A Study In Scarlet Women (15 page)

Treadles's breaths came faster. He had to remind himself that he mustn't get carried away—not yet. “You made no mention of your unease at the inquest, doctor.”

“I was never asked any question except whether I'd prescribed chloral for Mr. Sackville.”

“Given your misgivings, Dr. Harris, do you believe that it is a coincidence that Mr. Sackville happened to die on a day you were away?”

“That did give me pause.” Dr. Harris looked down for a moment at his hands. “I haven't told anyone this, but at the inquest, had the letter from Mr. Holmes not been read, I would have said something about my suspicions, even though I was most reluctant to do so.”

“Of course. I understand that reluctance—it's a small village and the glare of the public would immediately focus on those closest to Mr. Sackville.”

Dr. Harris nodded. “I was both baffled and relieved when Mr. Holmes connected Mr. Sackville's passing with deaths in the wider world—since that would exonerate members of his household.”

“Would someone who isn't from around here know that you'd be gone that day?”

Dr. Harris blinked. “I can't be sure.”

“But people from the village would know?”

“They know that I travel to London once a month to meet with old friends from medical school, have dinner together, and talk about interesting cases we've come across—they more than I. Afterward, it's usually late enough that I stay overnight and start back early in the morning.”

“Does it always happen on a fixed day?”

“Usually it falls in the middle of the month and I put a note on the church bulletin to that effect. Dr. Birch looks after my patients in my absence, as I do in his. But this isn't the sort of place where one expects to hear frantic knocking on the door in the middle of the night. In fact, the unfortunate circumstances surrounding Mr. Sackville's death were the first time Dr. Birch had cause to bestir himself for one of my patients when I was away in London.”

They thanked him and walk out of his house.

“I see you've something in mind, Inspector,” said MacDonald, after taking one look at Treadles.

“I hope you still have ink in your pen, sergeant,” replied Treadles. “We are going back to Curry House.”

Mrs. Cornish's brows shot up as she opened the door to Inspector Treadles and Sergeant MacDonald one more time.

“Inspector. Sergeant. Did you forget something after all?”

“No, indeed, Mrs. Cornish. More questions came to mind after we spoke to Dr. Birch and Dr. Harris. Would it be all right for me to take a few minutes of Tommy Dunn's time—and a few minutes of yours?”

“Certainly. Tommy is in the garden, I believe. Should I have him come in?”

“No, we'll be happy to speak to him in his natural habitat.”

Mrs. Cornish pointed the policemen in the direction of the walled kitchen garden. Tommy Dunn, digging in a corner of the garden, was surprised but not alarmed to see them. “Something I can do for you, Inspector?”

“Yes, Mr. Dunn. Do you remember what exactly Mrs. Cornish said to you, when she came to ask you to fetch Dr. Harris?”

Tommy Dunn thought for a moment. “She said, ‘Quick. Get on that horse and go get Dr. Harris. Mr. Sackville is badly off. We can't wake him up and I don't think there's much time.'”

“Anything else?”

“No.”

“Did she mention Mr. Sackville's temperature?”

“No. She came running in her dressing gown and she was out of breath. So I knew something must have happened. I'd ought remembered if she told me he was really cold. I wouldn't forget.”

“Did it not occur to you that Dr. Harris wouldn't be home? From what I understand, he posts the date he'd be gone to London on the church noticeboard.”

“Can't say I read the church noticeboard on the regular. It's all about on which days the altar flower ladies meet and whatnot.”

They thanked him, returned to the house, and followed Mrs. Cornish to her office. As they passed before the kitchen, Mrs. Meek stuck her head out, a worried expression on her face. “Everything all right?”

“Inspector Treadles has a few more questions, that's all,” answered Mrs. Cornish, if a bit tightly.

As she offered Treadles and MacDonald seats and tea, she didn't seem so much nervous as rattled—perhaps it had not occurred to her that the matter was serious enough to merit a return visit.

“Mrs. Cornish,” said Treadles, “would you mind recalling for us exactly what you told Tommy Dunn, when you tasked him to fetch Dr. Harris?”

The housekeeper frowned, whether in surprise or concentration Treadles could not tell. “I can't promise I remember what I said word for word, but it would be along the lines of ‘Hurry! Jump on that horse and go get Dr. Harris. Mr. Sackville is in a bad way. We can't wake him up, he's going cold, and there's no time to lose.'”

“You are certain you mentioned his temperature?”

“Yes.”

Treadles felt a glance from MacDonald. “Dr. Birch specifically laments that he wasn't told of it and that was the reason he was ill prepared to deal with an overdose of chloral.”

Mrs. Cornish's frown deepened. “It must have slipped Tommy Dunn's mind then.”

“You think so?”

“He's young and not used to handling emergencies. I wouldn't be surprised if his mind went blank after he'd heard that Mr. Sackville was in a bad way—he thought the world of Mr. Sackville.”

“I see. Now did it not occur to you that Dr. Harris wouldn't be
home? I believe the day and time of his absence is posted on the church bulletin.”

Mrs. Cornish sighed. “That's one thing that's nagged at me ever since that day. I did realize it, but not until Tommy Dunn was at least five minutes gone. The thing was, Dr. Harris didn't go at his usual time of the month. We're used to him being gone around the middle of the month. But this time he was gone at least a week ahead of his regular day. And it was only after Tommy Dunn was too far to hear me shout that I remembered reading about the change on the noticeboard the day before, on my way to the railway station.”

“When was the change announced, did you know?”

“Must have been after Sunday, or the vicar would have said something from the pulpit.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Cornish.” Treadles rose and inclined his head. “This time we are truly going, I promise.”

“So one of them is lying?” asked Sergeant MacDonald, as they made their way back to the village of Stanwell Moot.

They rode on bicycles that they had brought from London. The bicycles eliminated the need for the local constabulary to provide transportation for Scotland Yard, but more to the point, cycling happened to be an activity Treadles greatly enjoyed, and which was much more difficult to indulge in London. Here in the country the breeze was fragrant, the sun pleasantly warm, and there were no mobs of pedestrians or speeding carriages to contend with.

There were, however, occasional mud puddles to avoid and Treadles guided his bicycle around one before answering MacDonald. “I don't think one of them has to be lying. It's quite possible, as Mrs. Cornish said, for a young man unaccustomed to emergencies to not hear everything he's been told. My mother used to say that if she sent me to the shop to get five things, she'd be lucky if I returned with three.”

MacDonald reached out a hand and let his fingertips brush the bright green leaves of the hedge. “So after a whole afternoon of interviews, we've Dr. Harris's suspicions and nothing else.”

“But that's a very fine set of suspicions.”

MacDonald was unconvinced. “Is that enough to get the coroner's jury to return a verdict other than accidental overdose?”

It was patently not enough.

“Well, we still have a few days left for that.” They were near the village. The hedgerows dropped away and a wide vista opened up, green fields and shining sea, with the village's church tower rising up to an unblemished sky. “And if all else fails, we've got ourselves a holiday on the Devon Coast.”

Charlotte,

You bloody fool.

(I hope Mamma never sees this. Or it would be off with my head for such blasphemous language—if not already for writing to you behind her back. But my word, you bloody fool!)

This morning Mamma took to her bed and Papa was abroad. I snuck out of the house to Mrs. Wallace's boarding home, hoping to run into you—and reassure myself you were still in tolerable circumstances. Needless to say, every single one of my nightmares came true in that woman's parlor.

I came home to a letter that Mott had smuggled in for me—he had been calling for my letters at the Charing Cross post office, since I am watched closely. The postmark let me know without a doubt that the letter was posted after you had been evicted. But you said nothing of it. It was full of falsely cheerful observations of life at Mrs. Wallace's!

I am drenched in fear. Steeped, marinated, macerated in it. I beg you to please tell me what is going on. The truth cannot be worse than the dreadful scenarios barging through my head.

Or at least tell me that you are not lying in a ditch somewhere, though how I am to believe you after all the lies I do not know.

Livia

P.S. Come home, Charlotte. Come home.

Sherlock Holmes's letter had caused a sensation. The tone of coverage suggested a willingness on the part of the newspapers—and most likely, by extension, on the part of the public—to entertain the possibility that Lady Shrewsbury's death had been part of a sinister larger plan. Which ought to have made Livia breathe easier, as she'd rarely crossed paths with Lady Amelia and had never met Mr. Sackville.

Had
probably made things better for Livia, which explained how she could have slipped out—and discovered the reality of Charlotte's current situation.

My Dearest Livia,

My apologies for not having been entirely truthful earlier. I am not lying in a ditch somewhere and things are not hopeless. Yet.

Charlotte

The eviction from Mrs. Wallace's boarding home cast a long shadow.

Charlotte felt marked. Even if her situation were to improve drastically, the danger remained that at any moment she could be recognized, her disguise stripped away, and her scandalous past brought to the fore to condemn her all over again.

But to be banished from her place of domicile, as bad as it had been, was not as awful as the possibility that the same might happen to her at her place of employment.

Should she ever have a place of employment, that is.

The inside of Miss Oswald's Employment Agency smelled of ink and overbrewed tea. The place was mentioned by two of the sources Charlotte had studied, not so much in recommending it as begrudgingly admitting its legitimacy.

Their distaste, as far as Charlotte could discern, stemmed from the fact that Miss Oswald's aim was less to help other women and more to make a living for herself. Charlotte had no objection to that goal. Moreover, she entertained hopes that Miss Oswald would, one, recognize that Charlotte would be a valuable worker and, two, prove more efficient than the charitable societies and registries for which greater efficacy would not bring more profits, only more work.

Squinting behind her thick glasses, Miss Oswald perused the letter of character Charlotte had brought. Behind her, a small window set high on the wall offered a rectangular slice of what passed for clear blue sky in London.

Livia lived for days like this. When sunlight wasn't just warm on the skin, but seemed to have a soft, blanketlike weight. She would sit outside and turn her face up—the risk of becoming unfashionably tanned be damned—and soak in all the heat and brightness.

Charlotte had never told her this, but she had planned to take Livia to the south of France someday. To spend a few weeks, or perhaps an entire winter, bathing daily in that lemon-colored sunshine.

“You were . . . a typist for Broadbent, Lucas and Sons in Tunbridge,” said Miss Oswald, a hint of disbelief in her voice, as she set aside the letter of character.

“Yes, ma'am.”

There was nothing amiss with the letter Charlotte had forged, which had been typed on proper stationery: The letterheads had been ordered from a good stationer's, and the signature was masterful, if she did say so herself.

Unfortunately, she had hesitated at the expense of acquiring new clothes that would have completed the illusion. The clothes wouldn't be costly in absolute terms—they were meant to make her look like a young woman who must contribute to her own support. But compared to how little money remained to her, every price was dauntingly exorbitant.

So she'd come to the interview in her own clothes—a jacket, a blouse, and a skirt—which, while not extravagant, were still of a level of quality and workmanship far exceeding what a typist ought to be able to afford.

Were she observing herself, she'd draw the obvious conclusion that there was something incongruous about her, that she might not be the humble position seeker she claimed to be. Why should Miss Oswald, whose business depended on accurately judging the trustworthiness of the applicants, come to a different verdict?

“And what is the reason you moved to London?”

“My parents are no more and my aunt asked me to come live with her.”

“Where does she live, your aunt?”

“Lambeth, ma'am.”

After losing her pound note to the girl beggar, a rundown boarding home in Lambeth was the best Charlotte could do. The district was grey, industrial, and in constant danger of flooding, but safe enough during daylight hours—and an acceptable place for a typist's aunt to live.

Except Charlotte wasn't dressed like a typist at all. This was what
she would have worn for a day at the Reading Room of the British Library—and no one there had ever treated her as anything but a lady.

Miss Oswald pursed her lips. “Your typing speed, Miss Morrison?”

“Forty-five words a minute. I'm also familiar with Pitman's system of phonemic orthography.” An honest answer. In her former life, she had many, many hours to fill—learning shorthand was as good a way to pass time as any. “If there are employers willing to have a female secretary, I'm sure I can handle the demands.”

“Indeed,” said Miss Oswald coolly. “I shall be astounded if you aren't equal to the task, Miss Morrison. But first I must get in touch with Broadbent, Lucas and Sons.”

Charlotte sucked in a breath. The reason she'd gone to the trouble to counterfeit a law firm's stationery was so that its authenticity wouldn't be questioned.

“We've had word of a lady journalist masquerading as an applicant,” Miss Oswald continued, “trying to dig up dirt on those of us in the business of matching qualified women with reputable employers. I'm not saying that you are she—of course not—but you will understand why I have no wish to unwittingly assist in such muckraking.”

“Naturally not.”

“It will take me ten days or so to complete the check and to review my openings. You may return Friday of next week to see whether I have found anything appropriate to your background and skills.”

If Miss Oswald had heard about such a lady journalist from others in the business, then no doubt she would pass along that she had encountered the very woman, one who dressed too well for an applicant and bore with her a letter of character from Broadbent, Lucas and Sons.

Her stomach clenched, Charlotte rose, said her thank-you, and left.

Inspector Treadles, back at his desk at Scotland Yard, scanned the papers for their coverage of the Sackville case. Speculation was rampant, as much regarding the mysterious Sherlock Holmes as concerning the identity and motives of those dastardly individuals who might have done away with Mr. Sackville, Lady Amelia Drummond, and Lady Shrewsbury.

Theories on the deaths were wildly inventive—everything from dangerous secret societies to the testing of a new, untraceable chemical. About Sherlock Holmes, opinions were sharply divided. Some insisted that he was no relation to Miss Olivia Holmes, the young woman who had quarreled with Lady Shrewsbury the night before the latter died—Holmes was hardly a rare surname. Others pointed out that one was far more likely to find this man by searching more obscure branches of the family tree than among the general public: Didn't it make more sense for a kinsman, however remote, to come to the aid of the beleaguered Olivia Holmes?

“Your post, sir,” came Sergeant MacDonald's voice. “Something from Inspector Waller for you.”

Before Inspector Treadles left Devonshire, he had sent a cable to Inspector Waller of the West Riding Constabulary, calling in a favor. “Excellent!” he exclaimed, accepting the letter from MacDonald. “Any further response from Lord Sheridan's secretary?”

“Not yet.” MacDonald pulled out his watch. “But the next post is only fifty-five minutes away.”

He sauntered off. Treadles looked fondly at his retreating form, remembering himself as a bright-eyed young sergeant, eager to learn the tricks of the trade.

With a wistful shake of the head, he returned his attention to Inspector Waller's missive.

Dear Treadles,

Enclosed please find a transcript of my interview with Becky Birtle. Constable Small, who came with me, takes excellent shorthand. You may be certain of the accuracy of the document.

The girl was a bit of an odd bird. Thinks very highly of herself. The parents are all right, solid, salt-of-the-earth sorts. They were befuddled by the whole affair and sought reassurance several times that their daughter wasn't in any trouble.

Anyway, glad to render a service—delighted, in fact. Let me know if there is anything else I can do for you.

Waller

Treadles picked up the transcript. Becky Birtle's version of events didn't accord in every detail with those given by Mrs. Cornish and Mrs. Meek—a good thing, or it would lead him to think she had been tutored in her answers. But all three women's accounts agreed enough that minor disparities could be attributed to the vagaries of human memory.