Page 79 of A Conspiracy in Belgravia

It was past eleven and Charlotte was in a bit of a mood. It did not happen very often, but when it did, when that strange restlessness came upon her, she was not very well equipped to handle it: It was something that could not be reasoned away—or crushed under an avalanche of cake.

She paced in her room for a while. Then dressed again and slipped out: She might as well rereadA Summer in Roman Ruins, and that book was currently gracing Sherlock Holmes’s shelves.

18 Upper Baker Street was dark. She reached for a light. The gas flame flared, illuminating the steps.

A small sound came from above. The house cooling down at night and contracting? A mouse in the attic? She climbed up and walked into the parlor.

“Good evening, Miss Holmes.”

The stair sconce lit an amber slice of the room and left dark shadows elsewhere. The greeting came from the shadows.

She turned toward the voice. “Mr. Marbleton, I presume?”

A soft chuckle. “I see Sherlock Holmes’s genius is real.”

“No genius required. We’ve conversed before, however briefly. I don’t forget voices.”

She turned on the lamp affixed near the door. Mr. Marbleton stood next to the grandfather clock, a pistol in hand.

“Some tea for you—and Miss Marbleton? Does she need the attention of a physician?”

“How—”

“I can smell blood in the air—and you don’t seem injured.”

Stephen Marbleton exhaled. “Miss Marbleton is fine. The bulletonly grazed her shoulder. I cleaned the wound with your fine whisky and bandaged it with some boracic ointment.”

Charlotte nodded—a doctor would not be able to do much more than that. She entered the bedroom, where Miss Marbleton lay quietly asleep. “Did you give her some of Sherlock’s fine laudanum also?”

Mrs. Watson had made sure they had the usual assortment of tinctures and patent medicines that graced a convalescent’s bedside.

“I did. Thank you.”

She laid a hand on the young woman’s forehead. No fever. But then, the wound was very recent. They wouldn’t know for some time whether it would become infected. She left Miss Marbleton to her rest, set a kettle to heat on the spirit lamp, and put a few madeleines on a plate. “Have the two of you dined?”

“We have. But madeleines are most welcome. Will you share some with me?”

Most native English speakers would not be able to immediately name the shell-shaped, fluted little cakes. But Stephen Marbleton had a soupçon of an accent—which hinted not so much at foreign origins as significant portions of life spent abroad. “I serve madeleines for me—you’ll need to be quick and ruthless to have a chance at any.”

He smiled. She did not return the smile. He was young—younger than she. Left-handed, obviously. Had lived in hot climes not long ago. Enjoyed fiction. Was a little vain about his clothes, but not so much that it interfered with practicality.

“Were you the one who alerted the police about the body in Hounslow?”

The bobbies had gone running to the place because they had received a telegram concerning iniquitous goings-on in the house.

He shook his head a little, but not in denial. “Of course Sherlock Holmes would know that.”

The clock gonged the half hour, then carried on with its tick-tocking.

“Thank you most kindly for letting us stay,” he said.

“Tell me why you impersonated Mr. Finch,” she said at the same time.

He sighed, sat down across from her, and reached for a madeleine. “Mr. Finch has something we want.”

“Who arewe?”

“My family—my parents, my sister, and myself.”