holmes daughter, and completely erasing Bernadine’s position. Even Mrs. Newell, who otherwise remembered everyone, always referred to the Holmes girls as a trio and not a quartet as they were in truth.
She could only hope what she was about to reveal wouldn’t come as too much of a surprise to Lord Ingram.
“Miss Bernadine?” he said. “Yes, I know of her.”
Thank goodness. Livia gave a brief account of Bernadine’s change of surroundings, from the Holmes household to Moreton Close, the private institution for women from notable families who suffered from conditions similar to Bernadine’s. “I don’t trust my parents on important matters. I’m not sure I trust my own judgment on this, either. Charlotte has promised to investigate Moreton Close, but she can’t be spared right now.”
“I will direct my solicitor to make some inquiries, under the guise of representing the prominent family of a young woman who might benefit from their services. That way, we can perhaps gain entrance to the place.”
“Will you? That would be wonderful!”
Lord Ingram smiled, as if her relief had gladdened him. “Consider it done. But please know that it might take some time.”
“Thank you, my lord. Thank you!”
“No, thank you, Miss Holmes. And that reminds me, I have been tasked to give you a message.” He glanced behind himself. There was no one around, but still he lowered his voice. “Please visit the nursery. A mutual friend wishes to speak to you. Good day, Miss Holmes.”
The nursery was cheerfully decoratedbut silent and empty. Livia paced for a good ten minutes before a knock came. She rushed to answer—Charlotte, it had to be Charlotte.
But when she’d opened the door, a round, peculiar-looking man stood outside, all boutonnière and coiffed mustache, an ornate monocle screwed into one eye socket.
Disappointment and suspicion snuffed out Livia’s eager anticipation. “May I help you?”
“You may indeed, Miss Holmes,” said the man gravely. “I came to inquire after your progress on the Sherlock Holmes story.”
Only three people in the entire world knew that she was working on a story inspired by the Sackville case: Charlotte, Mrs. Watson, and the nameless young man who had recently sent her the moonstone cabochon.
Could this behim, in disguise?
Taking advantage of her astonished inaction, the man came in and closed the door. “I see Mrs. Watson and I are not the only ones you told, Livia.”
This time, he spoke with her baby sister’s voice.
Livia’s jaw fell. “Charlotte!” she managed a vehement whisper. “Charlotte! What—what— Good gracious— I—”
She gave up and stared.
The man—Charlotte—smiled. “You would cut a more dashing figure dressing as a man, Livia. The only way to accommodate my bosom is to create a considerable paunch.”
“Your mustache... and beard...”
“I know. All very good. Mrs. Watson knew where to get the best.”
Livia pulled herself together. “So how long have you been here?”
“Since last night. I’m staying on this floor, where there are no other guests.”
“Have you found out anything? Do you know who killed Lady Ingram?”
“Alas, even Sherlock Holmes cannot solve everything at a glance.”
“But you will find out who did this, won’t you? You won’t let... you won’t let anything happen to Lord Ingram.”
Even with all the disguise, Charlotte’s expression was somber. “I will do what I can.”
Don’t forget, I’ll look after you, Charlotte had told Livia at one point this past summer, not long after she’d established herself as oracle to Sherlock Holmes, fictional sage. The certainty with which she’d said it, the inevitability—it had been a promise, pure and simple.
Here Charlotte made no promises. And beneath the dignity of her words, did Livia detect a trace of apprehension?
