Page 40 of A Ruse of Shadows
Unlike Jessie, who retained a slight Scottish lilt to her speech, the Romani—or perhaps half-Romani—Mumble spoke with an accent that made it difficult to pin down his geographical or class origin. He hadn’t been educated at a public school like Eton or Harrow, of that much Mrs. Watson could be certain. Otherwise, even someone of her sensitive ears couldn’t glean much more about him from his consonants and vowels.
His table manners were also excellent. Jessie, too, seemed familiar with the veritable parade of silverware on the table, though she waited to see which dining implement Mumble selected, before she made the same selection. Johnny, on the other hand, made Mrs. Watson think of a schoolgirl abruptly thrust into the midst of a London Season, with no preparation other than a hasty skimming ofDebrett’s.
At the end of supper, Miss Charlotte offered to send the boxers home, and they all, to a one, declined firmly. The young people left on foot; the consulting detectives climbed into their carriage.
As the vehicle pulled away from the curb, Mrs. Watson exhaled. “They are pleasant enough company, Mr. Underwood’s boxers. But this evening wasn’t exactly the most productive use of our time, was it, when we still have so much to do?”
“I’m afraid I must disagree vociferously, ma’am,” murmured Miss Charlotte. “This has, in fact, been a most illuminating evening.”
Mrs. Watson stared at the girl—the carriage lanterns cast just enough light to make out the gleam in her eyes. Then she looked out the rear window at the boxers on the curb, walking shoulder to shoulder, their eyes fixed on the carriage.
“How? How was this meeting illuminating?”
Miss Charlotte smiled very slightly. “Because now I know who searched Mrs. Claiborne’s villa shortly before I did: Mumble and Jessie.”
Thirteen
Mrs. Watson stood at the back door of Mrs. Claiborne’s hired town house and rang the bell again.
Still no response.
She’d sent a message the night before, informing Mrs. Claiborne of her intention to call. Mrs. Claiborne should have been anxiously waiting for any news that might shed light on Mr. Underwood’s fate.
But even if Mrs. Watson’s letter had gone astray, she would still have expected Mrs. Claiborne to be home. After all, this was a woman who, out of fear, kept her drapes drawn all day and no longer answered her front door.
Mrs. Watson rang the doorbell one more time, pulling on the cord repeatedly. But after the clamor of the bell died down, the house remained resolutely silent.
Where had Mrs. Claiborne gone? And what had motivated her departure, when she had seemed so determined to hide in her shelter either until Mr. Underwood came for her or until she learned that he never would?
?The sea was a brilliant, almost tropical blue, the sky dotted with fat puffs—another idyllic day on the English Riviera.
Lord Ingram walked along the gently curving beach, the tip of his walking stick sinking into soft sand. The sun shone warmly on hisshoulders, the breeze soft yet cool. He could drop to his stomach and fall asleep this instant, but that he would do on the train instead, in an hour. For now, he quickened his pace and did his best to look brisk and energetic.
Two women, each holding a lacy white parasol, ambled toward him from the opposite direction. Beyond them stretched slopes dotted with holiday villas, a postcard-perfect view. One of the women spied him and waved eagerly. He raised his hand in salute.
“Mrs. Calder, Miss Dearborn, how do you do?” he said with grave courtesy when the other party drew closer.
The silver-haired Mrs. Calder grinned. “Oh, but we haven’t seen you for some time, have we, Mr. Faraday? It must have been a good ten days. Don’t you think so, Miss Dearborn?”
The woman she addressed as Miss Dearborn nodded. “I do believe you’re right, Mrs. Calder. You have a wonderful memory for such things.”
She had a pleasant face and becoming manners, Miss Dearborn. Before this, Lord Ingram had known her as Norbert, lady’s maid to Holmes’s irascible mother and also, in secret, an agent of the crown who worked for his brother Remington.
He turned and strolled with the women. “Have you been well, Mrs. Calder? Has the area continued to agree with you?”
“Oh, it agrees with me splendidly, my dear Mr. Faraday. We visited Dartmouth, a most appealing town—and Paignton again, too, you know how I adore Paignton. Miss Dearborn and I hosted a mother and her two daughters for tea three days ago and had a roaring game of cribbage going afterwards. Yesterday we found a charming little bookshop on our walk. And, of course, one runs into handsome young men here and there, too.”
Mrs. Calder winked. Lord Ingram looked more or less the same as he had when he’d met Holmes last, not a day under sixty. But to Mrs. Calder, well north of eighty, he was indeed a young man still.
He chatted another ten minutes with Mrs. Calder before he took his leave. As he straightened from his bow, Norbert, who had beenlargely silent, tapped her fingertips three times against the shaft of her parasol.All is well.
He wished the women a good day and left Norbert to her task.
?Mr. Constable, Mr. Underwood’s accountant, received Charlotte in his spartan office with a pained smile. “If you don’t mind my saying so, Mr. Herrinmore, you’re the fourth party I’ve received, inquiring after Mr. Underwood.”
Charlotte, disguised yet again as Mr. Nelson’s underling, adjusted her weight in the uncomfortable chair, the edges of which dug into the backs of her legs. “Let me guess. The first party must have been late last year, most likely in November. The other two, including a visit from Mr. Underwood’s boxers, would have been more recent.”
“Why, yes.” Mr. Constable took a moment to contain his surprise. “But no matter how many inquiries are raised, my knowledge of and involvement with Mr. Underwood remain limited. This portfolio contains the entirety of his transactions with this firm.”
