Page 7 of Miss Moriarty, I Presume?
“Her latest letterwas full of musings on the human condition—or rather, the human apparel,” said Mrs. Watson, of her beloved niece Miss Redmayne, a medical student in Paris. “After having attended two childbirths, an appendectomy, and a funeral all in one week, she wondered whether we are so insistent on good clothes because the body, in the end, is unmistakably animal. A human childbirth is shockingly messy, a human split open is just organs and intestines, and a decomposing human is no different from any other piece of meat left out too long.”
Neither Lord Ingram nor Charlotte said anything. Charlotte had nothing to add. As for Lord Ingram, perhaps his sense of delicacy prevented him from furthering the conversation. But more importantly, they both knew that Mrs. Watson was reaching for things to say, meandering on to delay the inevitable.
Which could not be delayed much longer.
Charlotte rose and went to the window seat, where a pot of narcissus bloomed, all snow-white petals and bright yellow centers. It had been given to Sherlock Holmes by a horticulturally inclined client, alongside a handwritten booklet on its proper care and feeding. Charlotte’s favorite part of the instruction concerned the sousing of the bulbs, an addition of spirits so that the stalks would not grow too tall and bend over.
She was decanting a spoonful of whisky into the footed bowl when Lord Ingram said, “Holmes, I take it your plan is still to wait and see?”
Putting aside the whisky, she picked up a piece of soft linen and wiped particles of dust from the slender green stems. “Officially, yes. But we also have Bernadine already sedated and placed inside Mrs. Watson’s coach, alongside some essential luggage. Mrs. Watson and I currently carry a dizzying number of banknotes, plus two firearms apiece. And Lawson is to bring the carriage around the back of number 18 a little after the arrival of Moriarty’s representatives.”
Silence.
Charlotte continued with her task of keeping the narcissus pristine but gazed out of the bow window. Streetlamps had been lit, their glow hazy at this twilight hour. No pedestrians lingered. Heads bent, shoulders hunched, they hastened forward. Even the paperboy seemed to be in a rush.
“In other words,” said Lord Ingram slowly, “all you needed was the addition of a miniaturized Maxim gun to mow down anyone standing between you and your coach.”
Someone snorted. Mrs. Watson.
Charlotte smiled slightly. “Indeed.”
Silence again. Lord Ingram left his seat to retrieve the whisky from the bow window, next to where Charlotte sat. He poured for both Mrs. Watson and himself. They drank without clinking glasses, and without speaking.
When their glasses had been drained, Lord Ingram said to Mrs. Watson, “I might as well load the cartridge belt into the Maxim gun. Would you assist me, ma’am?”
Mrs. Watson winced but agreed.
Alone in the parlor, Charlotte returned to the tea table and picked up one of Madame Gascoigne’s dangerously delicious éclairs. The clicking and grinding from the installation of the cartridge belt lasted only seconds—as she’d thought, Lord Ingram had not needed any real help with that. But through the open bedroom door, Mrs. Watson looked very much in need of his renewed embrace. She clung to him, her arms banded hard around his middle, her fingers gripping on to the Harris tweed of his jacket.
Charlotte took a slow bite of her éclair. She was very likely endangering these two. But by how much? And was there a loss of Moriarty’s that he could pin directly on Charlotte?
Her discovery that Lady Ingram was a Moriarty minion could be argued as Lord Ingram finding out the truth on his own. The public disclosure of Moriarty’s name in the wake of the Stern Hollow affair? Lady Ingram had taken the initiative, when she’d turned against her former master. Ending Moriarty’s thieving, via De Lacey Industries, from Cousins Manufacturing? Sherlock Holmes had merely been helping a friend suspected of murders he did not commit.
Of far larger concern were the great many items Charlotte and company had raided this past December from a hidden safe in Château Vaudrieu, Moriarty’s lair outside of Paris. But that grand larceny had taken place at a masquerade ball where their faces and identities had been hidden. And really, they hadn’t even known they would be dealing with him when they’d set out for the château to recover letters for a client suffering from blackmail.
Overall, from the point of view of an external observer, Sherlock Holmes had been but a coincidental inconvenience to Moriarty, never an intentional adversary.
This last was true even from Charlotte’s own point of view.
In the bedroom, Lord Ingram and Mrs. Watson had moved to the window. They now stood side by side, his arm around her, her head on his shoulder.
Waiting.
Unfortunately, it did not matter what Charlotte knew or believed, but what Moriarty did. Whatdidhe believe? And what if he knew more than Charlotte suspected?
She glanced again at the two people at the bedroom window, then down to the dangerously delicious éclair of which she’d taken only one bite.
“A carriage!” cried Mrs. Watson. “A carriage has stopped before our door!”
Livia Holmes had disliked London.It was too crowded, too dirty, too insalubrious—and too directly associated with her longstanding failure at matrimony. “Eight Seasons and not a single proposal!” was an expletive her mother hurled at her at the slightest provocation, or sometimes even out of the blue.
But these days, London had come to symbolize escape—and hope. London was where Charlotte had established a thriving practice as Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective. London was where she had formed a close-knit group of friends who warmly embraced Livia as one of their own. And London was where Livia planned to be, should she ever win the freedom to leave her parents.
All of which had made Mrs. Newell’s surprise announcement the night before deliriously welcome. Mrs. Newell, cousin to Sir Henry, Livia’s father, had always been sympathetic toward Livia’s desire to be away from home. Livia was already profoundly grateful that she’d invited Livia to her place in the country; she almost could not believe her good fortune that Mrs. Newell had planned a trip to London.
At their hotel, they were put up in a large, luxurious suite reminiscent of a private house, with its own door to the street that did not necessitate passing through the hotel’s foyer.
“Ah, but I’ve had enough of moving around today,” said Mrs. Newell. “These old bones love a soft chair more than they love adventure these days.”
