A Study in Scarlet Women (Lady Sherlock #1)(76)

“I tell them that I don’t know anything,” he said quietly. “And that I never expect to hear from you again.”




When Charlotte returned to Mrs. Watson’s house she found her business partner in the parlor, wrapped in a man’s smoking jacket and nursing a glass of claret.

“Chateau Haut-Brion, the ’65 vintage.” She held up the darkly scarlet liquid to the light. “My husband adored this wine. When we married, we bought four cases, with the intention of opening a bottle each year for our anniversary.”

Mrs. Watson turned around. “Would you like to have a glass, Miss Holmes?”

“Yes, thank you,” said Charlotte, sitting down.

The wine that John Watson would never taste again was velvety yet potent. Mrs. Watson refilled her own glass and took a long draught.

“I don’t usually have reason to consider myself terribly naive. But goodness how naive I’ve been, to think that this would be all fun and games.

“I keep wondering what must be going through Mrs. Marbleton’s mind,” Mrs. Watson said, her gaze focused on some distant point. “After the telegram came, informing me that my husband had been killed by a stray jezail bullet, I refused to believe it. I thought they had mistaken a different man for him, that he might be injured and lying somewhere delirious, even that he’d been captured by the Afghanis and held in a dreadful prison—but I couldn’t contemplate his death. Couldn’t accept it until men from his regiment, men who saw him die before their own eyes and laid him to rest in Kabul, came to offer their condolences.

“But at least then I knew where he was and what happened to him. Mrs. Marbleton, is it even worse for her because she doesn’t know? Is she imagining the most horrific scenarios before telling herself that all would be well, that she would see her husband in one piece again and this would all turn out to be but a stupid prank? How she must be seesawing between hope and despair—ever diminishing hope and ever proliferating despair.”

Charlotte took another sip of her wine. If she gave voice to her suspicions concerning Mrs. Marbleton, then Mrs. Watson might stop worrying about Mrs. Marbleton, but she would instead worry about Charlotte. (But it’s perfectly fine for me to worry about you? said an imaginary Lord Ingram. Yes, she replied, not only fine, but good and proper.)

“Would you—would you like to go to Kabul someday, Mrs. Watson, and visit your husband’s grave?”

Mrs. Watson sat down. “I’ve often thought about it—sometimes I wish I hadn’t left India so precipitously. That I’d made the trip while I’d remained on the subcontinent. But it’s such a long way to go to look at a headstone.”

And to be reminded of all the years that had been robbed.

“If ever again you think of going, ma’am, know that I’d be honored to accompany you.”

Mrs. Watson smiled very slightly. “And what would London do without Sherlock Holmes?”

“London has managed for millennia without me. I’m sure it can hobble on in my absence for a few months.” Charlotte set down her wineglass. “Good night, ma’am.”

As she reached the door, Mrs. Watson said, “Thank you, Miss Holmes.”

Charlotte paused briefly, then resumed walking.




Lord Ingram’s letter came the next morning, on the early post.

Dear Charlotte,

As expected, Lady Somersby and Lady Avery approached me at the opera. After demurring all knowledge of your whereabouts, I asked them, naturally enough, whether they knew of any precedents like yours, of a young woman who not only defied the rules but also the consequences.

With very little hesitation they brought up the name of Sophia Lonsdale, though they believed that she did not so much run away as was outright disowned. It has been nearly twenty-five years, but they agree that she found a position working in the refectory kitchens at Balliol College, not too far from her ancestral home. They were certain that she later married a young tutor, shortly before he left the country for a post overseas.

Here they became embroiled in dispute over where the young couple had been headed. Lady Avery insisted it was Vienna; Lady Somersby would not budge from Budapest. And there was not enough time to resolve the debate before the curtains rose again.

But what they told me of Sophia Lonsdale matched closely with your description of Mrs. Marbleton.

Your servant,

Ashburton

Charlotte grabbed Mrs. Watson’s copy of Burke’s. The Lonsdales were a prominent family in Oxfordshire, the most distinguished branch being the one that produced the Earls of Montserre. Sophia Lonsdale probably came from a cadet branch of the family, but still, terribly respectable stock.

Alas, there was no time that morning to look further into the matter of Sophia Lonsdale: Charlotte had clients with whom she must meet.

By the time she had solved, for a pair of ancient spinster sisters, why their equally ancient butler didn’t seem quite himself—the man had died years ago, but one of the sisters kept forgetting the fact and becoming startled by the sight of a stranger in the house, that the new butler gave up, found a white-haired wig, and with the complicity of the other sister, began passing himself off as his predecessor—another letter arrived from Lord Ingram, much to her surprise.

He, unlike Sophia Lonsdale’s purportedly missing husband, did not write more than once a day.