She stayed inside for three minutes. During that time, her client did not move, nor did she take either tea or cake.
“Thank you for your patience, madam,” said Charlotte, upon her return. “Or perhaps I should say, Your Highness.”
The woman had not been relaxed in her demeanor—no one who came to these premises for help was. But now she tensed, and Charlotte was put into mind of an eagle about to take flight. But to flee or to hunt?
“Not every Indian woman in London is a maharani, Miss Holmes.” Her voice was still soft, as soft as a velvet glove around a hand that had just drawn a sword.
“Indeed not. The last one I came across was an indigent widow of a British soldier, trying to gather enough funds to go home. But you wrote from the Langham and expressly labeled yourself a Traveler from Distant Lands.
“Upon seeing your note my brother recalled reading in the papers that a princely delegation from India had landed in the Langham last week. After he said that, I found another article concerning said delegation’s reception at Windsor Castle two days ago, in which it was mentioned that Her Majesty the queen was particularly gracious to the Maharani of Ajmer, holding a conversation with the latter lasting nearly three quarters of an hour.”
The maharani’s face shuttered. She now regarded Charlotte as if she, too, had drawn her weapons.
Charlotte reached for her teacup. “Madam, clients do not choose to consult Sherlock Holmes if they can seek help closer to home. As an establishment of last resort, we take our role seriously and would never needlessly expose anyone’s difficulties.”
“Needlessly?” murmured the maharani. “So if you believe it needed, you will set aside this veneer of confidentiality.”
“Indeed. We have done so twice. The first time to prevent the possibility of further physical harm to a client; the second time when we found out that a client had come to us under fraudulent pretenses—and that there were lives at stake. Given the circumstances and the stakes, we are at ease with the choices we have made.”
The maharani was silent.
“You may or may not wish to confide in us. But if you are being blackmailed and hope to extract the incriminating evidence rather than continue to dance to the tune of your extortionist, we will be happy to offer our assistance.”
The maharani, too, reached for her teacup. She stirred its contents delicately, then set it down again. “As I do not intend to further pursue Mr. Holmes’s assistance, I will make no comments on his deductions. I wish him the best of luck and health. You, too, Miss Holmes.”
This had not happened before, that a client would leave a meeting without engaging Sherlock Holmes’s services. But Charlotte had not expected a different outcome. “In that case, let me ring for Mr. Hudson to show you out. And you need not worry about the consultation fee, madam. Consider it waived.”
“No need on either account,” said the maharani, rising. “I will show myself out and pay the consultation fee.”
Charlotte also rose. “Good day, madam.”
“Good day, Miss Holmes.” A trace of a smile briefly animated her lips. “And I must say, I have seen no evidence that it was this brother of yours and not you yourself, Miss Holmes, who made these so-called deductions.”
Charlotte inclined her head. “If I am so good as to pass for the great consulting detective, then you, madam, are no worse off for having seen only me.”
* * *
In her luxuriantly appointed town coach, Mrs. Watson sighed, supremely pleased with her Parisian interlude.
Penelope’s friends had crowded around her. They had told her about their lives, sought her advice on matters ranging from fashion to professional choices, and invited her and Penelope to future summer holidays in Biarritz and winter idylls on the Côte d’Azur.
Not to mention . . .
Mrs. Watson grinned to herself, remembering the lavish compliments from the brother of one of Penelope’s classmates—and the parting note another classmate’s youngish aunt had pressed into her hand.
But now that was behind her. And she was glad to drive through the rain-soaked streets of London, toward her lovely and comfortable home, toward further adventures of Watson and Holmes.
Yes, she thought. She had made the right choices in life, to have arrived at this point. Even if some of those choices had been deeply painful . . .
The coach stopped before her house, and Mr. Mears was on the pavement almost instantly, to open the carriage door himself.
“Welcome back, ma’am. How was Miss Redmayne?”
She smiled in sincere pleasure. “More grown-up every time I see her—and more wonderful. How are you, my dear Mr. Mears?”
Before Mr. Mears could answer, a raspy voice exclaimed, “Why, Mrs. Watson! I heard you visited Paris!”
The voice belonged to Mrs. Watson’s neighbor Mrs. Raleigh, an elderly widow whose husband had done rather well as a captain of merchant ships. Mrs. Raleigh was, in other words, a thoroughly respectable woman, unlike Mrs. Watson, whose respectability was more than a little suspect.
“Indeed, I have only just returned from the City of Light. How do you do, Mrs. Raleigh?”
Mrs. Watson made sure that she never misrepresented herself to other women, especially those on the other side of the respectability divide. Therefore Mrs. Raleigh had never invited Mrs. Watson to call on her at home. And once, when her widower brother had visited and beamed too eagerly at Mrs. Watson, she’d yanked him away so hard the two siblings had nearly fallen in a heap.
But on her own Mrs. Raleigh was a little bolder and enjoyed speaking to Mrs. Watson on the pavement, in broad daylight, secure in the knowledge that if anyone saw her conversing with a former actress, she could always blame the actress for being too familiar.
Mrs. Watson had never minded. Especially in those years when she had been a widow raising a child and her life consisted of very little excitement, it had amused her to be a source of frisson to the Mrs. Raleighs of the world, an adventure in and of herself.
They chatted about this and that while Mr. Mears and Mr. Lawson, her groom and coachman, unloaded her luggage. Then Mr. Lawson drove off and Mrs. Watson was about to take leave of Mrs. Raleigh when a passing carriage slowed—then stopped altogether a little farther down.
This in itself wasn’t worthy of notice. They were near an entrance to Regent’s Park, and those living too far to come on foot were often dropped off for their daily constitutional. But no one alit.
Mrs. Watson let Mrs. Raleigh finish speaking then excused herself. As soon as she was inside her house she slipped to the dining room, which was on the ground floor, facing the park. The carriage remained in place for at least a quarter of an hour before it finally left.