“At the time, those were not kind thoughts. They flew about my head with a great deal of scorn—venom, even. My opinion of you hasn’t changed, by the way. But nowadays I think those same thoughts with much resignation but even more admiration.” Their eyes met again. His were still the same mysterious dark, but now there was a warmth to them, a deep affection tinged, as he said, with much resignation but even more admiration. “I’m sure I’ll fly off the handle and accuse you of all kinds of perfidy once I learn what you’ve been up to, but let it not be said that I don’t know who I’m dealing with. We disagree often, and that is a fact of our friendship.”
He reached across the table and took away the berries and the dish of condensed milk. “But for your penance, and because I’m hungrier than you, these have been confiscated.”
She watched him eat. How did preferences arise? Was it due to the arrangement of features or the modulation of voice? Certainly it couldn’t be argued that Lord Bancroft was less wise or less powerful than Lord Ingram. Yet one brother invoked in her a bland and rather aloof approval, while the other...
“Little did you know, these were forbidden fruits,” she told him. “And I will extract payment in exchange.”
“Huh,” he said in response.
“I believe there is a darkroom in this house. And I believe you, time permitting, develop negatives for Bancroft. I would like to have a copy of a photograph.”
“Which photograph?”
“A clear image of the face of the victim from the house in Hounslow.”
He put down his fork. “Why do you want it?”
She explained, omitting Lady Ingram’s name and general background. He listened with some incredulity. “You understand it isn’t likely for the man to be your half brother.”
“I do understand that. Yet I am compelled to think so, unless proven otherwise. I’d like a photograph, so that I can show it to those who actually did know him. That way I’ll know for sure, one way or another.”
“You shouldn’t further involve yourself in this matter. If it’s as you said, and Moriarty or his associates are involved...”
“I’m only trying to find out if he was my brother.”
“And what will you do if he does turn out to have been just that?”
“Then I’ll ask that Bancroft get to the bottom of the matter urgently. I am not going to rush out and hunt down the killer myself, if that’s what you are worried about.”
“Is that a promise?”
“Yes.”
“So many promises of late.” He viewed her with patent suspicion. “Wait here.”
He returned a few minutes later with an envelope. “Don’t abuse my trust.”
“I won’t.
She reached for the envelope, but he didn’t let go. “This isn’t what you apologized for, is it?”
“No.”
“You aren’t looking me in the eye.”
She looked him in the eye.
He looked away, unable, for some reason, to hold her gaze.
She took the envelope from him. “Thank you, my lord. I’ll see myself out.”
Mrs. Watson was, in fact, a longtime subscriber to the soup kitchen on Great Windmill Street. As a supporter, she had toured the facilities. Based on this meager familiarity, she took for herself the task of finding out when Mrs. Burns would be there again. At first she considered simply sending a note, but in the end she decided to go in person, so that she could speak of some experience as a volunteer when she did meet Mrs. Burns.
She couldn’t be entirely sure, but there didn’t seem to be anyone following her around—which was a relief. Her luck held at the soup kitchen. The harried woman in charge of the staff took one look at her and said, “It’s a good thing we have Mrs. Burns here today, mum. She’ll tell you what needs to be done.”
Mrs. Watson was already perspiring by the time they were halfway across the large kitchen. She had dressed lightly, knowing that kitchens were infernally hot places. Still, the heat and humidity struck her like a large brick wall to the chest, making her gasp for breath.
“Mrs. Burns”—the woman stuck her head into a room that led off from the kitchen—“I’ve a subscriber here to volunteer. Can you show her what to do, please?”
