Page 46 of A Ruse of Shadows
When she returned, the tea Mrs. Watson had poured for her had already cooled to room temperature, but the results of her investigation were even more tepid: No reception clerk or server had seen anyone of Mrs. Claiborne’s description this afternoon.
To distract herself, Mrs. Watson requested an account of Miss Charlotte’s day—and had to ask the dear girl to repeat herself several times because her concentration kept slipping.
Time froze, the second hand taking an eon to complete a journey around the clock face. And yet time also surged, like floodwater bursting forth: Every time Mrs. Watson looked up, another ten or fifteen minutes would have passed, with Mrs. Claiborne neither honoring the appointment she herself had set nor delivering any excuses for her failure to attend.
At quarter to six, a server came in. With many apologies, she informed them that the next party who had reserved the private room would be arriving soon.
Mrs. Watson’s head throbbed. The slow progression of their hackney, caught in the usual congested evening traffic, did not help matters: It gave her too much time to examine the tide of pedestrians for a sign of Mrs. Claiborne, while wondering whether the latter was even now headed to the hotel from some other direction.
She forced herself to think of the bigger picture. “What if Lord Bancroft was wrong in his assessment that Mr. Underwood’s personal enemies were responsible for his disappearance? What if itwasabout the work they did for the crown and the secrets they’d sold against the crown’s interest? And what if Mrs. Claiborne wasn’t as ignorant concerning these men’s work as she claimed to be? She could very well be in as much danger as Mr. Underwood.”
But before Miss Charlotte could respond, an even wilder possibility struck Mrs. Watson. “What if I’m worried over nothing? What if Mrs. Claiborne and Mr. Underwood are in this together, the two of them? Maybe this whole thing is simply Mr. Underwood wishing to get away from Lord Bancroft without making the latter suspicious that he’d been abandoned. Maybe this song and dance that Mrs. Claiborne has put on is all so that she, too, could disappear without anyone thinking that she orchestrated it herself.”
A placid Miss Charlotte nodded. “There is merit in that notion.”
Mrs. Watson did not typically comment on Miss Charlotte’s implementation of fashion; Miss Charlotte returned that courtesy by not evaluating Mrs. Watson’s every speculation concerning their investigations. Therefore, if she stated outright that a concept had merit, then it had merit.
Mrs. Watson’s heart fluttered—there was nothing better than a compliment from an expert. “In that case, I have an even more outlandish idea. What if the depth of Mrs. Claiborne’s knowledge concerning Mr. Underwood’s secrets isn’t the only thing Mrs. Claiborne lied to us about? She was Lord Bancroft’s mistress, after all. What if the love affair with Mr. Underwood had been by her design—or Lord Bancroft’s?”
“You mean, she might have seduced Mr. Underwood very artfully while making him believe the entire time that he’d been the one in pursuit?” murmured Miss Charlotte.
“Precisely. And it was not for romance or even curiosity but at Lord Bancroft’s behest, so he could keep a better eye on his chief lieutenant.”
“Diabolical,” pronounced Miss Charlotte. “Not to mention, that would go a good way toward explaining why Mrs. Claiborne, of all people, undertookconjugalvisits to Lord Bancroft.”
They had not asked that question of Mrs. Claiborne—it would have been far too indelicate—but Mrs. Watson had not failed to notice the downright peculiar arrangement.
Maybe they only exchanged information chastely during thoseconjugal visits. But if Mrs. Claiborne was truly, at heart, the old-fashioned woman she claimed to be, one who longed for nothing so much as married bliss, then it would have been wiser not to spend time alone with Lord Bancroft.
Unless it had been Mr. Underwood’s idea and he trusted his fiancée completely.
Even so, Mrs. Watson wouldn’t put it past Lord Bancroft to take advantage of a beautiful woman. Out of his rampant self-regard, he might not force Mrs. Claiborne into anything, but he could very well make advances andnottake kindly to rejections.
Mrs. Watson rubbed her temples. Too many thoughts collided inside her skull; her head pounded like a drum. “Now I don’t know whether I ought to be sympathetic toward her or extremely wary of her.”
The slowly fading light of the day limned Miss Charlotte’s soft features, a profile worthy of a cameo brooch. “We can be both, my dear Mrs. Watson,” she said quietly. “We can be both.”
?The decrepit-looking woman shuffled down the steps carrying a large bucket of water. At the bottom of the steps was a short, narrow corridor with six padlocked doors, three on the left, three on the right.
On the floor beside each door—except one—was a wooden tray that could slide in and out of a narrow opening in the door. At the sound of the old woman’s approach, five trays slid out, each holding an empty wooden water bowl and an empty wooden food bowl, with a wooden spoon inside.
With a groan, the old woman bent down and retrieved the food bowls. Those were hers to wash. But really, did a dungeon need clean bowls?
Once she had stacked the bowls and the spoons, she ladled fresh water into the water bowls.
“Bonjour, madame,” said the voice of a young man from behind the last door on the right.“Vous avez l’heure?”
The old woman did not have a watch on her, but even if she did, she wouldn’t tell him the time. What good was knowing that for a prisoner? He only asked so that they would strike up a conversation, however short.
And she had been warned against speaking to the prisoners. She did not want to be let go from her position. She brought water and food. She emptied a few piss buckets. There were far more difficult ways to make a living.
The young man switched to a different language, presumably still asking about time.
She continued to ignore him. Eventually he quieted.
The old woman proceeded to the first door on the left. This one didn’t have anyone inside but led down to a cellar. She’d heard that sometimes old wines fetched exorbitant prices, a mountain of gold.
But she had better not think about gold that did not belong to her. That way lay dismissal.
