The Art of Theft, Page 2

  He sighed. The sound conveyed no impatience, only a deep wistfulness. “You are telling me that before you can be sure of your affections, you must be sure of yourself.”

  And she was so very unsure of herself.

  “I will gladly attribute some of the blame to Charlotte. She has always viewed romantic love as highly perishable.”

  “I hold a slightly more optimistic view of romantic love. I see it not as doomed to spoilage but as prone to change. Yes, it can dwindle to nothing. Or harden into bitterness and enmity. But it can also ripen like a fine vintage, becoming something with extraordinary depth and maturity.”

  He spoke with confidence and conviction. Briefly her gloved hand came to rest against the topmost button of her bodice. How did it feel to hold such lovely, uplifting views—was it like having been born with wings? His views did not change her own, but she rued that her own beliefs were nowhere near as luminous.

  The garden path turned—she’d been waiting for this moment, when they would be temporarily hidden from view by an arbor. She gave him a letter. “Will you drop this in the post for my sister?”

  He stowed the missive inside his coat. “Of course.”

  His cheeks were pink with cold. He wore a beard as he had in summer, when they first met, but this beard was much shorter, the accumulation of a fortnight at most. She wondered how it would feel against her palm—and was astonished both at the direction of her thoughts and that she had lived to be twenty-seven and never had a thought like that before.

  He gazed at her intently. She realized she was doing the same, sustaining an unblinking stare that made her forget everything. Hurriedly she resumed walking. A few more seconds and her mother—or worse, his—would wonder what they were doing behind the arbor.

  “Will you really go to the South of France?” she asked, her voice holding steady but her pace much too fast, as if she were trying to get away from a scene of misdeed.

  This was the Openshaws’ farewell visit, the last time she would see him in goodness knew how long.

  “I very much doubt it. Nor are we likely to spend Christmas together. Calling on others as a family—that isn’t what we normally do. It has made my sister highly uneasy. She wants us to leave Britain, disperse, and disappear for a good long while.”

  “Oh!”

  “She tries, but she doesn’t yet dictate everything we do.” He smiled. “I will try to remain in the country as long as possible. And I will write—long letters on everything under the sun.”

  He had never written before. The idea of those letters, of their compact weight in the envelope, of the decadent, luxuriant sprawl of lines, of the intimacy and escape they promised—she yearned for them.

  For this substitute of his companionship.

  But how long would he persist?

  “Speaking of letters, Mr. Marbleton,” she said, “I must tell you something about the one I asked you to post for me. It involves you and your family—and it involves fraud.”

  * * *

  “I told Mamma I’d make her a book of pressed pansies,” said Lucinda, Lord Ingram’s daughter, a budding botanist who loved to potter about in gardens and hothouses.

  They were in the orangery at Stern Hollow, his country estate, and she was inspecting a trough of pansies with a serious, critical eye that belied her tender years. He looked her over carefully—nowadays he was always looking his children over carefully, alert to the least signs of unhappiness. But Lucinda was a sturdy soul. And even Carlisle, shyer and more sensitive, hadn’t moped too much.

  Through the orangery’s glass walls, he could see Carlisle by the duck pond, holding on to Miss Yarmouth’s hand. The governess held a loaf of bread in her other hand and offered it frequently to Carlisle so he could tear off a piece to toss to the waterfowl.

  Not long ago he’d been afraid of the honking and sometimes aggressive ducks. Lord Ingram was heartened to see the boy calmly shooing off one particularly large goose when it came too close. Miss Yarmouth smiled and spoke to him, no doubt with words of praise and encouragement.

  Perhaps on her own Miss Yarmouth could be too dreamy and impractical, but her gentle, undemanding presence cushioned the children against the blow of their mother’s departure.

  As if sensing his gaze, Miss Yarmouth glanced toward the orangery. She probably wasn’t able to see him past the bank of potted orange and lemons trees lining the glass walls. But nevertheless, as if feeling abashed, she tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and, after a moment of hesitation, turned back to Carlisle.

  Lord Ingram frowned. He didn’t care to flatter himself, but of late, there had been something in Miss Yarmouth’s demeanor to suggest that she felt more for him than the obligation owed an employer.

  The lot of a governess was trying enough—she was neither a servant in the strict sense of the word nor a member of the family. To add sentiments to the mix . . .

  At least he had the comfort of knowing that he’d never given her any encouragement. Indeed, never spent a moment longer with her than strictly necessary.

  “Maybe not these ones,” said Lucinda. “I don’t think Mamma likes orange.”

  And these pansies were very orange.

  “Does Mamma like pansies?” he asked.

  He’d thought her tastes leaned more toward roses and orchids, elegant, stately flowers.

  “I like pansies. Mamma said that I should do what I like—for her. So I told her I’d collect pansies and make really pretty pressed flowers. And that every time I see a pansy, I’d think of her.”

  He crouched down beside her and traced a thumb down her cheek. “That is thoroughly lovely of you.”

  “Yes,” she agreed without any self-consciousness. “And when she sees how many pressed pansies I’ve made, she’ll know I’ve thought so, so much about her.”

  A shard of pain pierced deep in his chest. This was not the life he had imagined for her when he’d first held her, tiny and swaddled, in his arms. “I’m sure Mamma will be deeply moved. And she’ll treasure every one of the pressed pansies.”

  “I’m going to make so many that even if she loses some, she’ll still have lots.”

  She didn’t sound sad, but determined and matter-of-fact about her absent mother. But what would happen if she were to learn about the divorce? His petition had been logged with the Probate, Divorce and Admiralty Division of the High Court, but the case was unlikely to be heard before the Hilary sitting in January. Or maybe not until the Easter sitting, he was beginning to hope.

  When the divorce was granted, he would need to tell his children the truth. But increasingly he worried that they might learn it first from someone other than him. His sister-in-law, the Duchess of Wycliffe, had invited his children to Eastleigh Park for Christmas, and he had accepted: The little cousins adored one another, and he couldn’t deny such joy to Lucinda and Carlisle, despite the rumors they might hear, visiting an estate as large as Eastleigh Park.

  The door of the orangery opened. Carlisle took a few steps inside, still holding on to Miss Yarmouth’s hand. When he saw Lord Ingram he let go and rushed to him. “Papa, look at this feather I found.”

  “Look at it indeed.” The feather was almost a foot long, perfectly clean, perfectly white, each barb neat and orderly. “A most handsome find.”

  “Can I give it to Mamma?”

  Lord Ingram was acutely aware of Miss Yarmouth’s presence. He would much prefer never to speak of his wife again in front of an outsider, but he couldn’t very well order the children’s governess to absent herself every time her charges brought up their mother. “Of course you may. Do you have a place to put it?”

  “On my nightstand.”

  More pain punctured his heart. Carlisle’s nightstand was becoming crowded with small objects that he wished to pass on to his mother.

  Lucinda looked up from her pansies. “Can we go to
London, Papa? Mamma might be in London.”

  He blinked and almost demanded to know where his daughter had got that idea from. Then he remembered that last time they’d been taken to London, they had, much to their surprise and delight, met their mother.

  Lady Ingram had been about to go on the run again, not from the Crown, which had promised to no longer pursue her for past misdeeds against its agents, but from Moriarty, a shadowy figure of power she had openly accused of serious crimes. Lord Ingram did not know where she had gone, but he doubted that she was waiting in London to see her children.

  Carlisle’s eyes lit. “Can we, Papa? Can we please?”

  Once again he was intensely aware of Miss Yarmouth. Thank God she wasn’t looking at him with pity, but it was almost as bad that she regarded him in admiration.

  “I don’t think Mamma is in London. She has gone abroad, far away.”

  “But if she came back, she’d be in London first,” said Lucinda, most reasonably.

  “And I can give her this feather!” said Carlisle, waving the feather in the air.

  “If you’d like, my lord, I can take the children back to the house,” said Miss Yarmouth diffidently, trying to help.

  “Thank you, but that won’t be necessary, Miss Yarmouth. I am going to take them to Story Cottage. You may see to your other duties.”

  “Yes, my lord.” Her reply sounded reluctant, but she went.

  “Are you children ready for a nice long walk?”

  They were. They were sturdy walkers who didn’t mind a little cold. And they loved Story Cottage, which he had rehabilitated from a derelict hut to something out of the pages of a fairy tale, a tiny, immaculate house in the midst of a tiny, immaculate garden.

  They stopped by the manor for a supply of foodstuffs, then set out for the long hike to Story Cottage, at the other end of the estate. Halfway there, Lucinda asked, “So when are we going to London?”

  He hadn’t thought she’d forgotten, not this child. “Tomorrow.”

  The children exclaimed, “Tomorrow?”

  “Yes, tomorrow. We are anyway expected at your aunt and uncle’s place in a few days. And London is on our way. So we might as well stay a short while in London, until it’s time to head to Eastleigh Park.”

  The children jumped up and down and hugged him tight. He buried his face in Carlisle’s downy hair and did not remind them that their mother would not be there. In time they would learn that seeing her again would be an infrequent and improbable event.

  And he had reasons of his own for wanting to be in London.

  * * *

  The next day, Miss Charlotte Holmes, who made her living as oracle to her fictional brother Sherlock, was regretting the fact that she was a far more inept oracle where her real-life sister Bernadine was concerned.

  Sir Henry and Lady Holmes had four daughters. Bernadine, the second eldest, had been born closed off to the world. She was not mad or violent, but she could not look after herself, nor be made presentable in public. And because of that, her existence had been all but erased.

  Charlotte, who had run away from home this past summer, had concocted a ruse and removed Bernadine from their parents’ home as soon as she’d saved up enough funds from helping clients as Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective. Her small enterprise flourished thanks to Mrs. Watson, her partner and benefactress.

  Charlotte also lodged with Mrs. Watson, and Bernadine seemed to like the room that had been prepared for her—it contained an entire rack of gears and spools on rods, and she loved nothing more than spinning objects. But she still wasn’t feeding herself, and Charlotte could not get her to eat more than half of a small bowl of porridge.

  She tried to tempt Bernadine with a slice of cake. Charlotte very much wanted to consume it herself. But alas, she must refrain from such blatant gourmandise only an hour after lunch. And even more unfortunately, this moist, buttery morsel with the gravitational pull of a major planet—to Charlotte, at least—somehow managed to repel Bernadine, who spun another spool and turned her face resolutely away.

  Charlotte exhaled—and wished that she had Bernadine’s distaste for cake. Not always, of course, but for brief and intense spells that made it easier to give up extra servings in times of impending Maximum Tolerable Chins.

  Charlotte preferred to indulge herself perennially. Alas, her love of cake and other sweet confections sometimes conflicted with her vanity: at around 1.5 chins the shape of her face changed. But Maximum Tolerable Chins wasn’t merely a matter of features; it was also the point at which her garments became restricting. And beyond that, uncomfortably tight.

  She had a great many uses for her money and didn’t have room in her budget for outgrowing her entire wardrobe.

  Charlotte tried one last time to offer the cake to Bernadine. This final overture was also rejected.

  “She’s got a mind of her own, our Miss Holmes,” said Rosie Banning, one of Mrs. Watson’s servants, who’d been sitting with Bernadine. “Don’t you think, Miss Charlotte?”

  Bernadine was the eldest unmarried Miss Holmes. Since her arrival in this house, her sister had been addressed as Miss Charlotte, as befitting a younger daughter.

  “A very firm mind of her own,” answered Charlotte.

  But the rest of the world was not privileged to know what was in, or on, Bernadine’s mind. Even Charlotte could only guess ineffectually. She watched for a while as her sister tirelessly spun spool after spool. Then she took out a notebook and shook open a newspaper.

  Ever since summer, she’d kept a careful track of the small notices in the papers. Moriarty’s organization had disseminated keys to ciphers via small notices. She and Livia had sent coded messages to each other. She had also communicated with the Marbleton family in this manner.

  But at the moment she was waiting for news from a different quarter. The small notices were thick as ants and about as legible. But she’d been at it for so long that she could spot the new ones right away, even among the dozens and dozens of coded personal messages.

  There was nothing from Mr. Myron Finch, her half brother, whom she’d last seen at the end of the Season. She’d received two small-notice messages from him, one in early September, the other roughly four weeks later.

  The two were identical. After decoding, both read, Dear Caesar, how fares Rome? Here in Italy all is well. 3 N N.

  The mention of Italy meant that he was in Britain. The number indicated the level of danger he was in: 3 out of 10 was the best one could hope for, if one had betrayed Moriarty. The first N signaled that he was north of London, in relative position. The second N meant that no, the message would not be followed by a more detailed letter, which Charlotte would call for at the General Post Office under a previously agreed upon alias.

  But now two months had passed by without any news and Charlotte was beginning to feel uneasy about his chances. Had he been captured by Moriarty, which would indeed account for his silence? Or was it far more likely that he was on a fifty-day voyage from London to Adelaide via the continental United States, which would also explain his lack of communication?

  As she was about to set aside the newspaper, a knock came on the door. It was Mr. Mears, Mrs. Watson’s butler, with the latest correspondence that he had retrieved from Sherlock Holmes’s private box at the General Post Office.

  Charlotte and Mrs. Watson had been absent from London recently. Before they left, they had advertised Sherlock Holmes’s sabbatical in the papers. During their time away, they unexpectedly handled a case at Stern Hollow, Lord Ingram’s country estate. Miss Redmayne, Mrs. Watson’s niece, rushed back from Paris, where she was studying medicine, to help with the investigation. And Mrs. Watson, who had seen Miss Redmayne only briefly, had wished to spend some more time with her. Soon after she helped Charlotte move Bernadine to London, she’d taken off for Paris.

  Charlotte had also not been in
a great hurry to resume her work: Bernadine had been moved around a great deal in a short time, and Charlotte wanted to make sure that her sister was properly settled down before she took on any tasks that might require her attention elsewhere.

  So they had not made it known to the public that Sherlock Holmes was back. Therefore not many letters came for the consulting detective. But today there were a few, and she was glad to see them: She could postpone, for a little more time, the reply she owed Lord Ingram.

  There should be nothing difficult about writing to him—they’d corresponded since they were children. The nature of that correspondence had changed upon his marriage, the wide-ranging, sometimes digressive discussions of their youth narrowing to concrete and immediate subjects. He wrote about his archeological digs, his children, and his other responsibilities. She gave accounts of the gatherings she attended, her minor chemical experiments, and occasionally, very occasionally, Bernadine’s unhappy bowels.

  Both their lives had changed dramatically in the past six months. Yet now that their correspondence had resumed, he still stuck to the same topics. She supposed she could easily tell him about her cases, Madame Gascoigne’s latest foray into fine pastry, and occasionally, very occasionally, Bernadine’s still tormented bowels.

  But she didn’t want to. And she didn’t want to with a force that surprised her.

  With a flick of her wrist, she sliced open the letters that had come for Sherlock Holmes.

  Half were early Christmas cards, wishing the great detective and his very helpful sister the joys of the season. Two more were clearly pranks, composed by those who didn’t have enough cunning or experience to make a convincing go of it.

  The last letter in the stack came on stationery from the Langham Hotel.

  Dear Mr. Holmes,

  It has come to my attention that you are someone to whom one could appeal, if one needed important objects retrieved.

  I should very much like such a retrieval. May I call on you at your earliest convenience?