Page 102 of A Ruse of Shadows
The tunnel between De Lacey Industries and City and Suburban Bank had, of course, not been dug from the wine cellar at the former but from a house that was located not far from either. Instead of purchasing the house outright, Lord Ingram had opted to make up an entity called the Sylvestrina Society, based on the owner’s unusual name.
The Sylvestrina Society was purportedly begun by an extremely wealthy German aristocrat who, having been both proud of and embarrassed by her name, had decided in her will to honor other Sylvestrinas by gifting those her lawyers could find three months at the seaside, all expenses paid, with a weekly stipend besides.
The only significant stipulation was that each recipient must swear to absolute secrecy, lest everyone start naming their daughters Sylvestrina to take advantage of the society’s largesse.
Mrs. Calder, after overcoming her initial skepticism, had had the time of her life on the Devon coast, looked after by none other than Norbert, Livia’s mother Lady Holmes’s former maid and Lord Remington’s agent.
Livia’s mind buzzed with ideas. Instead of a very rare name, she could make the requirement something like, oh, bright flaming hair. The Red-Headed League. And a red-haired fellow is paid to leave his house so that a tunnel could be dug to the nearest bank.
Yes, that could work. Sherlock Holmes, when consulted, would realize the deceptive nature of the ruse immediately and—
“Excuse me, is this seat taken?” said a soft voice.
Livia turned and saw a woman with a drop-brim hat in a very fashionable dress of printed cotton.
“No, please feel free to sit.”
“Thank you.”
Livia returned her attention to the statue of Daphne she’d been staring at. Now where was she? Yes, Sherlock Holmes. She ought to find out what the inside of a strong room looked like, so she could write a convincing one. She ought to—
Wait. The woman who had sat down beside her—where had she seen the woman before?
Her head whipped toward the new occupant of the bench, who was twisting her handkerchief in a rather shy manner.
Dear God! Before Sherlock Holmes and company had come to Paris last December, they had met at the house near Portman Square, and a maid who looked somewhat like this woman had opened the door.
Except the maid had been no maid but Mr. Marbleton in disguise!
“Have you been well, Miss Holmes?” said he, his head still bent.
Livia’s eyes filled with tears. She looked back at the statue, as if he were but another stranger she’d encountered at the park. “I have been—I have been very well.”
She knew, of course, that he had been freed. But no one she knew had witnessed this escape, and the Marbletons had not sent word afterward. It was as if they had disappeared into the ether. As if they had never been there in the first place.
But now he was here.
He was here.
“Haveyoubeen well?” she managed to ask.
“I am as well at this moment as I have ever been in my entire life.”
Was his voice breaking, like hers?
“And now that we’ve got that out of the way, Miss Holmes, I can no longer keep my impatience at bay. Has your story been published yet?”
Her tears fell. “No, but it will be published in this year’sBeeton’s Christmas Annual. They paid me twenty-five pounds.”
“I am beyond happy for you.”
“I am beyond happy for you, too.”
“Please allow me to apologize for the very ill manner of my speech last December.”
She barely remembered now how he had pushed her away, so that she would not realize he had lost his freedom. “You are forgiven, sir.”
His handkerchief appeared on her lap. She wiped at her eyes. “Will you disappear again very soon, Mr. Marb—actually, may I call you Stephen?”
