Fourteen

THURSDAY

“This is unacceptable. Completely unacceptable,” said Charlotte, with an extra sniff for emphasis.

She was back at Mrs. Woods’s, this time in the parlor, in a gold-and-scarlet visiting gown that Livia, whose sensibility was better suited to classical Greece, had variously deemed “dire,” “ghastly,” and “absolutely tasteless.” Charlotte hadn’t thought much of what else the gown could accomplish—her eyes were simply drawn to things that Livia considered “absolutely tasteless.” But as it turned out, such an ensemble was perfect for intimidating the Mrs. Woodses of the world, its ostentation translating into stature and authority.

The landlady, who no doubt had hoped not to see “Mrs. Cumberland” again for a millennium or so, was all but wringing her hands. “I beg your pardon, ma’am, but exactly what is unacceptable?”

“Any number of things, Mrs. Woods, any number. Of course you are not solely to blame for them—my brother is a grown man, after all. But I am deeply disappointed nonetheless. I had expected better of this establishment.”

“Ma’am, please, if you will only let me—”

“Oh, yes, I will let you know. I visited my brother’s firm day before yesterday. He submitted his resignation two months ago—they have no idea where he is. Now this is not your doing. But I also visited the other two references you furnished. The landlady in Oxfordshire has never heard of him. And the solicitor retired six months ago. Did you not check either of those references?”

Mrs. Woods’s mouth opened and closed, opened and closed. No doubt in dismay, to be caught at being less than thorough in her selection process. Also, astonishment, at being blamed for Mr. Finch’s less-than-laudable conduct.

But this was how Henrietta derived a large part of her dominance, because those she accused of various shortcomings were often too rattled to defend themselves—and too polite to tell her that she was being an unfair arse.

“I . . . um . . . It must have been a very busy week when Mr. Finch applied for a place. And you must understand, Mrs. Cumberland, he’s a most winsome young man. I never imagined that—”

“That is what references are for, Mrs. Woods, so that we are not so easily guided by mistaken impressions. I am further disturbed to find out, upon inquiring about your place, that according to some sources, you allow overnight female guests. What kind of lassitude is that? Do you uphold no standards here? Is that what my brother has been doing, entertaining women in his rooms instead of going to work, as he properly ought?”

Mrs. Woods’s horror was complete. “Certainly not! These are baseless rumors. I am a Christian woman running a most respectable establishment for Christian men.”

“Then let me see his rooms,” said Charlotte with a severity she did not need to manufacture. “Let me see for myself that it is not crawling with disreputable females.”

Mrs. Woods shot up the stairs with the speed of a racing greyhound. As Charlotte followed in her wake, she reflected rather grimly that this was what she ought to have done in the first place. Why break the law when all she needed was to cast a few aspersions?

Thankfully, nothing had happened the night before. She and Mr. Lawson had sprinted down to the basement, out the service door, and into the waiting carriage. Mr. Mears, witnessing their flight, had needed no urging to get the coach moving. And the fog, which had offered concealment when Mr. Lawson had worked on the service door, had quickly obscured them from potential pursuers.

But Mr. Lawson had been sincerely frightened. Charlotte had been sorry to be the cause. And this morning it had taken rather a lot of convincing for Mrs. Watson to let Charlotte out of her sight.

Mrs. Woods stopped before Mr. Finch’s door and knocked.

“I thought you said he’s out of town.”

“Oh, he is. It’s a habit, ma’am. I always knock. I don’t wish to walk in on my gentlemen without warning and I’m sure they don’t wish it any more than I do.”

The door opened to a largish sitting room, furnished with oriental motifs that would have been the height of fashion when the regent had been the first gentleman of Europe. There was a smaller room that seemed to serve as a study, with a blank notebook sitting on top of a desk.

Mrs. Woods threw open the bedroom door with great drama. “See, no women here at all!”

She proceeded to show Charlotte the attached private bath with the same trembling energy. Charlotte pushed her lips to one side, as if saying, Very well, but I remain skeptical in the greater scheme of things.

What she truly wanted was to have a look at the photographs. At last Mrs. Woods had presented all the spaces in the rooms that could possibly—but didn’t—contain a disreputable female. Charlotte, with a very Henrietta-ish tilt of the chin, headed straight for the mantel.

The photographs were small, one and a half by two inches. All were of scenery and only scenery.

Charlotte stared.

“Surely, Mrs. Cumberland, there can be nothing the matter with his pictures.”

Except Charlotte had seen these photographs before.

Recently.

When she went through Mrs. Marbleton’s rooms at Claridge’s, Mrs. Marbleton being the alias of Mrs. Moriarty, née Sophia Lonsdale.

Two young people, who were registered as her children Frances and Stephen Marbleton, had gone around the country, traveling as photographers. During their travels, they had recorded a great many scenic views, which were practically unidentifiable. But unidentifiable didn’t mean that Charlotte didn’t remember what they looked like.

She dismantled the frames.

“Mrs. Cumberland—”

“Shhh.”

She was becoming worse than Henrietta. But the give-no-quarter persona worked. Mrs. Woods meekly held her tongue.

It wasn’t until she’d taken apart all the frames that she found what she was looking for: In one frame, another photograph behind the one that was on display. And this one did feature people, two men. One standing with his back to the camera, the other looking at it.

Charlotte immediately recognized the person facing the camera. There was a beard, a Newmarket jacket and trousers, even a walking stick, but it was a woman. Frances Marbleton.

She showed the image to Mrs. Woods. “Is this what Mr. Finch looks like nowadays?”

“No, no, that isn’t Mr. Finch. But I’ve seen him before, that’s Mr. Carraway, Mr. Finch’s friend.”

That would explain the woman’s voice in these rooms—Charlotte remembered voices very well, but the only other time she had heard Frances Marbleton, the latter had spoken in a broad Cockney accent, with a nasal twang to boot. And it could very well have been her the night before, cocking her revolver on the other side of the door.

“Mr. Finch is still of medium height, slim build, brown eyes, and hair with a slight hint of red to it?”

“Yes. He’s grown a beard in the time he’s been here, but yes, that’s how I would describe him.”

Charlotte set down the photograph.

Were Stephen Marbleton and Myron Finch the same person? She supposed it was possible. She didn’t know anything about Mr. Marbleton’s life before or after his brief appearance in hers earlier this summer. He could very well have spent most of his life as Myron Finch, illegitimate son of Sir Henry Holmes, unfortunate suitor of Lady Ingram when she was Miss Alexandra Greville, until he’d joined Mrs. Marbleton as an associate of some stripe.

But that was a slender possibility compared to the overwhelming likelihood that he was not Myron Finch.

It would explain so much, wouldn’t it, if they were two different men? Stephen Marbleton didn’t meet with Lady Ingram because he knew nothing of the secret pact between Lady Ingram and the man he was impersonating. For the same reason he remained in a state of oblivious cheerfulness while Lady Ingram lost a little bit of her mind every day. And of course, then they could have stared right at each other at the Round Pond without either seeing any significance in the other.

But why was he impersonating Myron Finch?

And where was the real Myron Finch?

Where was her brother?

Her hand tightened into a fist. Now she knew why she had felt uneasy about the case. Now she understood her urgency the night before, throwing caution to the wind. Now it became rational, her decision to return as soon as possible to the scene of her failed crime and to persist until she had at last gained entry into these rooms.

But was she too late? Would Stephen Marbleton dare to openly impersonate Myron Finch if he didn’t already know, with complete certainty, that the latter was not going to barge in and put an end to it?

Assuming that Stephen Marbleton had truly been away, as he had told his landlady, if Charlotte were Frances Marbleton, staying in a place she considered safe enough, only to hear her lock being picked in the middle of the night, how would she leave? She would first make a sweep of anything incriminating—probably not too many items as they had been at such covert activities for a while. And then, would she leave a message for her cohort?

If she had, knowing that there was outside interest in this location, knowing that it might be searched, she would have done so in such a way as to ensure that it was easily overlooked.

Charlotte remembered the blank notebook in the smaller room. It was still blank when she returned to examine it more closely. But as she scrutinized it from the side, one page near the middle appeared slightly thicker than the rest. And when she opened to that particular page, she saw that it had been pricked with a pin.

She closed her eyes briefly before slipping the notebook into her handbag. “Do inform Mr. Finch that we are most disappointed in him, Mrs. Woods. He will have a great deal of explaining to do.”

Charlotte expected Morse code. But when she held up the notebook page that had been pricked, the dots were in Braille.

Braille.

That in itself would not have been particularly interesting, had she not, only a few days ago, found Braille inside a dead man’s jacket.

Slowly she lowered the notebook and closed it, feeling as if she were putting the lid on a casket. She’d thought herself the kind of person who was always prepared for the worst. But knowing that something awful could happen and facing the certainty that it had—that was the difference between reading about canne de combat over a cup of tea and a piece of plum cake and the humerus-jarring reality of it, all shaky thighs and labored breaths.

She gave herself half a minute to calm down, then knocked against the top of the hackney. “I wish to alight right here!”

She had been on her way from St. James’s to Mrs. Watson’s house, but the intersection of Duke Street and Oxford Street had become the perfect place to get off.

Since she was now headed for Portman Square.