The Art of Theft Page 3

  Yours,

  A Traveler from Distant Lands

  She read the letter again, then she picked up the newspaper she’d just discarded. If she was correct in her assumptions, then this was a woman in need.

  And Charlotte Holmes could use the distraction of a woman in need.

  Two

  The woman in need was indeed a traveler from distant lands. It was obvious that she hailed from the Indian subcontinent—and she was exceptionally lovely.

  Well, lovely was a lazy description. Her features were clean and sharp, her eyes large and dramatic. But more than beauty she possessed magnetism, a commanding presence that mesmerized without ever needing to be something as commonplace as pretty.

  Lifting one elegant hand, she adjusted the diaphanous shawl draped around her hair. The shawl, which matched her dark green tunic and trousers, was a translucent green, embroidered with golden flowers and leaves. The hair it covered contained a few traces of grey. But her face was very nearly unlined; only her hand, with its faintly crepe-like skin, gave away her age.

  “I am very sorry to hear of Mr. Holmes’s misfortune,” she said, her voice soft and cultured, her accent as subtle as the fragrance of a rose petal.

  But Charlotte heard her disappointment.

  From the moment she had walked into the parlor at 18 Upper Baker Street, and had seen that she would be received by Charlotte and Charlotte alone, that disappointment had been palpable. She’d politely listened to Charlotte’s usual explanation of Sherlock Holmes’s incapacity. But whereas other clients became anxious, wondering whether the consulting detective would still be able to help them, what Charlotte read on this woman’s face was an absolute certainty that she had wasted her time.

  “Despite his handicap,” Charlotte pressed on, “my brother has helped a number of clients, many of whom are happy to provide testimonials for the services they have received. Would you like a list of names to whom you may apply for such reassurances?”

  A vertical crease appeared at the center of the woman’s forehead. “That will not be necessary. I thank you for your time, Miss Holmes, but I do not believe that your brother is the right person for the task I have in mind.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that. Are you sure, ma’am, that there is nothing we can do to convince you otherwise?”

  The woman looked as if she were on the verge of another emphatic no. But then she glanced toward the closed door of the bedroom. “Frankly, Miss Holmes, I am not even convinced that there is indeed someone in that room.”

  Different clients reacted differently to news of Sherlock Holmes’s incapacity, but this was the first time anyone had openly called into question the fundamental conceit of Charlotte’s masquerade.

  Charlotte raised a brow. Her client’s tone was not adversarial—in fact, her voice remained as soft as a shower of feathers. But there was no mistaking the challenge in her claim.

  “Madam, I cannot satisfy your wish in that regard. My brother cannot speak due to his injuries, and you must forgive me for not allowing clients to intrude on his privacy. So my word will have to suffice on this matter—my word, that is, and a demonstration of Sherlock’s mental acuity.”

  “And how will this demonstration proceed, given all Mr. Holmes’s infirmities?”

  Despite her disinclination to use Sherlock Holmes’s services, there was still a note of curiosity in her voice.

  “We have built a camera obscura between those two rooms, so he has observed your image as projected on his walls. And he can communicate by touch via a modified Morse code.” Charlotte rose from her chair. “I will be a very short while. And when I return, I will relay my brother’s deductions and you can judge to what extent he is correct.”

  She stayed inside for three minutes. During that time, her client did not move, nor did she take either tea or cake.

  “Thank you for your patience, madam,” said Charlotte, upon her return. “Or perhaps I should say, Your Highness.”

  The woman had not been relaxed in her demeanor—no one who came to these premises for help was. But now she tensed, and Charlotte was put into mind of an eagle about to take flight. But to flee or to hunt?

  “Not every Indian woman in London is a maharani, Miss Holmes.” Her voice was still soft, as soft as a velvet glove around a hand that had just drawn a sword.

  “Indeed not. The last one I came across was an indigent widow of a British soldier, trying to gather enough funds to go home. But you wrote from the Langham and expressly labeled yourself a Traveler from Distant Lands.

  “Upon seeing your note my brother recalled reading in the papers that a princely delegation from India had landed in the Langham last week. After he said that, I found another article concerning said delegation’s reception at Windsor Castle two days ago, in which it was mentioned that Her Majesty the queen was particularly gracious to the Maharani of Ajmer, holding a conversation with the latter lasting nearly three quarters of an hour.”

  The maharani’s face shuttered. She now regarded Charlotte as if she, too, had drawn her weapons.

  Charlotte reached for her teacup. “Madam, clients do not choose to consult Sherlock Holmes if they can seek help closer to home. As an establishment of last resort, we take our role seriously and would never needlessly expose anyone’s difficulties.”

  “Needlessly?” murmured the maharani. “So if you believe it needed, you will set aside this veneer of confidentiality.”

  “Indeed. We have done so twice. The first time to prevent the possibility of further physical harm to a client; the second time when we found out that a client had come to us under fraudulent pretenses—and that there were lives at stake. Given the circumstances and the stakes, we are at ease with the choices we have made.”

  The maharani was silent.

  “You may or may not wish to confide in us. But if you are being blackmailed and hope to extract the incriminating evidence rather than continue to dance to the tune of your extortionist, we will be happy to offer our assistance.”

  The maharani, too, reached for her teacup. She stirred its contents delicately, then set it down again. “As I do not intend to further pursue Mr. Holmes’s assistance, I will make no comments on his deductions. I wish him the best of luck and health. You, too, Miss Holmes.”

  This had not happened before, that a client would leave a meeting without engaging Sherlock Holmes’s services. But Charlotte had not expected a different outcome. “In that case, let me ring for Mr. Hudson to show you out. And you need not worry about the consultation fee, madam. Consider it waived.”

  “No need on either account,” said the maharani, rising. “I will show myself out and pay the consultation fee.”

  Charlotte also rose. “Good day, madam.”

  “Good day, Miss Holmes.” A trace of a smile briefly animated her lips. “And I must say, I have seen no evidence that it was this brother of yours and not you yourself, Miss Holmes, who made these so-called deductions.”

  Charlotte inclined her head. “If I am so good as to pass for the great consulting detective, then you, madam, are no worse off for having seen only me.”

  * * *

  In her luxuriantly appointed town coach, Mrs. Watson sighed, supremely pleased with her Parisian interlude.

  Penelope’s friends had crowded around her. They had told her about their lives, sought her advice on matters ranging from fashion to professional choices, and invited her and Penelope to future summer holidays in Biarritz and winter idylls on the Côte d’Azur.

  Not to mention . . .

  Mrs. Watson grinned to herself, remembering the lavish compliments from the brother of one of Penelope’s classmates—and the parting note another classmate’s youngish aunt had pressed into her hand.

  But now that was behind her. And she was glad to drive through the rain-soaked streets of London, toward her lovely and comfortable home, t
oward further adventures of Watson and Holmes.

  Yes, she thought. She had made the right choices in life, to have arrived at this point. Even if some of those choices had been deeply painful . . .

  The coach stopped before her house, and Mr. Mears was on the pavement almost instantly, to open the carriage door himself.

  “Welcome back, ma’am. How was Miss Redmayne?”

  She smiled in sincere pleasure. “More grown-up every time I see her—and more wonderful. How are you, my dear Mr. Mears?”

  Before Mr. Mears could answer, a raspy voice exclaimed, “Why, Mrs. Watson! I heard you visited Paris!”

  The voice belonged to Mrs. Watson’s neighbor Mrs. Raleigh, an elderly widow whose husband had done rather well as a captain of merchant ships. Mrs. Raleigh was, in other words, a thoroughly respectable woman, unlike Mrs. Watson, whose respectability was more than a little suspect.

  “Indeed, I have only just returned from the City of Light. How do you do, Mrs. Raleigh?”

  Mrs. Watson made sure that she never misrepresented herself to other women, especially those on the other side of the respectability divide. Therefore Mrs. Raleigh had never invited Mrs. Watson to call on her at home. And once, when her widower brother had visited and beamed too eagerly at Mrs. Watson, she’d yanked him away so hard the two siblings had nearly fallen in a heap.

  But on her own Mrs. Raleigh was a little bolder and enjoyed speaking to Mrs. Watson on the pavement, in broad daylight, secure in the knowledge that if anyone saw her conversing with a former actress, she could always blame the actress for being too familiar.

  Mrs. Watson had never minded. Especially in those years when she had been a widow raising a child and her life consisted of very little excitement, it had amused her to be a source of frisson to the Mrs. Raleighs of the world, an adventure in and of herself.

  They chatted about this and that while Mr. Mears and Mr. Lawson, her groom and coachman, unloaded her luggage. Then Mr. Lawson drove off and Mrs. Watson was about to take leave of Mrs. Raleigh when a passing carriage slowed—then stopped altogether a little farther down.

  This in itself wasn’t worthy of notice. They were near an entrance to Regent’s Park, and those living too far to come on foot were often dropped off for their daily constitutional. But no one alit.

  Mrs. Watson let Mrs. Raleigh finish speaking then excused herself. As soon as she was inside her house she slipped to the dining room, which was on the ground floor, facing the park. The carriage remained in place for at least a quarter of an hour before it finally left.

  No passenger had ever come out, and none had climbed in.

  Her mood lost some of its buoyancy. Her house had been under watch before, the surveillance conducted by minions of Moriarty.

  At the end of the Stern Hollow investigation, that name, hitherto known to few and spoken only in whispers, was abruptly thrust into the bright glare of publicity. Given that development, and given Moriarty’s general preference for operating in the shadows, Mrs. Watson had rather thought that they’d go a while without dealing with those minions again.

  The front door opened once more, startling her, but it was only Miss Charlotte Holmes walking in, clad in a rather somber tailor-made jacket-and-skirt set.

  “My dear!” This was the longest time they’d spent apart since they first met during the summer. “Have you been well?”

  They exchanged their latest news as they walked upstairs to the afternoon parlor. Rather than bringing up the carriage that had stayed in place too long, Mrs. Watson rang for tea. She didn’t want to spoil the warm mood with the specter of Moriarty. Instead she presented Miss Charlotte with a limited selection of miniature confections that she and Penelope had chosen together.

  “I hope you may still take one or two of these mignardises.”

  Miss Charlotte considered the matter: The approach of Maximum Tolerable Chins was, in this household at least, treated with all the gravity of an outbreak of war. “I suppose, if I eliminate all puddings from my other meals, I may take one of these a day at tea.”

  Mrs. Watson exhaled, resting her palm against her heart.

  “And perhaps we can resume our canne de combat practice. We might yet stave off Maximum Tolerable Chins, if you put me through my paces, ma’am.”

  Mrs. Watson chortled. Miss Charlotte was not otherwise the most eager participant in vigorous activities. Maximum Tolerable Chins might be doing her a favor, forcing her to exercise more.

  They spoke of Paris. Mrs. Watson glowed again, describing the farewell banquet Penelope and her friends put on the day before her departure. Part of her felt ridiculous, at her age, to take such pleasure in being popular. But a different part told her she was too old to feel shame in such harmless enjoyments: If she liked being popular then she liked being popular; what was there to berate herself about?

  After a while she yawned and begged Miss Charlotte’s indulgence. “Oh, dear, I don’t know why traveling makes me so tired. You would think that I should be fresh as a daisy from having sat from Paris to London.”

  “I might have been there at London Bridge Wharf, ma’am, to welcome you back. But I had a prospective client.”

  “Oh, have you already advertised Sherlock Holmes’s return?”

  Miss Charlotte gave a firm shake of her head. “This was someone who didn’t know that Sherlock Holmes is still officially on sabbatical. But her need seemed great so I agreed to see her.”

  Mrs. Watson exhaled in relief—she didn’t think Miss Charlotte would have announced Sherlock Holmes’s availability without consulting her. “I’m sure you managed to solve her problem.”

  “I didn’t. The lady chose not to use our services.”

  “She—what?” Mrs. Watson couldn’t help the sudden rise of her voice. How could anyone, having met the marvel that was Miss Charlotte Holmes, make such a decision?

  “She seemed to be in need more of a cat burglar than a consulting detective. And once she learned that the consulting detective was bedridden, she made up her mind very easily,” said Miss Charlotte, sounding not only unsurprised but unaffected.

  “I find myself speechless,” muttered Mrs. Watson, who was nowhere near as unaffected. She felt personally insulted, in fact. Personally rebuffed.

  “It had to happen at some point. And between you and me, ma’am, I am relieved not to be attempting cat burglary.”

  Mrs. Watson was going to ask for the identity of this foolish woman, but when Miss Charlotte reached for a religieuse, a choux pastry concoction, Mrs. Watson understood that her young friend was done with the subject.

  And somehow, Mrs. Watson already knew the topic Miss Charlotte would broach next, even before the latter spoke. Despite the lively fire in the grate, the room suddenly felt colder.

  With a sigh Miss Charlotte set the religieuse down again and turned her large, limpid eyes to Mrs. Watson. “By the way, ma’am, why were you looking out of the window of the dining room earlier?”

  * * *

  Charlotte was in Bernadine’s room again when Mr. Mears came with a message. “Miss Charlotte, there is a gentleman to see you. He says his name is Wiggins.”

  Charlotte knew the name and had expected to hear from the gentleman, though perhaps not in person. “Please show him to the afternoon parlor.”

  Wiggins turned out to be a rather shabby-looking man with thinning hair and droopy whiskers—a rather good disguise. Charlotte offered him a seat. They chatted sedately about the weather—cold, dreary drizzles in London, and similar conditions where he’d just been—until the arrival of the tea tray.

  Once they were alone again, Charlotte said, “You have concluded your visit with my family, Mr. Marbleton.”

  He had laid down a letter on the occasion table next to his chair. On the envelope was Mrs. Watson’s address, written in Livia’s hand.

  “The rest of my family have al
ready dispersed to Dover and Southampton, on their way out of the country.”

  He looked unusually grave as he spoke.

  Charlotte nodded. “I thought that your family would wish to see for themselves the woman who has become unexpectedly significant to you. I take it my sister was ambivalent about meeting them.”

  “And they were just as ambivalent about meeting her—through no fault of hers, of course.” He sighed. “I would have preferred not to have said anything to anyone for a while, but as I’ve told you, we cannot have secrets in our family.”

  Because they were hunted by Moriarty and any secrets could doom all of them.

  He looked at her. “Were Miss Olivia any less unhappy where she is, I would have made myself scarce. And please don’t mistake me—I do not dream of rescuing any damsel from her benighted existence.”

  She understood what he meant: only because her own life was so narrow and uninspiring could Livia possibly overlook the inherent danger and instability in his. “I must warn you, Mr. Marbleton. Earlier today Mrs. Watson saw a carriage stopped across the street with no one getting in or out. Perhaps this isn’t the best time for you to be here.”

  He frowned. “Is that so? I circled the area for some time before I rang the bell. It didn’t seem to me that there was anyone watching either this house or 18 Upper Baker Street.”

  “I trust that you would recognize surveillance when you see it,” said Charlotte simply.

  All the same, why did he risk this visit at all?

  The next minute, she scoffed at her imperceptiveness. He risked it because he wished to speak of Livia. It would not make for an enjoyable conversation with his disapproving family. Charlotte, too, believed it would be better for their feelings to dwindle into nothing, but at least she could not possibly object to hearing the latest news about her sister.

  So she let him have that, the pleasure and necessity of discoursing on his beloved to a pair of sympathetic ears. Eagerly he related their meetings: The first at the Holmes house, the second when the “Openshaws” reciprocated the dinner invitation at their hotel in a nearby town, the third out on a walk, during which—bliss!—Miss Olivia agreed to let him be the first to read her Sherlock Holmes story, and the last at the Marbletons’ farewell visit.