A Study In Scarlet Women Read online

  “This is what Sherlock has to say about you, Inspector.”

  Him? Treadles glanced again at Lord Ingram, who seemed once again fascinated by the shape of his teacup.

  Miss Holmes pulled out a small notebook from a pocket in her skirt and consulted it. “You come from the northwest. Cumbria. Barrow-in-Furness. Your father was employed by either the steelworks or the shipyard. The shipyard, most likely. He was Scottish, your mother wasn’t. He did well enough to send you to a good school, but unfortunately he died young and you weren’t able to go to university.”

  Treadles stared at her. Had Sherlock Holmes learned all this from Lord Ingram? But he couldn’t remember ever telling his lordship what Angus Treadles had done for a living.

  “You began your career in Cumbria but came to London before too long. Here you were married. A happy union—many congratulations. Your father-in-law was a well-to-do man. And like Lord Ingram, he appreciated your intelligence, industry, and decency. Unfortunately, he is no more and his heir, who is not a man of as exceptional caliber, does not feel nearly the same affection toward either you or your wife. Finances have become strained, but your wife is a resourceful and resilient woman, and your domestic contentment has not been adversely affected.”

  Inspector Treadles, with some effort, closed his mouth. He was sure he had never mentioned his finances to Lord Ingram, who now wore an expression of mild apology.

  “Mr. Holmes knows all this from having listened to me speak ten words?”

  “You have spoken closer to one hundred words, far more than necessary to pinpoint your general place of origin and your level of education. Although in your case it is a bit more complicated, with the trace of Scottish brogue in your vowels—which, on the other hand, made it easier to conclude Barrow-in-Furness, with its large Scottish population attracted by work in the industries. As for whether it is the steelworks or the shipyard, your own expression gave away the correct answer.

  “The rest is fairly obvious. You’re still a young man; to have risen to your current position indicates that you started early, but also possess a drive to succeed. Yet you are not one of those men for whom ambition is everything, or Lord Ingram wouldn’t have taken any interest in your concerns.”

  She cast a look at Lord Ingram, who stirred his tea with great concentration.

  “Indeed not,” said he.

  Even in the midst of his own astonishment, Inspector Treadles was beginning to wonder at the nature of the association between Lord Ingram and the Holmeses. Between his lordship and Miss Holmes, especially.

  Miss Holmes smiled again. “Does that answer your question?”

  Treadles had to think for a moment to remember what his question had been: How Holmes could know so much about him from so little. “Not entirely.”

  “Ah, your domestic situation. It is infinitely more likely that you left Barrow-in-Furness before you were married than after—you appear too prudent a man to marry early and of course it is far easier to relocate as a bachelor than with a family in tow. As for your late father-in-law’s comfortable circumstances, the fabric and cut of your garments indicate that they were made by a tailor whose work Lord Ingram’s valet would not have disdained—in other words, your late father-in-law’s tailor.

  “But for all that exquisite material and equally exquisite workmanship, your clothes are two years behind fashion. The buttons have been recently replaced and the cuffs rewoven. Perhaps most tellingly, your shirt has a detachable collar. Lord Ingram, does your shirt have a detachable collar?”

  “No,” said his lordship. “It does not.”

  “Lord Ingram has no need of detachable collars because he can afford to launder dozens of entire shirts at a go. But a man who wears a detachable collar underneath a jacket made by one of London’s finest tailors—either he stole the jacket or his circumstances have been reduced. Since wages at the Metropolitan Police Force have not suffered a noticeable decline, one can only conclude that Mrs. Treadles’s income had been drastically cut and it seems reasonable to conclude that instead of a generous father, she now has a much less generous brother.

  “With regard to her devotion to you . . . She is being punished for marrying down by that ghastly brother of hers, and yet you look impeccable—the care and skill that went into the repair of your garments nearly equals that which went into their creation. Whatever sacrifices she has had to make in the running of the household, she has made sure that they affect you as little as possible. If that is not love . . .”

  Throughout her explanations, Inspector Treadles had to restrain his facial muscles from expressions of dismay and stupefaction—to have his domestic situation laid bare like this by a stranger, and before an esteemed friend, no less! But now he found himself fighting back unexpected tears.

  “I am extraordinarily fortunate in Mrs. Treadles.”

  “Yes, you are, Inspector,” said Miss Holmes, taking a sip of her tea.

  Inspector Treadles did the same, to help recover from his sudden onset of sentiments. Dear Alice. Dear, dear Alice.

  “Well, Inspector, do you feel more confident now that my brother’s abilities have not been diminished by his recent misfortune?”

  Treadles wasn’t sure whether confident was the correct word. He was awed, as well as rattled. “I—yes, Miss Holmes.”

  She smiled again. “Excellent. Let us proceed.”

  Treadles gave a quick account of his investigation thus far. “After I left Lord Sheridan’s residence, I happened to run into Lord Ingram. Taking advantage of that, I requested his help in finding out what lay behind the estrangement between the brothers.”

  “It took me a little longer to hunt down my quarry than I’d anticipated,” said Lord Ingram. “When I received word that you had telephoned, Inspector, I had just spoken to Lady Avery.”

  “Lady Avery, of course,” said Miss Holmes. She turned to Treadles. “Lady Avery and her sister Lady Somersby are Society’s most accomplished gossips. They possess an encyclopedic knowledge of every affair, every snub, and every spat from the past fifty years. If anyone alive knows the reason for the estrangement, other than Lord Sheridan himself, it would be one of these ladies.”

  “Unfortunately, even Lady Avery has never been privy to the particulars of that alienation,” said Lord Ingram. “She did, however, pinpoint the last time the brothers were seen together, which was in August of fifty-nine, twenty-seven years ago. The previous summer the Sheridans’ only child had died. For a year afterward the parents did not move in Society. That August marked their first outing at a house party. Lady Avery was there in person and remembered the brothers being very affectionate.

  “Later that year she heard that Mr. Sackville had left for an extended stay in the south of France. She thought nothing of it. He was a wealthy bachelor and south of France a fashionable place. It was quite some time later that she noticed he had not returned. Then rumor had it that he did come back but not to the bosom of the family. She tried to pry some information out of Lady Sheridan, but Lady Sheridan was apparently in the dark as well. She was under the impression that Mr. Sackville had suffered severe personal trials and was hurt that he didn’t come to the family to seek comfort and succor, but rather shut himself away, locations unknown.

  “And that was all she was able to tell me. That and something that may or may not be related to the case. Inspector, you said you had verified that Lord Sheridan had been in town throughout the time period of interest. But did you ask about Lady Sheridan’s movements?”

  “No, I did not. It didn’t occur to me.”

  “Lady Avery mentioned that she recently saw Lady Sheridan at Paddington Station, getting off a train by herself, without a maid in tow. She is sure that was the day Mr. Sackville died.”

  Paddington Station served all points west of London, including Devon. It would be very interesting if Lady Sheridan’s travels had taken her to
the vicinity of Stanwell Moot. But again, a tantalizing clue that did not amount to concrete evidence.

  “Anything else, gentlemen?” asked Miss Holmes.

  Inspector Treadles produced all the transcripts and reports that had been generated in the course of the investigation, from the inquest onward.

  “I will take this to my brother. Please excuse me.”

  They both rose as she departed. Lord Ingram remained on his feet and moved slowly about the room, examining the furnishing. Treadles, without thinking about it, reached for the notebook she had left behind.

  It was new. And almost completely blank except a single word on the first page: Barrow-in-Furness, his place of origin, written in an unfamiliar hand.

  He frowned and set the notebook down again.

  Lord Ingram was before the mantel, looking at framed photographs, his brow furrowed. Treadles moved to the bookshelf and picked up a slim volume lying on its side, by none other than Lord Ingram himself, titled A Summer in Roman Ruins. Treadles remembered his lordship mentioning that he’d explored the remnants of a Roman villa on his uncle’s estate. He didn’t know Lord Ingram had also produced a written account.

  The book was dedicated to “that wellspring of warmth and good sense, my friend and ally, J. H. R.” The next page bore an inscription, To Holmes, Long may you carry on as a reprobate of the first order. Ash.

  “Holmes dictated that inscription,” said Lord Ingram from across the room.

  Treadles chuckled. He’d read only two pages when Miss Holmes said, a hint of mirth in her voice, “Oh, the twists and turns in the plot of Lord Ingram’s archeological adventure.”

  Treadles returned the book to its place. “Mr. Holmes has read everything?”

  “Yes.”

  “And does he have any fresh insights?” asked Treadles, almost embarrassingly eager to receive what bounty of perspicuity Holmes might have to impart.

  “He noticed a discrepancy about the curtains in Mr. Sackville’s room.”

  “Oh?”

  “Becky Birtle, the maid who first found Mr. Sackville in an unconscious state, said in her testimony at the inquest that she opened the curtains as soon as she went to Mr. Sackville’s room. But in your interview with Mrs. Meek, the cook, she is recorded as saying that she and Mrs. Cornish, the housekeeper, opened the curtains after they reached the room, to have a better look at Mr. Sackville.”

  Treadles hoped his disappointment didn’t show. “I noticed that as well, but I attributed it to the vagaries of memory—witnesses almost always recollect the same events with noticeable differences. What does Mr. Holmes see as the significance of that discrepancy?”

  Miss Holmes glanced at Lord Ingram. “With regard to the reconvening of the inquest tomorrow, nothing. It will be easily dismissed as vagaries of memory, as you said. Overall Sherlock concurs with your assessment that there isn’t enough evidence to persuade the coroner’s jury to return a verdict that will allow you to carry on with the investigation.”

  This time Treadles didn’t bother to hide his dismay. “Is there nothing we can do then?”

  Miss Holmes tapped the tips of her fingers against one another. “You can test the bottles of strychnine in Dr. Harris’s and Dr. Birch’s dispensaries.”

  Had he misheard? “Strychnine? Mr. Sackville died of chloral.”

  “We, however, are operating on the assumption that his death was not an accidental overdose, but a murder that is meant to appear as an accidental overdose.” Miss Holmes leaned forward an inch. “Were you the systematic executor who could pull off multiple murders that appear otherwise, Inspector, what would you have done ahead of time to make sure that Mr. Sackville wasn’t saved by a dose of strychnine delivered just in time?”

  It was the first time that anyone had, within Treadles’s hearing, referred to the deaths of Mr. Sackville, Lady Amelia Drummond, and Lady Shrewsbury as murders. A chill ran down his spine. “Are you implying, Miss Holmes, that I would have tampered with the supply of strychnine in the vicinity?”

  “Yes. So that even if help reached Mr. Sackville before the point of no return, that help would have been administered in vain.”

  Treadles let out a breath. “That is both diabolical and brilliant.”

  “It is, let’s face it, quite a reach,” said Miss Holmes modestly. “But at this point, Inspector, what do you have to lose?”

  “True, nothing. But I must make haste, if I hope to achieve anything in time.”

  Cables needed to be sent immediately to have the evidence gathered for testing. He had planned to leave for Devon first thing in the morning, but now it would seem that he had better be on his way as soon as possible, to be there in the morning and urge matters along.

  He rose. “Thank you, Miss Holmes. And please convey my gratitude to Mr. Holmes. I will see myself out.”

  “Inspector?”

  “Yes, Miss Holmes?”

  Miss Holmes smiled a little. “My brother advises that you request the chemical analyst to also test Mr. Sackville for every poison for which he has an assay. If the strychnine turns out not to have been tampered with, then this will be our last hope, to find something in Mr. Sackville’s system that couldn’t have arrived there accidentally.”

  Thirteen

  A silence fell at Inspector Treadles’s departure.

  Charlotte moved to the window seat and poured a little water into the vase of roses. She was surprised to see raindrops rolling down the windowpanes. A shower fell, quiet and steady. A carriage passed below, hooves and wheels splashing, a yellow halo around each lantern.

  She had expected Lord Ingram to stay longer—they were friends of long standing, having known each other since they were children. She had very much looked forward to a word in private with him. But she forgot, as she usually did, the silence that always came between them in these latter years, whenever they found themselves alone.

  The sensation in her chest, however, was all too familiar, that mix of pleasure and pain, never one without the other.

  She could have done without those feelings. She would have happily gone her entire life never experiencing the pangs of longing and the futility of regret. He made her human—or as human as she was capable of being. And being human was possibly her least favorite aspect of life.

  “More tea, sir?” she asked, remembering that they weren’t truly alone. Mrs. Watson was in the next room, the door to which was open a crack.

  “No, thank you,” he said quietly.

  “Nibbles?” He hadn’t touched the madeleines.

  “Most kind of you, but no.”

  She returned to her seat and took a madeleine herself—she didn’t understand how anyone had the willpower to say no to madeleines. Then again, the man before her said no to the vast majority of her suggestions, whether they concerned tea cakes or life-altering courses of action.

  Other young ladies she knew enjoyed the construction of an ideal man for themselves. Charlotte never understood the point of such an exercise: She’d yet to meet a woman who thought her house perfect, and unlike men, houses could be planned, expanded, and redecorated from top to bottom. But had she indulged in intellectually devising her own perfect match, she would have come up with someone substantially similar to herself, an aloof observer, a creature of silence, a man happy to live life entirely inside his own head.

  Whereas with Lord Ingram, she was always first struck by his physicality. She was aware of the space he occupied, his motion, his weight, the cut and drape of his coat, the length and texture of his hair—even though she had never touched his hair. She found herself observing, intensely, the direction of his gaze, the placement of his hands, the rise and fall of his chest with every breath.

  He was not the only fine male specimen of her acquaintance. Roger Shrewsbury, for one, was considered handsomer and more stylish. But Lord Ingram possessed something else, a
vitality with a jolt of sensuality and an undercurrent of hostility to the world at large, which made for a masculinity magnetic to both men and women.

  When he was younger, that hostility had been more evident. But at some point, the troublemaker reformed and became thoroughly integrated with the rest of the Upper Ten Thousand. He was a member at all the expected clubs, friends with all the right people, and of course his polo matches featured as some of the more notable highlights of any given Season.

  Another ten years and he’d be called a pillar of Society.

  But . . .

  Somewhere beneath all the respectability and sociability still lurked the boy who preferred long, solitary hours among relics to almost anything else. And he remained the only person she had ever met who did not mind her tendency toward silence. Sometimes she even thought he was at ease with it, though it was possible he was simply relieved that when she didn’t speak, she couldn’t make discomfiting observations about his private life.

  She remembered Mrs. Watson again. For her sake, the silence ought not to stretch much longer. “I didn’t explain to Inspector Treadles what I thought to be the significance of the discrepancy concerning the curtains.”

  “I noticed.”

  “But you understood?”

  He hesitated briefly, then nodded.

  It was Charlotte’s estimation that when Inspector Treadles married a woman from a family far wealthier than his own, he consented to have his clothes made at one of the best tailors’ in London to honor and respect his in-laws, so as to not appear as if he didn’t belong. It was also her estimation that Mrs. Treadles, who married down, would have opted to run a simple household, leaving behind the more luxurious style she’d known, to honor and respect the man to whom she had made the commitment of a lifetime.

  Charlotte didn’t believe Inspector Treadles’s maid came into his bedchamber in the morning on a regular basis and his inexperience in the matter caused him to miss the clue in Mrs. Meek’s description of the events.