A Study in Scarlet Women (Lady Sherlock #1)(26)
But it was the woman holding on to the girl’s shoulder who made Charlotte’s chest constrict. She had seen beggars in London, but never one like this. The mother wore a black patch over one eye, her other eye the milky blue of the blind. Her face had the vacantness of a North Sea beach in the dead of winter; her arms, held close to the sides of her body, the stiffness of a marionette.
She did not look defeated. To look defeated was to suggest that one had recently strived for something. This woman was drained, whatever hope and energy she’d once possessed long ago permanently depleted.
The husk that she’d become was far more frightening than the sight of the down-on-their-luck-but-still-saucy beggars Charlotte was more accustomed to seeing, ones who accosted their passersby with a combination of pathos and bravado.
“A penny for me supper, mum?” The little girl, not yet entirely diminished by life, asked again.
Charlotte opened her reticule and pulled out not only a coin, but the two slices of toast, wrapped in brown paper. “Here’s a sixpenny bit for you. You look after your mum. Make sure she has her supper, too.”
The little girl looked with incredulity at the coin that had been dropped into her palm. She raised her face to Charlotte, let go of her mother’s hand, and wrapped her arms around her benefactor. And only then did she accept the toasts.
Charlotte walked on, feeling a little less in despair.
Her relief that she could still do something for someone evaporated before the display windows of Atwell & Dewsbury, Pharmaceutical Chemists. She had never walked so much in her entire life; her feet were in agony. She probably couldn’t afford to buy plasters for her blisters, but at least she could inquire into their prices.
She patted the hidden pocket on her skirt. In her reticule she kept only minor change, but in her pocket she had a pound note.
Mrs. Wallace’s place seemed safe enough and the lock on Charlotte’s door was sturdy. But what if the place burned down while Charlotte was out seeking employment? She didn’t want to lose all her money, along with all her other worldly possessions. The pound note in her pocket served as a crude form of insurance.
But it was not there. Through the broadcloth of her dress, she couldn’t sense the small but very real presence of that precious piece of paper, folded into a square. Surely she was mistaken. She dug her fingers harder against the fabric. Nothing. All she felt was the bulk of her petticoat—and beneath that, the form of her limb.
The little beggar girl who had embraced her. Charlotte should have known—she should have known that instant something was wrong. The girl hadn’t been anywhere near as emaciated as her face would suggest. And she hadn’t smelled of the sourness of lack of washing.
No, Charlotte should have known before then. The girl hadn’t left her mother’s hold—it had been the other way around. The mother had signaled her to go for the easy prey. The eye patch hadn’t covered some unsightly deformity: It had covered her good eye, the black cloth thin enough for her to make out something of her surroundings in good daylight.
Charlotte was vaguely aware that she was drifting along the street. At some point she might have entered Mrs. Wallace’s boarding home. Did someone attempt to speak to her? She had no idea. Nor could she be sure whether she had responded.
She did remember locking the door of her room before she lifted up a wide band of lace ruffle on her skirt to check the opening of the pocket. It had two buttons, both securely fastened when she’d left the house. Now one button was open, leaving more than enough room for small, nimble fingers to reach inside and extract the pound note.
Which accounted for nearly forty percent of her remaining funds.
All at once she became aware that someone was banging on her door. “Miss Holmes. Miss Holmes!”
She opened the door to Mrs. Wallace’s resident sycophant. “Yes, Miss Turner?”
“Miss Holmes, are you suffering from deafness? I spoke to you downstairs—you didn’t even react. And I’ve been knocking for at least two minutes now.”
“Is everything all right?”
“Mrs. Wallace would like a word with you in her parlor at the earliest possible moment,” said Miss Turner with a smug mysteriousness.
Why would Mrs. Wallace wish to speak with Charlotte? She was paid up until the end of next week and she had come nowhere near the house rules, let alone broken any. “Certainly. I’ll be right down.”
At the far end of the corridor was a simple galley, open for two hours every afternoon, where Mrs. Wallace’s boarders, who weren’t allowed to do more than boil water in their rooms, might fry some sausages or heat up tinned beans to have with their tea. Today someone had scrambled eggs and the rich aroma made Charlotte’s stomach tremble in longing. She had skipped both lunch and tea—an unprecedented event in her life.
Her brain was dull from hunger. When she looked at Miss Turner, she saw few of the details that usually leaped out at her, except to note that the woman, a good fifteen years older than Charlotte, was practically skipping down the stairs.
A gong went off in her head. When a woman who adored authority and revolved as close to power as she could became this excited, it was probably because authority and power were about to be put to use—to someone else’s detriment.
To Charlotte’s detriment.
Mrs. Wallace had a small apartment on the ground floor, consisting of a parlor, a bedroom, and most likely a private bath. This apartment was accessed via a corridor that led out from the common room. A door barred the way a few feet into the corridor. On the wall next to the door was a bell and next to the bell a sign that read, PRAY DO NOT RING AFTER 8 O’CLOCK IN THE EVENING, EXCEPT IN CASE OF EMERGENCY.