A Study in Scarlet Women (Lady Sherlock #1)(96)

“A workable idea,” Charlotte pronounced, taking a sip of her lemonade.

Livia almost preened. Charlotte didn’t give false compliments. If she said the idea was workable, then it was workable. “You will do it then?”

Charlotte shook her head. “You should write this story, Livia.”

“Me?”

“Yes, you.”

“But I’ve never written anything before.”

“That isn’t entirely true.”

Of course Charlotte would know about Livia’s notebooks filled with half-germinated ideas and stories that had fallen apart a few pages in. Livia’s face heated—she ought to have burned those notebooks. It was too embarrassing for her amateurish efforts to have been seen by anyone, even if it was only Charlotte.

“Remember when you read Poe’s ‘The Murders in the Rue Morgue’?” asked Charlotte. “Remember how outraged you were that after all the tension and excitement of the premise, in the denouement Mr. Poe couldn’t do better than a crazed orangutan? You were scribbling in your notebook for days afterward.”

“Yes, but it’s much easier to condemn him for using a crazed orangutan than to come up with a better story myself.”

Charlotte refilled Livia’s glass of lemonade. “I never told you this but some of your openings were more than decent. I wish you’d have continued with those stories.”

Livia’s heart thudded. She was good at something?

“Anyway, give this Sherlock Holmes story a try,” Charlotte said firmly, as she pushed a plate of sponge cake in Livia’s direction. “You’ll surprise yourself.”




Charlotte returned from the British Museum in time for her last appointment of the day at 18 Upper Baker Street. At precisely half past seven, the bell rang. A few seconds later, a cheerful-looking young woman entered the parlor.

“Miss Oxford, how do you do?”

“Very well, thank you.” Miss Oxford shook Charlotte’s hand vigorously and with a wide smile. “I’m pleased to be here.”

Her unencumbered high spirits struck Charlotte—her clients typically betrayed some signs of anxiety. The usual pantomime about Sherlock Holmes’s disability ensued. Miss Oxford, after expressing her sympathy, declared emphatically that yes, she wished for a demonstration of Mr. Holmes’s mental prowess.

Charlotte looked her over. Then she walked to the sideboard and poured two glasses of whisky. “You’re a Londoner, born and brought up in this very area. But you’ve been abroad recently and only just returned. Paris, I would say. You weren’t a tourist there. You didn’t hold any positions. Nor were you living with family or friends. Which leads me to conclude that you are a student of medicine at the Sorbonne.”

She handed a glass of whisky to her “client” and raised her own. “Welcome home, Miss Redmayne.”

Miss Redmayne burst into a peal of laughter. “What gave me away? Is it the family resemblance? Everybody always says I take after my aunt.”

“There is a good likeness.”

The more Charlotte looked at her, however, the more Miss Redmayne began to resemble someone else: the late Duke of Wycliffe, Lord Ingram’s father—or at least his official father.

Charlotte had always assumed that Miss Redmayne wasn’t Mrs. Watson’s niece, but the latter’s daughter—easier on everyone that way, and the girl could go about with a gloss of legitimacy. She had further assumed that Miss Redmayne’s father was a man of considerable wealth—John Watson, an army doctor, would not have been able to provide for his widow in as comfortable a manner.

She had, however, never imagined there to be connections between Mrs. Watson and the Ashburtons.

Miss Redmayne merrily chatted away. Charlotte knew she must be making the correct responses, for Miss Redmayne laughed and continued talking. But Charlotte’s head spun.

It wasn’t uncommon for children to develop a rapport with their father’s mistress, especially if they had already lost their mother. J. H. R., the mysterious entity to whom Lord Ingram’s book had been dedicated, was none other than Joanna Hamish Redmayne, otherwise known as Mrs. Watson. She wasn’t someone he disapproved of hugely, but a friend and confidante of long standing. And Mrs. Watson hadn’t run into Charlotte by accident at the post office. She had been sent.

Miss Redmayne stopped and looked at Charlotte expectantly. Charlotte made a concerted effort to recall what had been said to her. “I can’t declare with one hundred percent confidence that I would have enjoyed dissection, but I’d like to think I wouldn’t faint more than two or three times before I became used to it.”

Miss Redmayne chortled and launched into another anecdote from her anatomy class. Charlotte forced herself to pay attention and keep up with the discussion. A quarter of an hour must have passed before Miss Redmayne said, “Well, shall we go home? My aunt promised there will be a magnificent bottle of champagne waiting.”

“Why don’t you go first? I have a bit of preparation that needs to be done before I’m ready for my first client tomorrow.”

After making Charlotte promise she won’t be long, Miss Redmayne flounced down the steps. Charlotte returned to her seat and sank down heavily.

A knock came at the door. Charlotte started. “Who is it?”