Page 45 of A Ruse of Shadows
Dear Miss Holmes and Mrs. Hudson,
Unfortunately, I had to abandon my hired town house for a “bolt-hole” that Mr.UnderOverhill had prepared for me as a last resort. Please forgive me for not divulging its address—Mr. Overhill forbade that strictly.
It may not be a good idea for me to go to your hotel in person. But I’m desperate for help. May I propose a meeting atPettifer’s Hotel?
Yours truly,
Marie Claiborne
P.S. I’m sorry for scratching out the proposed location. Mr. Overhill once mentioned that, in the course of his work, sometimes the most crucial information is sent separately from the rest. I will do that instead.
P.P.S. In that case I had better cover over my own name, too.
P.P.P.S. But if the wrong party gets their hands on this letter, they will know then to watch out for the next one from me. I really have no idea what I am doing, do I? Nevertheless, I must proceed.
Dear Miss Holmes and Mrs. Hudson,
This is that separate missive.
I anxiously await you four o’clock this afternoon at Pettifer’s Hotel. Ask for Mrs. Overhill.
Yours truly,
Mrs. Overhill
?Mrs. Watson took three different hansom cabs. After she alit from each, she made sure to disappear for a few minutes, either by using the carriage lane behind a row of houses to emerge onto a different street, or by going into an establishment from the front and leaving via a service door.
What had happened? One moment they were speaking to some young people who boxed to supplement their income, the next Mrs. Claiborne had become frightened enough to flee.
Perhaps Mrs. Claiborne had been in no immediate danger and merely overreacted. Still, Mrs. Watson’s own heart raced. The temperature hovered steadily in the mid-sixties, yet she perspired. As she finally approached Pettifer’s Hotel, she felt as if she were only marginally tethered to this reality of an ordinary summer day, with pedestrians all around her, umbrellas hooked over elbows, hurrying toward their own destinations.
The hotel was the kind favored by solidly respectable country squires. Mrs. Watson, in a discreet grey velvet walking dress and an even more restrained toque that featured barely any trimming, could have blended into the wallpaper in the foyer.
There was indeed a private room reserved by a Mrs. Overhill. Mrs. Watson was quickly shown into a genteel, old-fashioned space, but it was empty. No sign of Mrs. Claiborne.
Mrs. Watson glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece. Despite the labyrinthine route she’d taken, she had arrived a good quarter hour ahead of the appointment. She ordered the full tea service to arrive at four sharp, and asked the server to find out when Mrs. Claiborne had asked for the private room.
There was a post office not far from the hotel, and it was possible that Mrs. Claiborne had reserved the room after she had posted her letters to Miss Charlotte and Mrs. “Hudson.”
And then what? Had she gone back to the “bolt-hole” she’d mentioned? And there waited anxiously for time to pass, pacing back and forth in a bare, airless space?
The server returned at exactly four o’clock with tea, a plate of sandwiches, a plate of sliced Battenberg cake, and the intelligence that the room had been reserved in the morning.
Mrs. Claiborne herself, however, did not arrive at the stroke of the hour.
Mrs. Watson did not expect strict punctuality—times like these called for careful reconnaissance, not a rushed entrance. But when another ten minutes passed and still Mrs. Claiborne did not appear, she could no longer remain seated. She went to the window to look down to the street below, then to the door to listen for footsteps outside. Once she opened the door with hope, only to see a party being led to the room next door; another time it turned out to be a laden food trolley being pushed down the corridor.
Ten more minutes passed. Mrs. Watson, on her feet, her hands braced against the top of a chair, tried to breathe deeply and not imagine the beautiful Mrs. Claiborne in mortal peril.
Or herself, in the midst of a trap.
The door opened. Mrs. Watson gasped, but the young woman walking in, dressed unobtrusively in a light brown jacket-and-skirt set, was not Mrs. Claiborne, only Miss Charlotte.
“I saw the note you left in our hotel suite,” said she. “I take it Mrs. Claiborne has not come yet?”
Mrs. Watson gave a tight shake of her head. “I’ve been here since quarter to four.”
“Let me make some inquiries,” said Miss Charlotte, and left the room.
