A Study in Scarlet Women (Lady Sherlock #1)(27)

The door had been left ajar. Miss Turner ushered Charlotte past to another door, which led to Mrs. Wallace’s parlor.

Charlotte had stepped into the parlor once before, for her initial interview with Mrs. Wallace. She had been very ladylike and Mrs. Wallace had declared herself pleased to offer the vacancy to Miss Holmes.

But this Mrs. Wallace did not look at all pleased with Miss Holmes. Her expression was forbidding, which seemed to only further excite Miss Turner.

“I’ve brought Miss Holmes, ma’am,” she announced breathlessly.

“Thank you, Miss Turner,” said Mrs. Wallace. And then, after a moment, when Miss Turner showed no inclination to depart, “I will see you at supper.”

“Of course, ma’am.”

When she was gone Mrs. Wallace commanded, “Have a seat, Miss Holmes.”

Charlotte sat down—then stood up again. She walked to the door and yanked it open. Miss Turner stumbled into the parlor, unembarrassed. “Do excuse me. I wanted to ask Mrs. Wallace a question about her policy for the washings. I’ll come at a more convenient time.”

Charlotte accompanied her as far as the barricading door in the middle of the corridor, which she locked before coming back into the parlor and closing the door firmly behind herself.

She did not bother to take a seat again. “Is something the matter, Mrs. Wallace?”

Mrs. Wallace considered her a minute. “Miss Holmes, you have deceived me.”

Charlotte took a deep breath. “Have I?”

“Miss Whitbread’s cousin, Miss Moore, called on her this morning—and saw you leave as she came in. Miss Moore works at a Regent Street dressmaker’s and told me that she had seen you more than once at Madame Mireille’s.

“Unfortunately she also told me that you are not Caroline Holmes of Tunbridge, a typist newly arrived in London, but Charlotte Holmes, daughter of Sir Henry Holmes, who was recently caught in a compromising position with a married man. Do you deny that?”

How ironic. Mrs. Wallace’s establishment in the West End had not been Charlotte’s first choice. There was a more highly recommended place in Kensington and Charlotte had passed on it because she hadn’t wanted to run into anyone she knew. West End, a relatively safe, well-maintained district, with a large population of doctors and other professionals, but with Society having decamped decades ago to more fashionable addresses further west, promised greater anonymity.

It would appear that she had chosen badly in everything.

“Well, Miss Holmes?”

“I can see that your mind is already made up, Mrs. Wallace. Any denial on my part would only lead to further accusations of dishonesty.”

“In that case I have no choice but to ask you to leave immediately. I must have a care for the reputation of my establishment. This is a house of virtue, of good Christian respectability. There is no room for you, Miss Holmes. There never was.”

“Very well. You will have no trouble from me, Mrs. Wallace. Return me the sum I’ve paid in advance, minus the portion deducted for the nights I’ve spent here, and I’ll be gone within the hour.”

“I’m afraid I will be keeping your rent.” Mrs. Wallace’s tone was firm. “You were plainly informed that any misrepresentation or misconduct on your part would lead to a forfeiture of rent already paid.”

Charlotte folded her hands together. “Then what about misrepresentation on your part, Mrs. Wallace?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“You said that this is a house of virtue, of good Christian respectability. But you yourself entertain, on a regular basis, a man to whom you’re not married.”

Mrs. Wallace recoiled. “Where did you hear such a malicious rumor? I will have you know—how dare you—” She paused to exhale. “I will have you know there are absolutely no such shenanigans going on here!”

“I must disagree. You have a strict no-gentlemen policy for the house. Your boarders, even if they have brothers or fathers in town, are expected to meet them at tea shops and other such venues. In the common room there are no antimacassars on the furniture, yet in this, your own private parlor, I see an antimacassar on every chair except one, yours.”

“Some women do use macassar oil in their hair,” Mrs. Wallace said heatedly.

Charlotte scanned the room and made for a door to her right. Beyond the door was a small anteroom, with a mirror, an umbrella stand, a coat tree, and, of course, a doormat.

She looked back at Mrs. Wallace, who was beginning to look hunted. “True, some women do use macassar oil. But why would a woman leave muddy prints in the shape of a pair of men’s shoes on the doormat just inside the private entrance to this apartment?”

Charlotte walked across the room to Mrs. Wallace’s writing desk. “Furthermore, you are right-handed, but the ink blotter was on the left-hand side of the desk when I came for my interview. You had asked me to write down the name and address of my next of kin, in case of emergency. As I stood over your desk, almost directly above the wastepaper basket, what had I seen but a rectangle of discarded blotting paper, with the words Cordially yours, George Atwell, in reverse, just discernable at the corner.

“I asked then whether you had any family in town or visiting regularly. You replied that your parents are no more and that your only surviving sibling, a sister, lives with her husband and daughter in India. Mr. Atwell, therefore, cannot be a father or a brother. And unless you are impersonating a man by post, a problematic activity in itself, Mr. Atwell sat here at this very desk recently and dashed out a message before he left.