The Art of Theft Read online

  And, perhaps, a trace of excitement?

  Mrs. Watson’s heart skipped a beat.

  “Please take a seat, Mrs. Watson,” said the maharani. “Shall I ring for some tea?”

  “I have already ordered tea. If you will be so kind as to have your staff open the door to the hotel.”

  The town house also had an entrance from inside the hotel.

  The maharani’s brow furrowed, but she did as Mrs. Watson asked. Soon her maid returned with a hotel porter bearing a large tea tray—and Miss Charlotte, in a powder blue visiting gown trimmed with enough lace to edge a fishpond.

  The maharani stared at her.

  When all the servants had left, closing the door behind themselves, Miss Charlotte said, “You were correct, Your Highness, in detecting something suspect about the arrangement chez Sherlock Holmes. There is no Sherlock Holmes. There is only me, using my skills to help clients who come to see my ‘brother.’ And Mrs. Watson is my partner in this enterprise.”

  “When Miss Charlotte Holmes learned that you had called on me, she felt duty-bound to disclose that you had also visited Sherlock Holmes,” said Mrs. Watson. “Perhaps it is delusional for me to think I can be of any aid to you, but I must offer my help. If you have gone so far as to seek Sherlock Holmes’s ear, Your Highness, your need must be very great indeed.”

  The maharani said nothing.

  Mrs. Watson tried to read her expression. Was she at all gladdened that Mrs. Watson had reached out? That she didn’t want the maharani to be alone at a time like this? But that once-mobile face had become as expressive as a wall.

  Mrs. Watson took a deep breath and went on, “Miss Charlotte told me of your misgivings concerning the confidentiality of your visit. I’m sure you are not pleased that not one but two people are now privy to it. But please keep in mind that we, too, worry about confidentiality. The truth of Sherlock Holmes is something we have never admitted to anyone not associated with our services. I hope you will take that as a token of our sincerity.”

  The maharani stirred her tea. “I will not waste anyone’s time by saying that I am not in need, but I declined to engage Sherlock Holmes’s services for a reason. I do not need murders solved; nor do I need mysterious noises in my attic explained.”

  “Then why did you approach Sherlock Holmes, Your Highness?” asked Miss Charlotte.

  “To see whether he had other skills. When it turned out he was bedridden, that eliminated his usefulness.”

  “He doesn’t exist,” Miss Charlotte said.

  “And your skills, Miss Charlotte, while impressive, are still of no use to me.”

  “I understand that you need to retrieve something that is, I assume, tightly secured.”

  “I don’t imagine you have much experience in that regard.”

  Miss Charlotte was perfectly composed. “But I do. I have rifled through my father’s study many times.”

  The maharani laughed humorlessly. “Oh, you have?”

  “The principle of the matter isn’t very different. One learns to find and use those hours when the house is relatively empty. One learns to quickly locate the relevant and interesting items. One even learns to get around locks and seals that a man thinks sufficient to guard his secrets from members of his family.”

  “Your point being?” The maharani was beginning to sound impatient.

  “That Your Highness shouldn’t underestimate what sneaking around her own house can teach a woman.”

  Miss Charlotte extracted an ivory-inlaid case from her reticule and set it on the tea table.

  The maharani’s expression instantly changed. “Where—where did you get this?”

  “From here, obviously.”

  “But how?”

  “It is so much more impressive if you don’t know the details, Your Highness.”

  Her Highness gave Miss Charlotte a look.

  Miss Charlotte took a sip of her tea. “Very well. First we booked the suite of rooms next to yours. There is a connecting door between these two with no locks but a dead bolt on either side. You yourself might not have paid attention, but this morning a hotel maid came after the initial cleaning had been done and asked to be let in to get an item she left behind in the dining room.”

  “And the dining room is where the connecting door is.”

  “Correct.”

  The maharani glanced around the parlor. “But still, there were people here.”

  “Not for the entire day. After you left, someone informed your staff that there might be a gas leak—not at this esteemed establishment, naturally, but next door. Nevertheless, it was prudent for the guests to clear out for a while so that everything could be checked. Would everyone care to pile into this hackney that has already been engaged to take them to the British Museum, where the entrance is free of charge? And here’s even some money for the return trip.”

  The maharani’s lips thinned.

  “I hope you will not blame your staff,” Miss Charlotte went on. “After all, what reason did they have not to believe what they were told? Not to mention that they made sure the door was properly locked on their way out. But we, of course, had access to the connecting door that had been unbarred from both sides. And since the suites are laid out in an identical manner, we already knew where the safe was to be found.”

  “And the safe was that easy to open?” The maharani’s gaze strayed to the small painting that concealed the wall safe.

  Miss Charlotte’s gaze, on the other hand, was affixed to the Victoria sandwich on the tea table. “Easy? I wouldn’t say so. But neither was it especially difficult. It was locked with a key and not a combination, which made my task much less tedious.”

  The maharani raised a brow. “Your task?”

  “This past summer we needed the services of a lock picker. Time was short so we used someone we knew. But afterward I decided to acquire those skills myself—if we needed a lock picker once, who was to say we wouldn’t need one again?

  “So you are right, Your Highness, in that I have very little experience retrieving anything that has been highly secured,” said Miss Charlotte without any trace of smugness to her voice. “But when retrieving things that have been barely secured, I seem to do all right. Now is there anything, however secured, that Mrs. Watson and I may retrieve for you?”

  * * *

  The maharani fell silent again.

  Miss Charlotte was often and spectacularly silent. But her silence was that of the woods and hills, a natural absence of speech. The maharani’s, on the other hand, made Mrs. Watson think of the walled forts of Jaipur, a silence that watched and hid.

  She had not used to be like this. The woman Mrs. Watson had loved had been keen to share her thoughts. And Mrs. Watson had marveled at the range of topics she’d read and studied about, and at the depth and accuracy of her knowledge.

  Then again, she’d been a young widow who had just come into power of her own as the regent, and the world had been her oyster, her admirer, and her willing sycophant. Today she was a middle-aged woman who’d had to relinquish power—and seek help from an English stranger.

  How much of her reluctance was an unwillingness to accept that help? How much because she didn’t want to let Mrs. Watson see any more of her reduced circumstances?

  “Very well,” she said at last. “At this point, it can’t hurt to have Sherlock Holmes look into the matter.”

  “Thank you for trusting us,” said Mrs. Watson quickly. Perhaps too quickly.

  “There are some letters of mine that I do not wish to come before unfriendly eyes. Earlier I was assured they were kept safe and out of the way, but recently I was informed that due to a certain unforeseen turn of events, they have arrived as part of a shipment of artwork at Château Vaudrieu.”

  Now that she had decided on a course of action, her tone became brisk, uninflected. But Mrs.
Watson’s fingertips dug into the padded arms of her chair: The woman who could have been her lifelong companion was being blackmailed.

  “Have you ever heard of the place?” asked the maharani.

  Mrs. Watson made an effort to exhale. “I seem to have some faint recollection that it plays host to an extravagant annual affair.”

  “A yuletide masquerade ball to which the flower of French society flocks, where champagne flows like a river, caviar is strewn like bread crumbs, and fifty million francs’ worth of jewelry dangle from the most beautiful women of Paris,” said Miss Charlotte. “I read about it a few years ago in a magazine.”

  “You have a good memory, young lady,” said the maharani, though the look she flicked Miss Charlotte’s way contained not so much admiration as wariness. “Château Vaudrieu is tightly built and well secured. But for the ball, the gates are thrown open, and the opulence of the occasion is said to be legendary.

  “That opulence, however, has a purpose. The ball is, in fact, also the night of a significant private art sale. So it is not just a gathering of Parisian Society, but also that of art connoisseurs from around the world, as well as agents for English manufacturers, American millionaires, and Persian princes—anyone looking to add to their social cachet by amassing a collection of pedigreed art.

  “Everything sells—or at least that has been the case for years. I expect my secrets will remain safe until the night of the ball. But after that . . . I’m told that my letters are in the back of a Van Dyck painting. A new owner might very well want a new frame. And the moment the canvas leaves the old frame, my secrets will be exposed to the world.”

  Mrs. Watson wondered about the contents of the letters—and the identity of the maharani’s correspondent. She and Mrs. Watson hadn’t written many letters to each other. They’d spent almost the entirety of their affair in physical proximity, for one thing. For another, the maharani had wished the true nature of their relationship tightly concealed from her courtiers and servants and considered passionate love notes too risky to be kept.

  Had she become less careful in the intervening years?

  Miss Charlotte reached for the sugar tongs—and pulled her hand back, no doubt recalling that she had lately given up milk and sugar in her tea. “The person who acquires the painting may have no interest at all in some old letters,” she pointed out.

  “Except the one most interested in purchasing the piece is rumored to be Sir William Pershing. He served under the Viceroy of India and knows exactly who I am.”

  Miss Charlotte drank her black tea with a look of resignation. “Have you considered buying the painting yourself, Your Highness?”

  The maharani made a dismissive sound. “The Van Dyck is expected to fetch in excess of twenty thousand pounds. We are not the Maharaja of Jaipur or the Nizam of Hyderabad, Miss Charlotte. We are a small kingdom of relative insignificance and few resources. Even if I were still the queen regent, I would have had trouble coming up with such a sum. And now I am no longer in charge of the treasury, it is completely beyond me to produce the funds necessary to purchase the painting outright.”

  “I see,” said Miss Charlotte. “When is this year’s ball expected to take place?”

  “In little more than a fortnight.”

  Mrs. Watson sucked in a breath. So soon. She thought of yuletide as the twelve days after winter solstice, but this would be several days before.

  “Surely you must have some other plans in place for dealing with this situation?” asked Miss Charlotte.

  “I did. I didn’t have enough money to buy the painting, but I still had enough to tempt a thief—or so I believed. I made a stop in France on my way to London. But those who I asked to make inquiries all returned the same report: that no thief who could be relied on to do the job properly would take the job in the first place.

  “And then, during the Channel crossing, I overheard some people discuss Sherlock Holmes. To be sure, they were more interested in gossiping about his client, a gentleman who was on the verge of being scapegoated for his wife’s murder. At that point, I didn’t have much to lose by consulting this sage. So I did. And now here we are.”

  Miss Charlotte nodded, as if satisfied with the maharani’s account. “What else can you tell us, Your Highness, about either the château or the event?”

  “Before I met Sherlock Holmes, I wrote down everything I knew, in case I decided to retain his services. I still have that document.” The maharani rose—and abruptly sat down again. “Will the two of you really attempt this? It is orders of magnitude more difficult and dangerous than taking one jewel box out of my hotel safe.”

  Her gaze met Mrs. Watson’s. Was there something other than doubt in the maharani’s eyes? Was there a hint of worry, even anxiety?

  A bittersweet sensation unfurled in Mrs. Watson’s heart.

  It was Miss Charlotte who answered, “We do not promise success. But we will do our utmost.”

  The maharani glanced down. The next moment she left the room and returned a minute later with an envelope, which she entrusted to Mrs. Watson. “Shall we discuss your compensation?”

  “Let’s discuss it after we have what you want,” said Mrs. Watson, determined not to charge the maharani a single penny even then. “If you have no more information to impart, Your Highness, we must start on our work. There is very little time.”

  “Everything I know is in the envelope. Good luck, ladies.”

  Miss Charlotte rose. “I thank you for your sentiment, Your Highness. But it would help us more if we knew the reason you are being blackmailed—and the identity of your extortionist.”

  “I would like nothing more than to better your chances of success, Miss Holmes,” said the maharani smoothly. “But I do not know the identity of the person who holds my letters—and the nature of their contents is immaterial to your task.”

  Miss Charlotte inclined her head. “If you say so, Your Highness.”

  * * *

  It wasn’t until they were on the pavement, waiting for her carriage to come around, that Mrs. Watson gulped. “Good heavens, what have I done? And what do we do now?”

  To steal an Old Master painting worth twenty thousand pounds at a crowded ball in a château she’d never visited—and in a foreign country, no less. She might as well have signed up to wipe all discolorations from the surface of the moon.

  “We will get some help,” said Miss Charlotte decisively. “You can speak to Lord Ingram. I will see whether we can engage Mr. Marbleton. There should be enough time left for me to go to the newspaper offices and put in a small advertisement for the morning editions.”

  “Engage . . . as in hiring his services?”

  “He should not devote his time and expertise to our cause solely out of admiration for my sister—I would pay Lord Ingram too, but I would be wasting my time. And then we shall need to either explain to my sister why she must remain behind in London or tell her everything and bring her to France,” continued Miss Charlotte.

  Good gracious! Mrs. Watson had forgotten about Miss Olivia. And the poor girl had come only the day before with such happy anticipation of spending all of December with her sisters. “What—what do you propose we do?”

  “I leave the decision to you, ma’am. I will abide by it, and I’m sure so will she.”

  Mrs. Watson’s head throbbed. “But she will be so very unhappy to be left behind here.”

  “Life is imperfect,” said Miss Charlotte, thoroughly unperturbed. “And Livia knows that as well as anyone.”

  * * *

  Livia’s second day in London did not proceed as expected. As soon as she went down for breakfast, she was informed by Mr. Mears that Charlotte and Mrs. Watson had gone out. Charlotte had left her a note, apologizing for their absence and telling Livia not to wait for them for luncheon. But she, like Mr. Mears, gave no reason for that absence except to say that it
had to do with a client.

  Livia felt rather bereft. She would have dearly loved to be part of what they were doing—or even just to bring up a tea tray at 18 Upper Baker Street. But since that didn’t seem to be in the cards, she spent the day working on her Sherlock Holmes story.

  Here, something even more unexpected happened. She thought she still had weeks of work left, but around two o’clock in the afternoon she realized that she was approaching the end of the story, that after another ten or fifteen pages in her notebook she could very well be scrawling finis to mark her first complete manuscript.

  And then she couldn’t write another word.

  A nervous energy shot through her. She became so jittery she couldn’t stay still. Even pacing in her room made her feel caged. She kept sitting down and standing up, and rushed over to the window every time she heard a carriage pass.

  At last, late in the afternoon, Mrs. Watson returned by herself.

  Livia met her coming up the stairs. “Did my sister not come back with you, ma’am? And are you quite all right after your indisposition last night?”

  Mrs. Watson didn’t look unwell, but she was obviously under-rested. And tense, the fine lines around her eyes etched deeper with distress. She gave Livia a game smile. “Yes, I’m all right, Miss Olivia. Miss Charlotte and I had different tasks to see to after meeting with the client. Ah, that might be her now.”

  And it was indeed Charlotte, coming through the front door. She gave her hat and gloves to Mr. Mears, and they all headed up to the afternoon parlor. “I have sent out signals for Mr. Marbleton,” she said, once she took a seat. “Now we wait and see.”

  “Mr. Marbleton?” Livia exclaimed. And immediately blushed. Did Charlotte contact him for her?

  “Yes, Mr. Marbleton. We will need him.”

  “For what? Surely Lord Ingram isn’t in any kind of difficulty again.”

  “No, but I have a friend in trouble,” said Mrs. Watson, her tone calm enough but her eyes plainly apprehensive. “We might have to go to France to help her.”