A Study In Scarlet Women Read online

  Robert Treadles

  By evening the news was all over London. The mysterious Sherlock Holmes had been vindicated—at least with regard to his suspicions concerning Mr. Harrington Sackville. Lady Shrewsbury’s family still maintained strenuously that she died of natural causes and that anything else was malicious slander. Lady Amelia’s family, on the other hand, seemed stunned by this latest development. They were muted in their response.

  “You should relish the moment, Miss Holmes,” said Mrs. Watson the next morning. She was in a dress of printed silk, a summery pattern of pastel paisley on a creamy background. “For someone who has the greatest city on earth agog in wonder and speculation, you are far too contained in your reaction.”

  Charlotte spread a little too much butter on her roll. “I would feel better if all the hubbub had made a bigger difference to my family.”

  Wild theories continued to abound as to what exactly linked those three deaths. Speculation continued as to the identity of Sherlock Holmes. At the same time, however, people were also wondering what connections, unknown to the general public, the Holmeses might have to Mr. Sackville.

  But the continued attention to the Holmeses wasn’t solely responsible for Charlotte’s subdued reaction. There were also Lord Ingram’s dire words. Must she leave behind everything—and everyone—she knew for an uncertain future far away? And if she must ultimately make such a decision, did it not behoove her to make it sooner rather than later?

  “Miss Holmes, you are fretting again.”

  The butter disappeared into the soft, spongy interior of the warm roll. Such a sight had always comforted Charlotte before—and turned her mind blissfully empty when she bit into it. But this was her third roll this morning and, as Mrs. Watson had observed, she was still fretting. “I’m sorry.”

  “No, don’t apologize. Do you know what you need, my dear? You need a proper occupation.”

  “I have a position.”

  Mrs. Watson waved her hand. Morning light streaming into the room caught the lacy cuff of her sleeve. “We both know that being a lady’s companion is not a good use for your time.”

  “But what is?”

  “Think about what you told me in the tea shop, your ability to distill what others fail to see into startling insights.” Mrs. Watson’s eyes shone. “You lamented that it was a talent of no use whatsoever to a young lady who has been expelled by Society. Which, alas, is still true. But things have changed for Sherlock Holmes. That enigmatic gentleman is now famous in London—and beyond. And his talents need not go unexploited.”

  Charlotte forgot all about the roll half an inch from her lips. “Are you suggesting that . . .”

  Mrs. Watson pushed a piece of paper across the table to Charlotte. “Tell me what you think.”

  Sherlock Holmes, celebrated consultant to the Criminal Investigation Department of the Metropolitan Police, makes available his services to private clients. Reasonable fees. Inquiries received at Box ____, General Post Office.

  “You do not have a private box at the post office yet, but we will remedy that before we send the advert to the newspapers.”

  The concept shocked Charlotte—her parents would perish on the spot if they learned that she was advertising herself to the public.

  “Unless we can individually contact those who might have problems for you to solve,” said Mrs. Watson gently, “how else will they know that they can benefit from your help?”

  The idea made sense. Of course she had to proclaim her services far and wide, in order to result in even a trickle of paying customers. And of course it had to be now, before the name Sherlock Holmes faded from memory.

  “But I am your companion, ma’am. How am I to fulfill my duties if I meet with clients and whatnot?”

  “Ah, but this is so much better than having a paid companion. It would bore you to no end to do nothing but read to me and then listen to me ramble on. And frankly it wouldn’t be all that interesting to me either. This way we embark on a venture together, a venture that has a fair chance of being profitable, too.”

  Mrs. Watson all but rubbed her hands together in anticipation. “Beyond paid advertisements, you will need an office, some cards and stationery, three quid a year to rent that private box at the post office, and of course all manner of incidentals—people always fail to plan for the incidentals. It is beyond your means now to set yourself up properly, but not beyond mine. The flat can be your office. I will foot the rest of the upfront expenses and take a cut of your fees as my recompense.”

  “But we don’t know if I’ll have significant enough fees for you to recoup your cost.”

  “It’s business, my dear Miss Holmes. Every investment carries a risk, but this one is a risk I’m more than willing to bear. In fact”—she winked at Charlotte—“you need to be careful in your negotiations, to make sure I don’t take too large a share of your future earnings.”

  “Ma’am—”

  Mrs. Watson’s expression turned solemn. “Miss Holmes, I was in the theater. I have seen talented actresses hand over a shocking percentage of their earnings to men who took them on when they seemed to have few prospects. Do not make that mistake, my dear. Do not undervalue what you are ultimately worth because you are at a momentary disadvantage.”

  The sensation of having at last met her real mother returned. Charlotte swallowed an unexpected lump in her throat. “Yes, ma’am. I will remember that.”

  “Good.” Mrs. Watson laid her hands over her heart. “Oh, Miss Holmes, we are going to have so much fun.”

  My Dearest Robert,

  I know I wrote only two hours ago, but I must let you know that a most delicious box of little cakes has arrived for me, compliments of Mr. Sherlock Holmes and his sister. The note that accompanied it explained that you had very much wished for me to have a taste of these madeleines. My sweetling, how I adore you for always thinking of me. (And marvel, as usual, at Holmes’s astuteness, as you would not have expressed that desire aloud.)

  Now to business. Holmes asked that I convey to you the significance of the maid not having opened the curtains. He wrote that he had not wished to say too much, in case the chemical analysis came to naught. But now that you have a mandate to investigate, you will want to know that such a thing hints strongly at improper relations between the maid and Mr. Sackville.

  I have never witnessed such goings-on in my father’s household and I dare say that my brother, for all his faults, is not one to take physical advantage of his staff—he would be afraid of catching some dread disease. But too many young girls who toil in domestic service must deal with unwelcome advances, as a cost of employment.

  Although, as much as I hate to cast aspersion on someone I have never met and of whose circumstances I know very little, Becky Birtle, the young girl in question, seems to have been a willing participant, if indeed there were advances on Mr. Sackville’s part.

  Had she entered the chamber to relight the fire before her master awoke, it would go without saying that she need not have approached the curtains—but then neither should she have disturbed him in his rest. But since her purpose was to give him his morning cocoa, she ought to have first opened the curtains and possibly the windows, to let light and fresh air into the room.

  That she had approached and touched him without doing so first indicates her duties were hardly foremost on her mind. In fact, it might be the most charitable thing to be said under the circumstances.

  But I do hope that this was not the case. Such a scenario makes me worry for the girl and feel all too cynical about the world.

  I believe I shall comfort myself with a fresh cup of tea and a scrumptious madeleine that tastes as bright and lovely as a summer day in Tuscany.

  All my love,

  Alice

  Inspector Treadles tapped a finger against his wife’s letter and tried to decide whether the information that he
had been provided was useful.

  Or, rather, whether it was useful in the correct direction.

  The discovery that the supply of strychnine had been tampered with at both doctors’ places, along with Lord Ingram’s disclosure that Lady Sheridan had been seen at Paddington Station, had firmly settled his suspicion on the Sheridans.

  The possibility of questionable conduct on Becky Birtle’s part threw a wrench into his theories.

  The Sheridans made for great suspects. By ridding themselves of a brother they no longer loved, they would put an end to their perennial monetary worries. They had the sophistication and—despite the hollowness of their financial situation—the means to choreograph an intricate murder that presented as an accidental overdose.

  But lucre as a motive did present its problems. The Sheridans’ shortage of funds was chronic rather than acute. They had dealt with it for decades without murdering anyone. Why should they start at this late stage in life?

  On the other hand, improprieties between Becky Birtle and Mr. Sackville were far more likely to ignite murderous passions in the here and now. Someone else could have been competing for Becky Birtle’s affection. Tommy Dunn, the manservant who worked outdoors, perhaps. He was much closer to Becky Birtle’s age and a spurned young man could very well turn into a dangerous beast.

  Except no one flew into a rage and throttled Mr. Sackville. And Treadles couldn’t see Tommy Dunn as the sort to arrange for an elaborate scheme that would leave no trace of his involvement.

  What about the other female servants? What if one of them had believed that she had an understanding with her master, only to discover he was also having his way with Becky Birtle? Might that not provoke a fury that had no equal in hell?

  “Inspector, there’s a message from the chemical analyst for you,” said Sergeant MacDonald.

  Treadles read the cable. “What?”

  “What is it, sir?” asked MacDonald, wide-eyed.

  Treadles needed a moment to gather himself. “Remember that I asked for Mr. Sackville’s tissue to be tested for other poisons besides chloral?” He glanced at the telegram again. “They found arsenic.”

  Fifteen

  A very different-looking Curry House greeted Inspector Treadles upon his return. A fog had rolled in. The house drifted in and out of billows of vapor, a pale, ghostly vessel in a sea of mist.

  The character of the interior had changed, too. With the beauty of the coast obscured, it did not have the same airiness and sparkle. Instead Treadles felt an intense isolation, made only more stark by the unrelenting prettiness of the décor.

  Before Treadles’s arrival, Sergeant MacDonald, with two local constables in tow, had made a search of the entire property. Two sources of arsenic had been found. One, located in the kitchen, had been dyed red—as required by law to prevent accidental misuse. The other, a box of white arsenic kept for killing mice, was in the storeroom.

  This was more or less normal for a household of this scale and provided no immediate clues as to who might have used it. Not to mention, even though one had to sign for the purchase of white arsenic, with forethought, a would-be poisoner could always find an unscrupulous chemist some distance away and make the transaction untraceable.

  For this was a poisoner with forethought. No arsenic had been found in the contents of the dead man’s stomach, but it had seeped into his hair and nails, indicating a long-term poisoner at work.

  Then what happened? Why did the poisoner change tactics? What made it imperative that Mr. Sackville must die immediately, rather than at an indeterminate future date?

  And did it have something to do with Becky Birtle having been a rather impertinent girl?

  “Can you tell me something of the traffic into and out of the storeroom, Mrs. Cornish?”

  They were again in her office, but the housekeeper didn’t radiate as much command over her fiefdom as she had the previous time—knowing that Mr. Sackville had been murdered couldn’t possibly be easy on anyone at Curry House. “The storeroom is usually locked,” she said, with determined self-possession. “Cake and biscuits are kept inside and we don’t want Jenny Price getting into them. But Mr. Hodges has a key—he took cocoa and sugar for making Mr. Sackville’s morning cup. Mrs. Meek, too, when she wanted a nice tureen for soup.

  “And sometimes I give Tommy Dunn my key. The staff receive three meals a day and tea besides. But it’s hard work he does. I don’t mind him taking a few extra biscuits for himself.”

  “So everyone, other than Jenny Price, goes in and out of that room.” This wasn’t helpful to Treadles’s investigation at all.

  “That’s right. There’s no wine or beer in it—those are in a locked cellar. No silver either. And no one has ever taken anything they oughtn’t from the storeroom. But Inspector, why are you interested in who can pinch arsenic when Mr. Sackville died of too much chloral?”

  Treadles glanced down at his notes. “You didn’t mention Becky Birtle. Did she have access to the storeroom?”

  “From time to time I asked her to fetch something for me. But surely you can’t suspect a child?”

  Treadles didn’t answer this question either. “The morning of Mr. Sackville’s death, when you went into his room, had the curtains been opened yet?”

  Mrs. Cornish blinked. “I’m sure I don’t remember. There was Mr. Sackville so cold and all. I paid no mind to the curtains.”

  “Had the curtains been closed, you would have needed to open them to see.”

  “I don’t remember anything about the curtains—they must have been open.”

  She exuded respectability. It demanded nothing of Treadles’s imagination to envisage her picture gracing the cover of The Experienced English Housekeeper. Would she lie?

  And more importantly, if she lied, what was the reason? What would impel her to spare him the impression that the housemaid might have been up to no good?

  “I would like to see a photograph of Becky Birtle.”

  The abrupt change of subject had Mrs. Cornish reaching for her teacup. “She didn’t leave behind any.”

  “Tell me something of her character then.”

  Mrs. Cornish added what appeared to Treadles an excessive amount of sugar to her tea. “Becky is at a . . . trying age. She thinks she’s a woman full-grown and doesn’t care to be told different. But she has a good heart. In a few years she ought to turn out a fine young woman.”

  “When do you expect her to return to Curry House?”

  “Oh, I can’t tell you, Inspector. Now that her parents know Mr. Sackville was murdered, I dare say they wouldn’t like for her to come back at all.”

  Did Treadles hear a note of relief in Mrs. Cornish’s voice? She had reasons to be concerned for her own respectability—it would not reflect well on her, as head of the staff, if it became known that Becky Birtle had conducted herself in a questionable manner. But was that Mrs. Cornish’s only worry?

  “You asked earlier, Mrs. Cornish, why I’m inquiring after arsenic when Mr. Sackville died from an overdose of chloral. The answer is we have found arsenic in Mr. Sackville, indicating that someone has been poisoning him.”

  Mrs. Cornish started violently. “No!”

  Treadles went on. “That someone most likely had frequent access to him. Since Mr. Sackville was more or less a recluse, that limits the suspects to members of the household.”

  “But—but what a horrible thought.”

  “Unfortunately that is the case.”

  “But he died of chloral. And no one in this house knows how to burgle two different doctors’ places.”

  That was the puzzling part. But Treadles had learned, in his years as a detective, that those in service were a far more diverse lot than commonly presumed. It was not unheard of for the servant hall to harbor a few who had known the shadier side of life.

  “It is what every housekeeper sup
poses—and hopes for—that those who serve under her are a meticulously law-abiding lot. But you do not know the background of everyone here, do you?”

  Reluctantly Mrs. Cornish shook her head.

  “Who in this household would wish Mr. Sackville harm?”

  “No one!”

  “You know that is not true: Someone under this roof very much wished the master harm. You are responsible for the running of the place. You should know of any domestic tension that had the potential to mutate and fester.”

  Mrs. Cornish gripped her teacup with both hands. “Sir, you mustn’t think this house was a hotbed of ill will. It was nothing of the sort.”

  “It would be a thoughtless poisoner who makes his hatred widely known. Have you observed subtler signs of discontent and resentment?”

  “I’ve never had any complaints against Mr. Sackville. Becky thought him a fine gentleman. Jenny Price adored him. Mrs. Meek is new here and she’s anyway the cheerful sort, always a good word for everything and everyone.”

  This did not sound to Treadles like a compliment, more the politeness of someone who could do with a bit less of that determined agreeableness.

  “Tommy Dunn thought the sun rose and set on Mr. Sackville’s shoulders. And Mr. Hodges . . . Mr. Hodges holds his cards close to his chest.”

  Treadles raised a brow but only waited.

  Mrs. Cornish took a large gulp of her tea. “I used to think that he and Mr. Sackville rubbed along just fine. But last Christmas, when Tommy Dunn had the fob from the master and couldn’t stop taking out his watch to check the time, Mr. Hodges looked at him as if he were an idiot. I thought maybe he was a little jealous—Tommy Dunn had no reason to receive a gift almost as fine as the one he himself got.

  “When Mrs. Meek came, she was impressed with everything. Mr. Hodges would have this stony look on his face when she and Tommy Dunn agreed on how fine the house was and what a grand gentleman the master was. One time he even got up and left the servants’ hall.”