She sighed, a heavy sound. “Last time I was here, you admonished me. I think I finally see your point, Miss Holmes: There is nothing I could possibly gain from the continuation of my inquiry.
“I’m glad Mr. Finch isn’t dead. And I hope he is as well as you have described. I’ll keep our appointment next year at the Albert Memorial—and every year thereafter. Maybe I’ll see him again someday. Maybe I won’t. But I shan’t trouble you again.”
“So he’s alive then, Mr. Finch,” said Mrs. Watson, still limp with relief. “Or at least the man murdered in Hounslow wasn’t him.”
Lady Ingram had departed. The ladies of 18 Upper Baker Street had gathered in the parlor for tea and biscuits. Or rather, Miss Holmes partook in tea and biscuits; Mrs. Watson and Penelope each nursed afinger of whisky. The grandfather clock had gonged midnight a while ago, but no one seemed the least bit interested in retiring.
Miss Holmes polished off a madeleine. “I had better send word to Lord Bancroft that facts have laid waste to my brilliant hypothesis.”
She appeared as unmoved as ever, but earlier, when Lady Ingram had declared the man in the photograph a stranger, she had let out an audible breath, which had been quite enough to inform Mrs. Watson that she was beyond relieved to be wrong.
“What should we do about Mr. Finch then?” asked Mrs. Watson. Lady Ingram might have come to her senses, but the only Mr. Finch they were able to locate had turned out to be counterfeit.
“You remember Mr. Gillespie, the solicitor Mr. Mears impersonated?” Miss Holmes poured herself another cup of tea. “I stopped by his office this afternoon on my way back and made an appointment to see him tomorrow. Though I haven’t a ready story yet on what to say to extract maximum information from him without alerting my father of my involvement in the matter.”
“I have an idea,” said Penelope. “I can play the part of Lady Ingram—under a different name, of course. My point is I can use the bones of her story, tell Mr. Gillespie that Mr. Finch is missing, and worm out some information.”
“I like that idea,” said Miss Holmes decisively. She turned to Mrs. Watson. “I didn’t have a chance to ask earlier, ma’am, but did you learn anything from going to the soup kitchen today?”
Mrs. Watson recounted her conversation with Mrs. Burns. “It didn’t appear that she was at all interested in her employer. Of course, one could make the case that she’s canny and careful and wouldn’t spill the beans even to an absolute stranger. But she struck me as truthful, bluntly so.”
Miss Holmes nodded and made no further comment on Mrs. Watson’s observation. They discussed their plans. Mrs. Watsonwould go back to the soup kitchen on Saturday—Mrs. Burns had indicated that was when she planned to give her time again. Miss Redmayne would beg off accompanying the de Blois ladies on a trip to Bath so she could meet with Mr. Gillespie.
“I will go with Miss Redmayne,” said Miss Holmes. “The presence of a friend will help make Miss Redmayne’s claims seem more convincing.”
“But are you sure it’s wise to meet with a close associate of your father?” Mrs. Watson couldn’t help but imagine all the undesirable consequences should Miss Holmes be recognized.
“Mr. Gillespie and I have never met,” said Miss Holmes. “But even if he does know what I look like, at this point, it’s a risk I’m willing to take.”
They were quiet for a minute, Mrs. Watson busily planning how to use theatrical makeup to change Miss Holmes’s appearance.
Penelope cleared her throat. “I hope, Miss Holmes, it will not shock you to know that I have been apprised of Lord Bancroft’s matrimonial intentions.”
Mrs. Watson cleared her throat, too, embarrassed to have been revealed as a gossip. But, as Penelope said, it could scarcely have shocked Miss Holmes.
Miss Holmes only waited for Penelope to continue.
“You met with Lord Bancroft today—or yesterday now, since we’re past midnight. I’m curious to know, did he press you for an answer?”
“He did, though not in so many words.” Miss Holmes sipped her tea and eyed the rest of the madeleines on the plate with a combination of longing and apology. “I believe Lord Bancroft thinks that I am the perfect woman for him.”
“You don’t sound particularly pleased by that idea,” Penelope pointed out.
“To be thought of as the perfect woman for a man isn’t acompliment to a woman, it’s more about how a man sees himself—and what he needs.” Miss Holmes sighed. “Should we marry, either I will be exhausted trying to keep his illusion intact—or Lord Bancroft will be severely disappointed in his choice. Likely both.”
Mrs. Watson couldn’t help herself. “What does Lord Ingram think of you?”
“Lord Ingram?” The movement of Miss Holmes’s lips could indicate either a smile or a moment of ruefulness. “He has always understood that I am one of the most imperfect women alive. Thank goodness.”
Seventeen
FRIDAY
Livia stared at the pages, amazed.
She was writing Sherlock Holmes’s story. And she did so with the mad speed of a convict about to face the gallows.
Two decisions had helped loosen the words. One, she opted not to begin the story with the origins of the crime. After all, the point was Sherlock Holmes. Two, after trying—and failing—to make him the narrator, she chose instead to use the fictional masculine equivalent of Mrs. Watson to fulfill the role.
