A Study In Scarlet Women (24 page)

Hostility darkened Tommy Dunn's face. “She thinks too much of herself, that girl.”

There was an excess of antagonism in his expression; a high opinion of herself couldn't be the only thing that bothered him about Becky Birtle.

“Did you feel a sense of affection for her before your sentiments turned?”

The young man snorted. “What? You asking if I fancied her?”

“Yes.”

“Never. She's a scrawny girl—bony like a goat. Didn't do a thing for me.”

“Then why did you come to dislike her?”

Dunn shrugged, but his jaw was held so tight a vein bulged on his neck. “Like I said, she gave herself airs.”

Something had happened to derail a once friendly enough association, but Treadles was not going to get it from Dunn.

“Do you know anything about a whisky decanter that's gone missing?

“Caught Mrs. Cornish in my room looking for it. She said she didn't think I took it, but someone might have hid it under my bed or something. Can't say I believe her.”

Treadles did not enjoy this aspect of his work. A murder investigation unearthed not only deeply held, obsessively nursed grievances, but a plethora of everyday resentments. The undercurrents that would have otherwise remained beneath the surface for the foreseeable future.

One didn't need to be naive to enjoy the idea of a harmonious household, where the master was gentlemanly and considerate and the servants dutiful to their employer and kind to one another. To not believe in the possibility was to become the kind of cynic who suspected every ordinary establishment of seething with acrimony and discontent.

And Robert Treadles had been such a fortunate man—he owed it to himself not to go down the all-too-easy route of skepticism and disenchantment.

As there was nothing to be gained by interviewing Jenny Price again, Treadles called in Mrs. Meek, who arrived in a high state.

“Is it true, Inspector, that Mr. Sackville had been poisoned with arsenic?”

Treadles had expected that the news would have spread. “I'd like to know who came to you with the information.”

It might help him judge the differing degrees of rapports among the servants.

“Nobody
came
and told me. Mrs. Cornish looked all shaken when she walked past the kitchen. So I followed her and asked what was the matter. She told me. It was such awful news that I asked both Mr. Hodges and Tommy Dunn, too, because I didn't want to believe it.”

She stared at Treadles, as if still hoping that he would reassure her otherwise.

“It is true,” he said softly.

Immediately her gaze shifted to Sergeant MacDonald. The latter nodded, closing the last avenue of denial.

Mrs. Meek slowly sank into a chair. “But that's evil. Evil.”

Treadles gave her a moment to collect herself. “According to the answers you provided last time, when you reached Mr. Sackville's bedroom, one of the first things you did was to open the curtains. Is that correct?”

She looked at him in bafflement. “What does that have to do with anything?”

“Please answer the question. Did you open the curtains?”

“I did.”

“You are sure they weren't already open?”

Mrs. Meek sat up straighter—she bristled with the injured dignity of someone about to defend her integrity. “I am completely sure, Inspector. We all rushed to Mr. Sackville's bedside. ‘Feel him, feel him,' Becky was yelling. So I did, and his temperature was all wrong. I looked up at Mrs. Cornish. But she wasn't looking at him. She was looking at the curtains. I remember this very clearly. It was still dim inside the room, but light was already seeping in around the edges of the drapes, halolike, if you will. Then Mrs. Cornish pulled open the curtains on her side and I did the same on the window closer to me.”

There was an innocence to Mrs. Meek's reply, a resolute lack of insinuation.

Treadles was reminded of his own obliviousness to the significance of the curtains. A thought occurred to him. “Have you ever worked in any other position in a household, Mrs. Meek?”

“No, Inspector. I was always the cook. Cook's assistant early on, and then the cook.”

Perhaps she truly was plainly stating the facts. Perhaps she herself didn't understand the import of what she had revealed.

“How would you describe Becky Birtle?”

“Becky? She's a bit of a handful. I don't mind a high-spirited girl myself but I think Mrs. Cornish was frustrated with her.”

“Is she an attractive girl?”

“Not beautiful, but most girls that age are rather pretty—first bloom of youth.”

“Is there a picture of her anywhere in the house?”

Mrs. Meek frowned. “N—oh, wait, I remember now. A traveling
photographer came through recently. Mr. Hodges said that Mr. Sackville had paid for a photograph for the servants only the year before and wouldn't pay for another one so soon. But Mrs. Cornish said she'd pay for one herself. So we dragged some chairs outside and sat for the photographer and he came back a few days later with a copy for Mrs. Cornish.”

“Was Becky Birtle in the picture?”

“Yes she was. Standing right behind me.”

And yet Mrs. Cornish had been firm that there was no photograph of the girl in the house. Treadles made a note to speak to the housekeeper again before he left.

“Mr. Hodges tells me that a whisky decanter went missing. Have you heard about it?”

A knock came on the door. Even before Treadles answered, Constable Perkins, who had been assigned to accompany the detectives from Scotland Yard and facilitate matters for them, peeked in. The young man's face was flush with excitement.

“Inspector, Sergeant, a word please.”

Treadles raised a brow. For the constable to interrupt an interview, it had better be important. He murmured a word of apology and left the room, MacDonald in his wake.

“Inspector, the name Sergeant told me to check—”

“What name, Sergeant?”

“When I was searching Mrs. Meek's room, sir,” said Sergeant MacDonald, “I found letters addressed to a Nancy Monk. The name sounded familiar, but I couldn't quite remember. So I asked Constable Perkins to see if he could find out something more.”

“One of the men at the station remembered right away,” said Perkins. “But we didn't want to rush, so we sent a cable on the Wheatstone machine to Scotland Yard. And they cabled back and confirmed our suspicions.

“Nancy Monk was the defendant in an arsenic poisoning trial twenty-five years ago. Everyone in the family died, except the master of the house, who was away on business. She took the stand to testify on her own behalf and the jury came away convinced that she cared a great deal for the little children. And since there was never any evidence of anything between the cook and the master—she had a young greengrocer she was planning to marry—she was acquitted.”

And a quarter of a century later, she turned up in another case of arsenic poisoning.

When Inspector Treadles returned, Mrs. Meek was rocking back and forth on her seat, her fingers clutched tightly around the armrests.

Treadles got to the point. “Mrs. Meek, have you ever gone by another name?”

All the blood drained from her face. “Why do you ask?”

He simply waited.

“I was framed!” Her voice shot up an entire octave, giving her words a jagged edge. “The man I worked for—it was him. His cousins had a sheep farm and they kept white arsenic for dressing the wool. A month before everyone died he visited his cousins. He mixed that arsenic into the spare jar of snipped-and-pounded sugar I kept in the cupboard. And of course he made sure to be away on business when the sugar in the kitchen jar ran out and I started using sugar from the other jar.

“I brought the children milk with sugar and hot cocoa for the missus, like I did every morning. They also had buttered toast sprinkled with sugar. You can't imagine their suffering that day. I was frantic with worry. But I never thought they were poisoned. And I never thought
I'd
be charged.

“She wasn't a pretty or clever woman. But she tried to make the best possible home for him. And the children were sweet and loved everything I cooked. I was happy to hear that their father, when he
proposed to the daughter of a business associate less than a year later, was turned down. I was even happier to learn that he'd died on his cousin's sheep farm, after he was gored by an angry ram. Perhaps God wasn't blind and deaf after all.”

She knotted her fingers together, fingers that were large and rough from work. “But if that was justice from above, it came too late for me. My young man, he believed that I was innocent, but his mother wouldn't let him marry anyone who'd been through such a public trial—not to mention she was afraid I'd poison
her
. And I couldn't stay in Lancashire anymore. I had to say good-bye to him, move far away, change my name, and make a new life for myself.

The former Nancy Monk looked up at Treadles, her gaze direct and earnest. “I did
not
poison Mr. Sackville. And if you check with my previous employer—I served her for twenty years—you'll find that I told the truth. She was sorry to see me go. And I'd have stayed on, but I'm not so young anymore and it was too much work feeding two dozen dyspeptic ladies day in and day out.”

“We will most assuredly be checking with your previous employer,” said Treadles.

Her distress was so palpable that he found it difficult to breathe. He wanted to believe her, but he could not allow his own sympathies to muddy the investigation.

“And what do you intend to do in the meanwhile, Inspector?” Mrs. Meek's shoulders slumped. “Arrest me?”

Treadles sighed inwardly. “I do not plan to—yet. But I strongly caution you to remain in this house—or be considered a fugitive from the law.”

Treadles did not forget about the photograph, but Mrs. Cornish had a ready explanation. “Becky took it with her when she left. She wanted
to go home, but she was afraid her parents wouldn't let her leave again. So she asked for the photograph as a memento.”

Treadles nodded. “During my interviews with other members of the staff, I learned of a whisky decanter that you were searching for, Mrs. Cornish. You failed to mention it to me.”

Mrs. Cornish sucked in a breath. “But that had nothing to do with the case. There's never been any theft in this house for as long as I've been here and I was upset that as soon as Mr. Sackville died somebody thought it was all right to swipe something of his.”

On the face of it, this was a plausible enough explanation. But then again, if one merely went by appearances, there would not be an investigation into Mr. Sackville's death. “Did you ever find it?”

“No,” said the housekeeper immediately.

“Do let us know if it turns up.”

“Of course, Inspector.” Mrs. Cornish smiled tightly. “Of course.”

T
he response to Sherlock Holmes's advertisement in the papers was beyond anything Charlotte could have anticipated. Even Mrs. Watson declared herself more than gratified by the influx of inquiries.

There were, as she had cautioned Charlotte, a number of letters that had nothing to do with perplexing issues that needed unraveling. Several missives scolded Sherlock Holmes for interfering in matters that were none of his concern—one purporting to be from a friend of Lady Amelia's, another a relation of Lady Shrewsbury's. A few others claimed friendship—and kinship—with the fictional Holmes, expressing hope for renewed acquaintance and perhaps some financial assistance. The ones that amused her the most were a half dozen or so marriage proposals, from women who didn't want the singular genius of their time to lack the warmth and solicitude of a good wife.

There was even a gentleman convinced that Holmes must be of the Uranian persuasion.

Great men, in my observation, are more likely than not to harbor a deep love for other great men. I therefore urge you to join our society and together strive
to overturn the prejudices that would condemn us and the barriers that would have us always be outsiders, fearful of discovery and banishment.

“I would join his society in a heartbeat,” said Charlotte to Mrs. Watson, “but I fear I shall disappoint him bitterly.”

A portion of the remaining inquiries were rejected right away as spurious.

“This man asserts that he has an income of four thousand pounds a year and wants to know whether his fiancée is sincere in her affection for him or only for his money.” Mrs. Watson scoffed. “Look at this paper. I should be surprised if he has an income of four hundred pounds a year.”

Another letter, from a young woman who worked in a florist shop and was puzzled by the conduct of a customer who always bought a single rose but suddenly bought a bouquet of yellow zinnias, seemed legitimate enough to Mrs. Watson. But Charlotte, after looking at it, declared it fabricated. “Lord Ingram is an accomplished calligrapher. And he has taught me that while it is possible for a person to master more than one style of handwriting, it takes a great deal of practice to achieve fluidity in the flow of the letters. And even when one does, there might still be noticeable hesitation at the beginnings and the ends of words. In fact, looking at the script, I would guess the writer to be working for a newspaper.”

Mrs. Watson's eyes widened—there had been a number of inquiries from the papers, wishing for a word with Mr. Holmes, which they'd promptly discarded. Charlotte grinned. “No, his handwriting didn't tell me that, but the letter is postmarked very close to the premises of
The Times
. Our would-be trickster didn't realize that he had better be more committed to his fraud if he wanted a face-to-face meeting with the mysterious Sherlock Holmes.”

Their first actual client at 18 Upper Baker Street was a young man
with a pink, eager face. He had been courting a lovely young lady. Her birthday was in three weeks and he had asked what he ought to give her. In response she had given him a riddle to test the depth of his devotion.

What I'd like to receive is to be found
at the beginning of the year, in the middle of the longest word in the dictionary, at the bottom of the stairs, and the end of eternity. Does this turn you upside down? Then you must flip yourself the right way around.

Charlotte disappeared into “Sherlock's” bedroom for three minutes, then returned with a big smile on her face. “My brother has solved the riddle for you. If you take the letter at the beginning of the word ‘year'—”

“I did try that route earlier,” said the young man. “The beginning of the word ‘year' yields the letter y. Bottom of the stairs would give me s, and end of eternity another y. But what's the longest word in the dictionary?”

“That would depend on the dictionary, wouldn't it? But the longest word in the word ‘dictionary' is itself.”

The young man gasped with delight. “And the letter in the middle of the word is . . . ah . . .”

Charlotte waited patiently until he exclaimed, “O! It's o.”

“I do believe you are correct, sir.”

“But what do y, o, s, and y give me?”

“Your young lady did warn you that everything might be upside down, did she not? So let's reverse her directions, the ones that are reversible in any case. If we take the end of the year, the top of the stairs, and the beginning of eternity—middle of the dictionary is still middle of the dictionary—then what do we have?”

The young man thought for a minute. “R, o, s, e. Roses, she wants roses! I can get her roses!”

He left beaming. Mrs. Watson, who had volunteered to look after the administrative aspects of their enterprise, accompanied him out.

Since neither Charlotte nor Mrs. Watson had any firsthand knowledge of what would be a fair price for Sherlock Holmes's services, the latter had decided to make it seven shillings for a meeting that solved the problem.
It's a bit more than what a doctor would charge for a call, but not much more. And there's only one Sherlock Holmes.

Mrs. Watson returned, beaming from ear to ear. Charlotte rose from her chair. “I can't believe it. He paid!”

Mrs. Watson had reassured her that of course her clients would pay. But to Charlotte the entire enterprise still felt like a mirage, an elaborate fata morgana castle in the sky. That she might turn nothing more than a few minutes of time and a bit of thinking into actual money—enough money for a week of room and board in a halfway-respectable place!

“Oh, yes, he paid. Most willingly, too.”

The mischief and satisfaction on Mrs. Watson's face . . . Charlotte's jaw dropped. “What did you tell him my fee was?”

“A guinea.”

A guinea was twenty-one shillings, three times what they had agreed to charge. Charlotte gaped at Mrs. Watson. “But that's a fortune!”

“Yes, but allow me to know better in this case. He confirmed that he is very well off, did he not, when you told him what you knew about him?”

The young man's family was successful in manufacturing. But still, a guinea. “It isn't so much about what he can afford but more about, well, not overcharging.”

Mrs. Watson pressed the heavy coin into Charlotte's palm and closed her fingers around it. “Remind yourself that you're far more likely to undercharge than overcharge, my dear, because you don't
yet understand your own value and you've never been taught to demand your full worth.” She smiled. “That's why I appointed myself the bursar of this operation, because I've had to learn both.”

Their second client was a timid woman of about thirty who had misplaced an emerald ring her husband had given her and was desperate to find it before he returned home from a business trip. Charlotte located the ring at the bottom of the woman's hatpin holder. Mrs. Watson charged her nine shillings plus outlay for their return trip in a hansom cab, which the client was more than happy to pay, besides gifting them with a ham pie, for “poor Mr. Holmes, who can't leave his room.”

“If this keeps up, we might bring in more than five hundred pounds a year,” Charlotte marveled, as they settled into a cab.

Mrs. Watson patted the aigrette on her bonnet. “Five hundred pounds isn't an astonishing sum, my dear Miss Holmes.”

“But it's as much as I ever hoped to make, after many years of school, training, and experience!”

“Well, we may not bring in five hundred a year, since we may not always have a steady supply of clients. Or we could bring in much more, if we have a few dukes and princes whose secretaries I'll bill fifty quid a piece,” said Mrs. Watson with great relish. “And don't you worry that I'll overcharge them. Not every nobleman is in dire financial straits. The Duke of Westminster has an income of two hundred fifty thousand pounds a year.”

Charlotte couldn't help laughing. “My dear lady, I feared to impose on your kindness. I see now that I needn't have worried. You are a shark!”

Mrs. Watson preened a little, evidently pleased by Charlotte's observation. “A shark with a good nose for money in the water but, let's say, rather soft teeth.”

“Miss Livia,” said the maid, “there's a woman to see you. She says her name is Rajkumari Indira.”

Livia looked up from the frame of embroidery on which she hadn't made any progress in days. “What?”

Occasionally one did see an Indian princess in London, but the Holmeses had few ties with the subcontinent and did not move in the kinds of circles that hobnobbed with foreign dignitaries. Why in the world would one call on her?

In the parlor, a woman draped in scarlet and gold silk stood at the window, her back to the room, her hair covered by a very long shawl that had already wrapped around her person once. At Livia's entry, she turned around, the shawl drawn across her face, concealing everything except her eyes.

When she saw that Livia had come alone, she dropped her hand from the edge of the shawl. Charlotte!

Charlotte placed a finger over her lips, signaling Livia to be quiet. Livia ran across the room and embraced her sister.

“Oh, Charlotte!” Then she pulled back. “My goodness, you are practically naked!”

The blouse Charlotte wore ended just beneath her breasts. The shawl, drawn diagonally across the body from hip to shoulders and then back around, covered most of the exposed portions of Charlotte's torso, but from the side one could easily see four inches of skin.

“It's so nobody looks at my face.” Charlotte laid a hand on Livia's arm. “Are you all right, Livia?”

“I'm well enough. People don't actually
believe
that I did away with Lady Shrewsbury, but it gives them something to speculate about in the meanwhile.”

The situation was a little less promising than that. The discovery of arsenic had tongues wagging that while Mr. Sackville might have
been murdered, he had to have been done in by someone local, most likely one of his servants—leading to the current consensus that his death had nothing to do with Lady Shrewsbury's and Lady Amelia's.

With the suspicion for those latter deaths once again falling squarely on Livia and Sir Henry, respectively—which must be the reason Charlotte had taken the risk to come see her.

“You've become too thin,” said Charlotte softly.

“It was always more enjoyable to watch you eat than to eat myself.” Livia took Charlotte's face in her hands. “At least you haven't become too thin.”

“Mrs. Watson feeds me 'round the clock and I haven't turned anything down. But at the rate I'm going, within the week I'll reach Maximum Tolerable Chins. Then I'll be obliged to give up this reckless dining.”

Livia chuckled.

Charlotte took Livia's hands in her own. “If only there had been an inquest, at least in Lady Shrewsbury's case.”

Livia sighed.