The Langham Hotel was quite peaceful in the hours between lunch and dinner on a weekday afternoon. Arthur Conan Doyle and Oscar Wilde sat across from me, listening raptly to the tale of my narrow escape from a club-wielding, Medusa-haired, master criminal who had engineered not one, but three adventures for me to stumble upon in the space of a single month.
I had waited a day to send Scotland Yard to the Belgravia flat, hopeful that Elizabeth hadn’t actually killed the thug she’d clubbed. They’d found blood on the floor, but otherwise the flat was empty and clean. It had been rented under the name Catherine Cusack, who seemed to have fled in the night with all her belongings, and I silently wished her a safe journey in hopes she’d actually left London. It wasn’t likely, but given that I’d allowed her to escape rather than brave her temper, her club, and my own conflicted conscience, it was far better than the alternative.
I’d admitted to Charlie that I’d read the letters before returning them to the Duke of Westfield. There were no state secrets contained within, and nothing particularly incriminating beyond his disdain for his family and the fact that he seemed to have already been engaged while he carried on a love affair with Catherine.
I called her Catherine in relation to Westfield, because that’s what he called her in his letters. It also separated her from the very clever, quite fascinating woman I’d met who was worth ten Dukes of Westfield.
Charlie had been as intrigued by Elizabeth MacFarlane as I, and we’d spent hours the night before discussing the things Jess and I had learned about her. She was well-educated, as Lady Morcar had said, and as the books on finance, banking, money-lending, history, and economics in her flat had confirmed. The paper I’d seen in a finance tome was a copy of the Westfield family tree, and I recognized the College of Arms seal on the top, so perhaps her threat to steal the duke’s entire fortune hadn’t been an idle one. It was also quite interesting that Lady Morcar was Westfield’s cousin, and that Elizabeth had been employed with her as Catherine for the previous six months. Elizabeth was clearly a skilled and patient plotter, and her attention to detail was as disconcerting as it was impressive. Her theft of the carbuncle was the only thing that felt more like an impulsive crime of opportunity than part of what I was beginning to suspect was a much larger plot. I was quite certain that London had not seen the last of Elizabeth MacFarlane.
Westfield’s arrogance still rankled though, and part of me was sorry that Elizabeth’s plan to expose him to his fiancée had failed. Charlie reminded me that Elizabeth had already had a bit of revenge on him when she very nearly collapsed Barings Bank, of which he was a major shareholder. Oddly, it made me feel better.
It was Jess’s discovery, however, that was the most promising lead on Elizabeth’s true identity. Jess had slipped into the bedroom at the Belgravia flat while the maid tried to put out the fire. The room was empty of any personal items at all except for one drawing pinned to the back of the door, visible to the bed where only Elizabeth could see it. The drawing was a study of a sleeping woman’s face, a close-up in pencil and chalk that I recognized as a detail of Frederic Leighton’s Flaming June. It was the face of Elizabeth MacFarlane.
Having the appropriate amount of scruples for the circumstances, Jess had rolled the paper up and stuck it in her coat. The drawing was now pinned to the wall in the library where Charlie’s faun painting had once hung, and Charlie was so enamored with the artistry of the drawing that I thought she might have it framed.
At the Langham Hotel, I sat with men who had become my friends. The taciturn Scot was perhaps an odder choice of friend than the flamboyant poet was, but I enjoyed the intelligence and wit that infused every conversation with them, and I had begun to look forward to our encounters.
“You realize you’ve made a very clever enemy, don’t you?” said Conan Doyle seriously.
“It would almost be entertaining,” I replied, “except that she’s quite possibly much cleverer than I, and certainly more ruthless. I don’t look forward to seeing her locked up, though I admit, I’ll likely sleep better at night when she is.”
“What else do you know about her identity?” Oscar asked.
“I have a lead to follow in London when a certain artist returns from France.” I eyed Oscar meaningfully before continuing. “Otherwise, I’m not quite certain how to check on the Scottish family connections,” in this time, I almost added. A quick computer search in a twenty-first-century library would likely take care of all my information needs.
“The Lyon Court in Edinburgh is the only way,” said Conan Doyle.
“If you do make a journey to Scotland, consider a visit to Cragside in Northumberland. I hear Armstrong has dammed his river and is using hydroelectric power to light his house,” said Oscar with a wink.
Damn him. He knew precisely which sparks would ignite my imagination. My smile was closer to a grimace. “And you’ll come with me if I go?”
“Good Lord, no! I’m Irish. We know better than to get within a hundred miles of Scotland. Those Scots are fearsome.” He gave a mock shudder, and Conan Doyle snickered.
I stood to go. “I’m off to instruct some feral children how to read. Charlie has begun teaching small classes of children at the Workhouse, so I am in charge of our own irregular misfits’ education.”
Oscar chuckled at that, and I thought I would do well to rope him into helping me.
“Did you tell Lady Morcar about your encounter with her companion?” Conan Doyle asked as he shook my hand.
“I told the countess that I’d given Catherine the carbuncle, and that she’d been moved to silence. The countess laughed at that and said that Catherine must have been very moved indeed if she hadn’t a clever or cutting response. She seemed quite touched by Catherine’s reaction though, as I believe she genuinely cared for her.” I had not mentioned the affair with Westfield to the countess, as I felt it didn’t reflect the best of a very bright woman.
“Until next time, gentlemen.” I departed the Langham with a smile and a tip of the hat from John Hartwell, the doorman, as I walked out of the building.
The weather was properly crisp now, and the fashionable jacket and cravat Charlie had made me wear were far less uncomfortable than they’d been merely a month ago. Nonetheless, I looked forward to getting back to Grayson House and changing into my beloved jeans before sitting on the floor with dogs and irregular misfits to read them all stories.
“Ye’ve got a suspicious smile on yer face. It’s like ye know a secret,” Jess said, falling into step beside me.
“I do,” I said, suddenly sure of the next step. “I know the last one home is going to Scotland with me.”
The End