A Study In Scarlet Women (22 page)

They had not parted on the best of terms.

She sighed. “Fine. Don't take me as your mistress then, even though you want to.”

He set his hat on his head. “Good evening, Miss Holmes.”

She hated it when he called her
Miss Holmes
in a private conversation. Hated the distance it implied. The gulf that he would not cross.

“I apologize for being such a trial when you are only trying to help. I'm sorry.”

He was quiet for a long moment. “You don't try me, Charlotte. You discomfit me. You make me question things that I would otherwise have happily accepted as given. But that is not your fault. Not the preponderance of it, anyway.”

He opened the door and left. By the time she reached the stair landing, he was already halfway down. “Now I'm safe with Mrs. Watson,” she called after him. “You don't need to have me followed anymore.”

He stilled—and answered without turning around, “Miss Holmes, I have no idea of what you speak.”

Charlotte opened
A Summer in Roman Ruins
to her favorite page.

My aunt delighted in the entertainment of her progeny and not infrequently hosted children's parties that were almost bacchanalian in their duration and intensity. The energy and volume of two dozen boys and girls did not bother me—I had been guilty of spurring them to ever greater levels of boisterousness. But that summer I slept fitfully, worried that one fine day a gaggle of youngsters with too much cake and orangeade in their bellies would break
away from the vicinity of the house and stumble upon my wondrous and fragile site.

In fact, a reprobate thirteen-year-old preyed on my apprehension by threatening to do exactly that: drive a herd of wild children across the estate to descend upon my dig, wreaking as much havoc as Hannibal had done in Italy with troops and elephants brought across the Alps.

What I had to do to preserve the integrity of my site, I wish upon no one.

What memories. An excellent day's work, blackmailing his fifteen-year-old self into kissing her.

I don't want a genteel peck
, she'd told him cheerfully.
I want you to live up to your scabrous reputation.

He'd scowled.
Do you even know what
scabrous
means?

Indecent and salacious
.

That's the kind of reputation I have?

He was usually spoken of as “that troublesome young Lord Ingram.” And the other children whispered about him as if he had horns and a forked tail: He had been smoking cigarettes since he was nine; he had caused a dozen governesses to be dismissed; he had got a serving maid into terrible trouble during his very first year at Eton.

Charlotte didn't consider any of the rumors credible, except the smoking part—a hint of Turkish tobacco clung to him, not an unpleasant scent for a glowering boy.

Yes, that's your reputation.

He looked at her askance.
And you want an indecent and salacious sort of kiss?

Is there any point to any other kind?

This last she might or might not have said out loud: the kiss that followed caused a minor malfunction in her brain. She didn't remember their exchanges afterward either, if anything at all.

Present-day Charlotte sighed softly. They'd contemplated each
other with so little regard on the day they had first and last kissed, he as a target to exploit for her, and she as merely a very strange girl for him.

If only they could have seen the future.

“Miss Holmes, you mustn't worry so much. Everything will be all right,” said Mrs. Watson.

They were at the tail end of a late supper and Charlotte was eating without her usual gusto.

She sometimes thought of her mind as bearing a certain resemblance to the post office, a complex system that sorted and conveyed packets of information with speed and efficiency. But at the moment her most prized asset was more comparable to an automobile, a machine liable to break down every few miles and strand the hapless motorist by the side of the road.

She smiled weakly at Mrs. Watson. “I never used to fret about anything—and didn't understand why anyone would. If there was something that needed to be done, that was different. Worrying about outcomes over which I have no control is punishing myself before the universe has decided whether I ought to be punished.

“Now I realize that in my former life I worried about nothing because I feared nothing. That equanimity, which was but a false sense of security, evaporated the moment true consequences appeared. I was unnerved by what might happen to me. Or my sister. And now, my father.”

She dipped her spoon into a bowl of fruit compote. “You're right, Mrs. Watson, I mustn't worry so much. But at the moment I don't know how to stop.”

“You are looking at me with hope, Miss Holmes.” Mrs. Watson sighed. “It's all I know how to do, saying ‘you mustn't worry so much.' I haven't the slightest idea how to nip useless fretting in the
bud. In fact, I sometimes wake up in the middle of the night and worry, even though I am in circumstances that I would have considered enviable in my youth.”

They fell silent for some time. It was still raining, the rain drumming steadily upon the roof.

Charlotte speared a morsel of peach and pushed it around in the syrup. “In any case, much uncertainty will be removed tomorrow. Inspector Treadles will let us know the moment he learns of anything.”

Mrs. Watson likewise stirred the contents of her compote bowl. “Now that you've met the inspector in person, what do you think of him?”

“I like him. He is more or less the man he ought to be, though I hadn't expected he would be so deferent to his ‘betters.' Perhaps he conducts himself in such a manner because he doesn't want it said that he forgot where he came from. Or perhaps he sincerely believes in the validity and authority of the hierarchy in which we live.”

“In other words, you believe you were right in continuing the pretense that Sherlock Holmes is a man.”

“Yes.”

Inspector Treadles was most respectful to Charlotte. But it was a respect that stemmed from gallantry, the kindness the strong owed to the weak, not the regard one held for an equal, and certainly not the admiration he felt for Lord Ingram, whom he clearly considered his superior.

“What about your friend, Lord Ingram?” asked Mrs. Watson. “He must know that you have no brother named Sherlock Holmes. Yet he seems to have no trouble accepting your powers of reasoning.”

“He's long been a victim of my powers—he's grown inured.”

“I've seen him at polo matches. The ladies are always fanning
themselves—some men have that effect on women, even if they aren't classically handsome.”

“Well, he's married.”

Her statement sounded more like a grievance. An accusation.

“But not happily so, from what I understand.”

His marriage was his great mistake. But now that someone who only knew him via gossip had commented on his private life, Charlotte felt obliged to defend that mistake. “Happiness has never been the goal in a Society marriage.”

“Oh, I have long observed that. They are very much business arrangements, sometimes absolutely cold-blooded ones. But occasionally one comes across a union that has no reason to exist except for love and that overwhelming optimism love inspires. It's for those matches that I hold my breath. And it is when they do not succeed that my heart breaks a little, for what might have been.”

Would there have been a might-have-been in Lord Ingram's case? If Charlotte hadn't warned him before his wedding that a perfect woman did not exist except in a man's imagination, if she hadn't pointed out that anyone who took the trouble to appear flawless must have an ulterior motive, would he have tested his wife, upon his godfather's passing, by telling her that he received only a five-hundred-pound annuity, instead of the fortune stipulated in his godfather's will?

For it was certain that had he told Lady Ingram the truth, she would have been overjoyed, rather than cold with disappointment and then hot with rage, blurting out that she only married a man known to have resulted from his mother's affair with a Jewish banker because of what he stood to inherit. Why else would she have sullied the bloodline of her own children?

The question Charlotte asked herself concerned the weight of her
own words. Had they planted the seed of doubt in his mind—or would the same suspicions have formed by that point in the marriage, regardless of whether Charlotte had said anything years before?

She took a deep breath. “His children are lovely, at least.”

Mrs. Watson ate a piece of strawberry from the compote, chewing thoughtfully. “Have you ever been in love, Miss Holmes?”

“No.”

It would probably have been more convincing if her answer hadn't been as quick or emphatic, but Mrs. Watson only nodded slowly. “Sometimes that is a blessing, Miss Holmes. A blessing.”

A
t noon the next day a cable arrived for Charlotte, sent to 18 Upper Baker Street.

Dear Mr. and Miss Holmes,

I am beyond pleased to inform you that the supply of strychnine at both Dr. Birch's and Dr. Harris's had indeed been compromised. The bottles contained no strychnine at all. We now have a case of clearly premeditated murder.

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.”