Page 93 of A Ruse of Shadows
“Then I do not see why it matters whose work put him in Ravensmere, or from what motivation.”
Charlotte tapped a fingertip against her chin. “You are right, Chief Inspector, it doesn’t matter. Shall we bring Inspector Treadles back in, now that I’ve wasted enough of your time?”
Thirty-three
Ten hours before the jailbreaking
Charlotte examined her walking dress. Its skirt could be detached and she had brought along a pair of bloomers for the night, for ease of movement. Should everything go well, it would be midmorning tomorrow when she and Mrs. Watson returned to London. By coming back to their hotel in walking dresses, they would appear to have taken a turn in the park—a perfectly salutary activity for a pair of law-abiding ladies.
The bell rang.
Charlotte approached the street entrance. What could it be? Another message from Lord Bancroft? Further news from Paris? As long as something hadn’t happened on Miss Moriarty’s end…
“Who is it?”
“It’s me!”
Mrs. Claiborne?
Charlotte opened the door. Mrs. Claiborne had not come alone: Mrs. Farr stood beside her, a patch over her blind eye. Her hair was smoothly chignoned, her dress modest but handsome and well-fitted. Her hat even featured some ribbons and a bow in black velvet.
Charlotte stood aside to let the two black-clad women enter. She was short on time, but Mrs. Farr did not make idle calls.
Indeed, Mrs. Farr wasted no time getting to the point. In fact, they were still in the vestibule, but she advanced no farther. “I’ve come to apologize, Miss Holmes, for my action last night. And to thank you for your help in finding my sister last year, as I don’t believe I said anything to that effect at the time.”
Her voice had its usual heaviness, but she spoke without hesitation.
Charlotte was not sure how to respond—she had not expected to see Mrs. Farr again so soon, and she had certainly not expected expressions of either contrition or gratitude.
In the silence came the sound of the hotel entrance of the suite opening and closing and Mrs. Watson’s voice, “All right, my dear, let’s go. Lord Bancroft’s comeuppance will not happen by itself.”
?Mrs. Watson was still kicking herself in the carriage. If only she hadn’t said anything about Lord Bancroft’s comeuppance!
But she had. Miss Charlotte played a grand chess game, in which every piece had its precise function and movement. The board, on this day at least, did not include Mrs. Farr or Mrs. Claiborne. Yet they were the ones who truly mattered. The ones for whom this was not a contest of strategies but life itself, replete with devastating losses.
Still, they could have denied the women their pleas. But then Mrs. Watson had begun to waver. Seeing her irresolution, Mrs. Claiborne had pressed her point, and Miss Charlotte had sighed and said, “All right, you can come. We’ll get you some food and water, but you’ll have a very long wait in the middle of nowhere. And you absolutely must not make your presence known, especially after we reach there—probably around three o’clock in the morning—until you hear from me otherwise.”
Lawson had been surprised at the number of women he was to drive to the vicinity of Ravensmere, but gamely asked no questions. As the carriage wove through London’s busy afternoon traffic, Mrs. Watson cautioned the women several more times that they must remain hidden and not draw any attention to themselves.
And then silence fell.
They were on the northern outskirts of London when Miss Charlotte said, “How are Mumble and Jessie, Mrs. Farr? Are they fully recovered?”
“I hope so. They refused to take more rest. Both went to work,” said Mrs. Farr with a sigh. “We were lucky that it was you I sent them to capture—I could have put them in the way of real harm.”
She stared down at her hands, clenched in her lap, and then looked up at Miss Charlotte. “You said to me last night that I’ve become accustomed to harsher methods. You’re right. Looking back, it seems I’ve only ever taken extreme measures.”
“Yours has long been a difficult lot,” said Miss Charlotte quietly. “Your parents’ bankruptcy, their deaths, your distant relations’ unwillingness to take in a pair of impecunious girls. At sixteen, for your baby sister’s sake, you had to marry a man who was at least partially responsible for your family’s downfall.”
Mrs. Watson’s eyes widened, as did Mrs. Claiborne’s. But Mrs. Farr exhibited no surprise.
“You knew?” asked Mrs. Watson.
“Yes, I knew. I overheard my parents’ discussions.” Mrs. Farr adjusted her black eye patch, the periwinkle blue of her good eye still startling every time Mrs. Watson looked into it. “But it was Mr. Meadows or the poorhouse for Miriam.”
She laughed, a soft, bitter sound. “Maybe I should have chosen the poorhouse. Right after Miriam turned ten, he started to talk about sending her to a boarding school. To me that was the sort of place one relegated unwanted girls, but my objections fell on deaf ears. He was determined, and Miriam was excited at the prospect of friends her own age.
“Then, right before we left for Garwood Hall for Christmas, I found a letter in his pocket that declared his intention to more or less sell Miriam to his debtor, who had a penchant for little girls, under the excuse of sending her off to a girls’ school after the New Year.
