A Study In Scarlet Women (7 page)

A venerated institution.

And now that institution had crumbled.

Treadles pushed aside the evening newspapers littering his desk and pinched the bridge of his nose. He'd found no article about any Holmes suffering from a carriage mishap, a tumble into the Thames, or a botched medical procedure. A discreet inquiry to his colleagues had yielded similarly barren results: no dispute taken too far, robbery gone wrong, or attempted murder that left a man in a deep coma.

For that had to be it, hadn't it, a deep coma? What else could
Lord Ingram possibly mean by Holmes being alive, yet completely beyond his reach?

His wife, in a lilac dressing gown printed with a paisley pattern, came into the room. “Nothing, eh?”

He shook his head. “Nothing.”

Alice sighed. “Poor Mr. Holmes. Whatever could the matter be?”

Treadles could only continue to shake his head. As an investigator, he had decent instincts. And his instincts told him that he was in the wilderness with regard to the misfortunes of Mr. Sherlock Holmes, not even near the right track, let alone following it.

“And I've certainly been put into my place,” Alice went on, “given that Lord Ingram and Mr. Holmes aren't remotely the same person.”

“Well, I for one thought your hypothesis was remarkably elegant. It really is too bad that sometimes inconvenient facts surface to thumb their noses at remarkably elegant hypotheses.”

“Poo to inconvenient facts.” She came around and laid a hand on his shoulder. With her other hand she turned the pages of the papers. “Ludwig the second of Bavaria found dead. Fire destroys nearly one thousand buildings in Vancouver, British Columbia. What an age we live in—bad news from the entire world delivered right to our doorsteps.”

She selected a different paper. “Not that news from home is much better. Recriminations over the failure of the Irish Home Rule bill. Police still looking for suspects in the fire in Lambeth that destroyed a building and killed two.”

“I know about that building in Lambeth,” said Treadles. “Every last inspector in Scotland Yard got letters about it—and it isn't even a copper hell, but a bookmaker's. You close one down and it opens right back up two streets over.”

She flipped a page. “Even society news is no help: Lord Sheridan's birthday celebration canceled due to a death in the family.”

“It would be a newspaper that turns no profit if it reported only fires that didn't burn any houses and parties that took place as expected.” Treadles kissed the palm of her hand. “Fortunately for me, whenever I see the mistress of my household, I feel as if I have received an abundance of good news.”

She smiled. “Ah, Inspector Treadles. I do love you. Come, lay aside the mysterious fate of Mr. Sherlock Holmes for the moment. For you know this much flattery will lead nowhere, sir, except straight to the marriage bed.”

Inspector Treadles needed no further prompting to serve his lady.

“T
hank God for Great Aunt Maribel,” Livia said thickly.

Great Aunt Maribel, a spinster, had lived to be eighty-three. When she died, she left Livia an entire crate of her own creative endeavors—embroidery, glazed pottery, and watercolor paintings, all amateurish work that displayed little talent and even less effort. Livia, unpacking the crate, had grown increasingly dismayed: Was this really how life was lived for a spinster, full of long, idle hours that must be filled with useless crafts?

Halfway through the contents, she'd come across an envelope addressed to her, with a note inside.

Ha
,
you thought I'd wasted decades on this lot of rubbish, didn't you? No, my dear. I have been well satisfied with my life and hope you will be, too, in time. But until then, a bit of consolation to assist you in getting through those more trying years. I don't know about you, but I always need a stiff drink after a visit with your parents . . .

The bottom of the crate, underneath all the artistic flotsam, was lined with liquid gold: whisky from every distillery on the Isle of
Islay, calvados, madeira, sherry, good vintages of claret, even two bottles of absinthe.

Livia had carefully stowed this most marvelous bequest. She had since been frugal with it—she didn't want to squander her only source of wealth before her most desperate hour.

Well, this was somebody's most desperate hour. She'd say it was Charlotte's, but Charlotte was holding herself together rather well. Instead it was Livia who couldn't stop swallowing gulp after gulp of sweet madeira, Livia who couldn't stop shaking and weeping, Livia who ranted and cursed.

“He's such an imbecile, that Roger Shrewsbury, such an utter, irredeemable, muttonheaded dolt.” She waved the bottle for emphasis. “Oh, God, Charlotte, of all the amoral and reckless married men to be had in London, why did you pick him?”

Charlotte sat on the windowsill, her feet on top of a packed suitcase. Livia had hours ago shed her blouse and corset to swaddle herself in an old, comfortable dressing gown. Charlotte remained in her day dress, a summery confection of cream silk printed with roses and climbing vines. Livia preferred her garments as unadorned as possible, but Charlotte relished a good ruffle, yards of lace, and the most dramatic tassels swinging from the shiniest cords of braided silk.

You are more upholstered than a dowager's boudoir
, Livia had once said to Charlotte, exasperated by the latter's more-is-always-better taste. And Charlotte had laughed and countered,
Didn't I tell you? Great Aunt Maribel always said that I reminded her of her favorite needlepoint footstool.

Tears welled in Livia's eyes. She drank directly from the bottle. “I'm going to smash something into Roger Shrewsbury's face the next time I see him.”

“Oh, I can't condone that,” said Charlotte. “Mr. Shrewsbury's face is his only contribution to humanity. I recommend you instead
smash something into his derriere, which is rather ordinary and not as worthy of preservation.”

Livia gasped in shock—and hiccupped at the same time. “You saw his derriere?”

“I saw his everything.”

“Even the . . .”

“Even the parts usually covered by a fig leaf in the British Museum.”

“Did it . . . did it hurt?”

“If you speak of the act of penetration, it wasn't exactly pleasurable but it was no agony. Far more unpleasant was the fact that I had to go through such extreme measures in a bid for a modicum of freedom.”

Livia rubbed her eyes. “Do you really think that would have got you what you wanted? Our parents don't strike me as the sort to reward what they'd consider gross misconduct with what they weren't willing to provide when you were being an obedient daughter.”

“Which is why I'd have blackmailed them.”

Livia choked mid-swallow. “What? How?”

“By threatening to reveal to the general public that I'd been ruined—and hope that they'd cough up enough hush money for me to be educated.”

The audacity of Charlotte's plan made Livia lightheaded. Or was it the madeira? She set down the bottle. “Oh, Charlotte.”

The tears that had long stung the back of her eyes at last spilled down her cheeks. “You won't be all alone in that horrid cottage, Charlotte, I promise you. I'll come around every time Mamma and Papa aren't looking. I'll bring you books and newspapers. I'll bring you cake. I'll bring you—”

Charlotte peered at the curtain gap. “Papa is leaving to visit Mrs. Marsh.”

Mrs. Marsh was Sir Henry's current paramour. She, like Mrs. Gladwell, enjoyed rubbing the fact that she was sleeping with Sir Henry in Lady Holmes's face.

“I hope she gives him something dreadful,” said Livia vehemently.

“No, then Mamma might get it too, and that wouldn't be fair to her.” Charlotte looked back at Livia. “Anyway, Papa going out means Mamma has taken her laudanum and gone to bed. Will you please check to make sure she's fast asleep, Livia?”

Livia rose unsteadily to her feet. “I can, but why?”

“Can you check first, please?”

Livia did as she was asked, her brain foggy. But there was no doubt about it: Lady Holmes was snoring.

She reported her findings to Charlotte, who led her to a room at the back of the house. There Charlotte opened a window. “Moo as loudly as you can, please.”

“What?” Livia was extraordinarily good at imitating animal sounds—a most useless talent for a lady except for entertaining her baby sister when they were little. She hadn't mooed in years.

“Please. It'll be a signal to Mott.”

Mott was their groom and coachman—and gardener, too, when the family was in town.

“But why do you want to signal Mott?”

“I'll explain. But please hurry. It'll be past his bedtime soon and I don't want him to go to sleep thinking he's no longer needed.”

Livia wondered if she were roaring drunk. Or perhaps Charlotte was. The
moo
emerged with surprising vigor, if also plenty of unintended tremolo.

She moaned. “I sound like the bovine version of a fishwife, toward the end of an argument.”

“But a victorious one,” said Charlotte.

An unconvincing
baaa
came back from the mews. Charlotte nodded. “Mott's heard us.”

“Now will you tell me what's going on?”

“All right,” said Charlotte, guiding Livia back to their room. “But you must promise not to say anything to anyone.”

“I promise. What is it?”

Charlotte shut the door and began to unbutton her dress. “I'm leaving.”

“I know that.” Her suitcases had been packed for the rail journey on the morrow that would see her confined to the country for the foreseeable future. “I wish Mamma didn't have such a bee in her bonnet about my staying put for the rest of the Season. To prove what point? I'd rather we be locked away in the country together.”

“We will neither of us be locked away in the country,” said Charlotte. “Mott is bringing round the carriage. He'll take me to one of the bigger hotels near Trafalgar Square, where the clerks won't find it so strange that an unaccompanied woman comes to ask for a room at this hour. Tomorrow I'll find a place in a boardinghouse.”

Livia shook her head. Was she hearing things? “You can't be serious. You're running away?”

“I am not. I am of age. I am free to leave my parents' home and set up my own establishment. It only appears as if I'm running away because I don't want our parents interfering with my plans.”

“My God, you're running away.”

For the first time, Charlotte raised the glass of madeira Livia had poured for her hours ago, an odd little smile on her face. “All right, I'm running away. I prefer being on my own to being locked up in the country.”

“But Charlotte, how will you know where to find a boardinghouse? Or which ones are suitable for a lady?”

“
Work and Leisure
publishes a curated list from time to time—it's a
magazine aimed at women who work or are seeking employment. I've memorized the most recent list, since we only hire a house for the Season and I knew I must live in London year-round if I was to be educated here.”

Of course Charlotte would have committed such a list to memory. But the discussion made Livia feel as if she were suspended high in the air by nothing more than embroidery threads: Neither she nor Charlotte knew anything firsthand about life outside the boundaries of their upbringing. “But—but you'll have to pay to be lodged, won't you?”

“Yes. I have a few pounds put away. But I also plan to find work.”

“What kind of work? You've become notorious, Charlotte. You won't ever become the headmistress of a school. You won't even be able to work as a governess or a lady's companion.”

“True. But there are positions that do not require me to take charge of other people's daughters—or pollute someone else's home with my infamy. Plenty of firms need typists. And more women have become secretaries of late. I can type. I've practiced shorthand on my own for when I'd have to transcribe at school. I'm qualified for many positions.”

Livia squeezed her eyes shut for a moment—the idea of Charlotte's flight into the wilds of London was utterly overwhelming. “I don't doubt your qualifications, but—”

“Then there's nothing to fear.” Charlotte stepped out of her summery frock and reached for a traveling dress of russet velvet. “I'll be fine. I should have done this long ago, as soon as I came of age.”

“But Charlotte, how much money do you have? A few pounds won't get you very far if you don't find employment right away.”

Livia hoarded the miniscule allowance she received from Lady Holmes, but Charlotte had a tendency to spend hers on books, bonbons, and odds and ends like a typewriter or a chemistry set.
If she had more than five pounds to her name, Livia would be shocked.

“I'll be fine, Livia. I expect the process to move quickly.”

There wouldn't be “the woman question” if it were so easy for a female to leave her home and achieve independence. Granted, Charlotte's mind had to be one of the finest in the land, but she was and would forever be a woman who had lost her respectability. A pariah. That had to be a monumental impediment, even away from the froth and vanity of the Upper Ten Thousand.

That said, Charlotte's steely confidence was inspiring. Good old Charlotte, who knew everything, observed everything, and deduced the rest, if there were still anything left to be deduced. If anyone could succeed at this mad endeavor and live—no, prosper—to thumb her nose at her hidebound parents, it would be Charlotte Holmes.

However, at the thought of their parents . . . “What about Mamma and Papa? What will they do once they learn that you've run away?”

“Mamma will be hysterical. Papa will be furious. Mamma will wish to tear the city apart to find me, so she can slap me some more. Papa will agree with her initially, that I should be brought home to be firmly dealt with.

“But whether he decides to confide his troubles to the police or a private investigator, before he's dressed to go out, he'll change his mind. Why should he take the trouble to haul me home when I'll most likely run away again? Why not let me be defeated by London—and life outside his sphere of protection? That way, when I come knocking, in helpless despair, he'll be sure I'll stay put in the country for the rest of my life.”

Livia clutched at her temples. “That's heartless.”

“That's logical and our father considers himself a clever man. Besides”—Charlotte marched to the window and peered out, straightening her cuffs as she did so—“Mott's here. It's time.”

While Mott secured Charlotte's luggage to the top of the carriage, Charlotte said her good-byes to Bernadine. Livia wasn't sure whether she would have taken the trouble: All Bernadine ever did was spin things, spools on a wire, wooden gears, paper windmills. She never spoke to anyone and Livia sometimes wondered if she could distinguish members of her family from strangers on the street.