A Study in Scarlet Women (Lady Sherlock #1)(73)

Mrs. Watson glanced outside before she looked back at Charlotte. “Will you be all right if it turns out we won’t be able to help her?”

Will you be all right? Charlotte wanted to ask. But it seemed far too intrusive a question.

“I should manage,” she said.




The package at Brown’s Hotel contained a key, along with a note that stated a room number.

Mrs. Marbleton gripped the key, seemingly paralyzed. Mrs. Watson was similarly immobile, peering at her anxiously. Charlotte mustered a big smile for the clerk. “We were told there would be a prize waiting here, but we haven’t the least idea who has prepared it for us. Would you happen to have a record of the person who left this package?”

The pimply young man reddened. “Ah, yes. Yes, of course. If you’ll give me a moment, miss.”

He brought out a book of registry. “This was left behind by a Mr. York.”

Charlotte glanced at Mrs. Marbleton. The name didn’t appear to signify anything for her. “Is Mr. York still here?”

“He left for Paris two days ago.”

“Was his luggage sent ahead to Southampton, then? Which liner did he take?”

“I believe porters came for his luggage. And I’m almost sure he left on a steamer of the French line.”

Mrs. Marbleton recoiled at this answer. Charlotte smiled again at the clerk. “It’s possible we might need to retrieve some heavy items. Won’t you be so kind as to send a pair of your stoutest porters?”

She didn’t anticipate an ambush but it didn’t hurt to be careful.

“Of course, Miss. I will have the porters wait outside the room. It might be a minute or two before they arrive.”

Charlotte guided a stricken-looking Mrs. Marbleton and a pale Mrs. Watson to a chaise. After a few minutes, she shepherded them to their destination. The porters were in the passage when they arrived, standing with their backs to the walls and tugging respectfully on their caps.

Charlotte turned the key and opened the door slowly. The sitting room was empty. But Mrs. Marbleton gasped, rushed toward the mantel, and clutched a fountain pen that had been left behind.

They searched the rest of the suite, but no more of Mr. Marbleton’s belongings were found. Charlotte tipped and dismissed the porters, then took out her magnifying glass and examined the entire suite square inch by square inch.

“I gave this pen to Mr. Marbleton as an engagement present. He wrote all his letters with it,” said Mrs. Marbleton to no one in particular.

The rooms had been cleaned thoroughly, probably by the maids in the morning. When Charlotte had satisfied herself that she would not learn of anything else—other than the fact that no one had slept in the suite overnight—she whispered to Mrs. Watson to keep an eye on their client, while she went down to the lobby and spoke with a different clerk.

“The gentleman who stayed in this suite last night”—she showed him the note with the number on it. “I might have found something that belongs to him. Do you know if he has already left?”

“Let me check for you, miss,” said the clerk, an older man with a portly figure. He pored over the columns of the registry. “Let’s see. You are in luck, miss. Mr. Marbleton will be with us for another several days.”





Seventeen





“How perfectly diabolical,” murmured Mrs. Marbleton, when Charlotte told her that the suite in which they stood was registered to a Mr. Marbleton.

“You don’t seem terribly surprised by this particular twist of events,” said Charlotte.

“Only because I now have an idea who might be behind it. And it isn’t anyone from Mr. Marbleton’s past, but my own.” Mrs. Marbleton smiled grimly. “Thank you, Miss Holmes. And you, too, Mrs. Watson, for your company. But I’m afraid there isn’t anything else you can do.”

“Surely we haven’t exhausted all avenues of inquiry. Mr. York’s movements can be traced. The steamers have passenger manifests and—”

“I understand, Miss Holmes. But you are assuming it isn’t a false trail that has been laid for me.”

“Even if that should turn out to be the case, the account on this room probably hasn’t been settled yet. Not to m—”

“No!” The syllable ricocheted around the room. Mrs. Marbleton took a deep breath, a deathly pallor to her cheeks and a near-frantic look in her eyes. “Please listen to me, Miss Holmes. You do not wish to go anywhere near this man. You simply do not. Do you understand?”

Mrs. Watson gripped Charlotte’s arm and answered for them. “Yes, we understand.”

With flawless courtesy, Mrs. Marbleton saw them out. Charlotte and Mrs. Watson remained silent as they made their way to Albemarle Street. But as soon as they got into a hansom cab, Mrs. Watson blurted out, “Heavens, what is going to happen to that woman?”

Charlotte had no good answer for her.




The rest of Inspector Treadles’s afternoon was spent at Scotland Yard, conferring with Sergeant MacDonald and Superintendent Croft, Treadles’s superior. Sergeant MacDonald had made little headway in discovering the purpose of Mr. Sackville’s London trips. But now, with Superintendent Croft’s blessing, they would publish the dead man’s picture in the papers, ask for help from the public, and hope that those who came forth would offer useful information.