A Study In Scarlet Women (31 page)

“That is Holmes's and my thinking also. And Stephen Marbleton broke into 18 Upper Baker Street in an attempt to retrieve the photonegatives they found missing.”

“That part makes sense. But what does Mrs. Marbleton, who may or may not be Sophia Lonsdale risen from death, have to do with anyone in this case?”

“We are still trying to find out. Will you meet with us tomorrow afternoon at two?”

“Yes, of course.”

Lord Ingram took out one of his cards and scrawled something on the back. “This is the address. I hope to know more by then.”

When Treadles at last reached home, his wife was already in bed. “Welcome back, Inspector,” she murmured as he slipped under the covers next to her. “Busy night?”

He exhaled. “I'll tell you in the morning.”

“Everything all right?” asked Alice, wrapping an arm around him.

“I think so.”

A thousand and one questions swarmed in his head. His kingdom for a few absolute certainties!

But he did arrive at one definite answer: Nobody in Sherlock Holmes's “condition” ought to be moved about willy-nilly. If he wasn't there in his bed at night, then he most likely hadn't been there during the day.

Treadles knew something of the circumstances of Lady Shrewsbury's death. He knew about Miss Olivia Holmes, who had, in a drunken rage, called for Lady Shrewsbury's imminent demise. He knew that when Sherlock Holmes's letter to the coroner took effect, Miss Olivia Holmes had been the chief beneficiary. He also knew that Miss Olivia Holmes had a younger sister, who happened to have fallen from grace the exact same day disaster struck Sherlock Holmes.

Why he hadn't put two and two together earlier he didn't know. Except that the mind did not go where the mind did not want to go.

“You are wound up tight,” murmured Alice.

He stared into the dark. “Do you think an extraordinary woman ought to be treated differently, my dear?”

“Where did that question come from?” Alice chuckled softly. “And treated differently from whom? Other women?”

“Yes.”

“And how will this extraordinary woman be treated? As well as a slightly better-than-average man?”

“Better than that, I hope.”

“The extraordinary will always be treated differently—they're extraordinary, after all. What
I
wonder is whether a not-so-extraordinary woman will ever be treated the same as a not-so-extraordinary man.”

Something in the tone of his wife's voice made him turn toward her. “You wonder just now—or you've long wondered this?”

It caused a strange sensation, almost like panic, to realize that he didn't know this about her.

She was silent for some time. “When I was ten, I told Father that someday I would like to run Cousins Manufacturing. He said that would not happen. I loved my father, you know that, and he was a wonderful man. But he was old-fashioned in this matter—he wanted his son to carry on his life's work, even though Barnaby isn't remotely suitable for it.

“It helped in a way, I suppose, that Father was firm and clear from the beginning that the business would go to Barnaby. And he did give me the latitude of choosing my own husband, instead of ordering me to marry a lordship for aristocratic connections. But yes, I have long wondered why I must content myself with being a spectator to the family enterprise, when I would have much preferred being a participant.”

“I . . . thought you were happy with what we have.” Treadles's throat was suddenly dry.

“Of course I'm happy with what we have. You are the man I want by my side all my life. But that is not to say I wouldn't have been good at managing and growing the business—and enjoyed that, too.”

Why didn't you tell me earlier?
he wanted to ask.
Four years we've known each other, three as man and wife.

His heart was somewhere past his spleen. He felt small and lonely, even though nothing had changed.

Nothing at all.

Except the idea that he—and their life together—was enough for his wife.

And so much for his hope that someday he would be able to give her everything she had ever wanted.

T
he note from Lord Ingram came early, before Charlotte had even sat down to breakfast. And it wasn't delivered by post, but via courier.

Inspector Treadles's decision to burgle 18 Upper Baker Street did not startle her, though she was surprised by his timing—she'd thought it would be a while longer before he questioned something as fundamental as Sherlock Holmes's gender. The presence of the other intruder, however, did give her pause.

Mrs. Marbleton was nothing if not thorough.

Sophia Lonsdale was nothing if not thorough.

But why? What was the purpose of her involvement? If only Charlotte had access to Ladies Avery and Somersby and could pick their brains of everything they knew about Sophia Lonsdale.

“Good morning, my dear,” chirped Mrs. Watson as she sat down and reached for the teapot.

She sported a day dress that made Charlotte think of a field of buttercups: spring, hope, renewal. Being Sherlock Holmes's business partner had made Mrs. Watson busy—and buoyant. It gladdened Charlotte to no end that—

She mentally smacked herself. How sloppy of her to overlook a
potentially tremendous source of information. Mrs. Watson had told her that the divide between Society and the demimonde was porous. She knew who Charlotte was. She knew the state of Lord Ingram's marriage. Why hadn't Charlotte asked her about Sophia Lonsdale?

“Do you know, Mrs. Watson, I recently learned of someone who went through a similar experience as I did, but a generation earlier. She came from a background more prominent than mine. Her family, instead of exiling her to the countryside, disowned her altogether.”

“Are you speaking of the Lonsdale girl? Yes, I remember. Quite the scandal back then.” Mrs. Watson's teacup stopped halfway to her lips. “How curious that you should bring her up.”

“Oh?”

“Guess who was the man responsible for ruining her.”

Charlotte's heart skipped a beat. Could it be? Was Mrs. Watson about to give her the one link that would crack this case wide open? “Who was it?”

Mrs. Watson took a sip of her tea. “Lord Sheridan.”

For the first time in her life, Charlotte encountered a drawing room that was too gaudy for her. She ran her fingers along the gold tassels of a bright purple lampshade, lifted the edge of a tiger-skin rug that draped the back of a red velvet chaise, and tested an even dozen orange and blue pillow cushions for fluffiness.

Yes, definitely too gaudy. But if one removed the pillow cushions, not all of them, just five or six . . .

“This is one of Bancroft's places?” she asked Lord Ingram.

“Correct.”

“Tell me the truth. Was it a whorehouse under previous ownership?” she asked.

“No, it was a very dull dwelling. Very respectable, I believe.” His
answer came with a straight face, but something in his expression made her think that he was trying not to laugh.

“Are you saying that Bancroft's minions made changes to the décor?”

“Minions? This is Bancroft's own handiwork.”

Charlotte looked around again. “Huh. I never would have guessed Bancroft had such extravagant tastes. He's so . . . colorless.”

“You told the poor man to his face that he was the most boring person you'd ever met.”

“It was a compliment—he is exactly the faceless bureaucrat you want to be in charge of the inner workings of the empire. But this parlor is giving me second th—wait, do you mean to tell me that Bancroft fitted out this place to appeal to
my
tastes, when he was courting me?”

“He almost succeeded, didn't he? I told him if he took away half of the cushions you'd feel right at home.”

Charlotte snorted—he knew her too well.

“I also told him not to propose until after he'd first shown you the house, to stack the odds in his favor. He ignored my bang-on advice, of course.” He glanced at her. “A family trait, that.”

Was he referring obliquely to his own dismissal of Charlotte's counsel not to marry the mercenary Lady Ingram?

“I'm almost sorry that he joined the ranks of your rejected suitors,” he went on, as if he at last heard what he'd said and needed to shift the subject. “It would have been a sight, the two of you thrown together for eternity.”

“Well, I always say that of all the proposals I've ever received, Bancroft's was my favorite.”

Not because of Bancroft, per se, but because of the effect his suit had on his brother. She would never forget that first simmering silence between them, those ever-expanding ripples of pleasure and pain in her heart, as she listened to the uninterrupted stillness and heard everything he would not say aloud.

Sometimes such a silence descended with the grandeur of theatrical curtains, sometimes it stole upon them like wisps of morning mist. This time she exited her recollection to find herself enveloped in yet another one: He was watching her again, while her face was turned to the red velvet chaise, her fingers playing with the button on a cushion.

The doorbell rang, shattering the unquiet silence.

Charlotte sat down on the chaise. They greeted a wan-looking Inspector Treadles. Lord Ingram asked the policeman to tell Charlotte what happened the night before at 18 Upper Baker Street, to which she listened with a half-raised brow.

There was something not quite right with Inspector Treadles. It was clear he had realized that there was no Sherlock Holmes. It was also clear that he knew the scandal to Charlotte Holmes's name—and he did not approve. By extension, he must approve slightly less of Lord Ingram, whom until now he had considered a man without flaws.

But none of those reasons, singly or together, could have accounted for his disheartenment.

The wonderful, beloved wife?

Lord Ingram regarded his friend with a neutral expression—he had become much more opaque in recent years, especially since his estrangement from his own wife.

When Inspector Treadles finished relating the events of the previous evening, Lord Ingram brought out a stack of prints he'd made from the negatives he'd stolen from the Marbletons.

“Is this the man you saw at Baker Street?” he asked, showing Inspector Treadles an image of Stephen Marbleton.

“No, the man had a beard.”

Lord Ingram handed over another photograph, the same young man, wearing the same clothes and standing in the same place with the same pose, only now sporting a luxuriant beard.

This caught Inspector Treadles's attention. He examined the
photograph with much greater attention. “I've heard of the manipulation that can be done to photographs, but I've never seen it with my own eyes.”

“I used to distribute prints of my brother Bancroft with horns on his head. To date I remain his favorite brother,” said Lord Ingram drily. “But I take it that's still not the man you saw.”

“No, I don't believe so.”

“This one?” Lord Ingram handed over yet another photograph of a bearded young man.

Charlotte's eyes widened. This man had on a lounge suit and was casually posed, beard and all, but his features were those of Frances Marbleton's.

“Yes, him,” said Treadles.

“I spoke to Mr. Shrewsbury this morning, before church,” said Lord Ingram. “This is also the person he believes to have been driving the hansom cab that his mother inexplicably rode in the night before she died.”

Inspector Treadles studied the photographs again, one by one. “I will have someone show these pictures to the villagers. Do you know yet what might have been their motive?”

“I spoke with Mrs. Watson this morning,” said Charlotte, “and learned that the lover who ruined Sophia Lonsdale was said to be none other than Lord Sheridan.”

Lord Ingram frowned. “He must be a good twenty-five years older than her.”

“She was one of his daughter's closest friends. Mrs. Watson's understanding is that their grief drew them closer and one day, mutual comforting went too far,” Charlotte explained. “But let's consider a slightly different scenario. What if the man who ruined her had been Mr. Sackville instead? If Lord Sheridan took the blame for his brother, that could explain their subsequent alienation.

“Here's something else I learned from Mrs. Watson: Lady Shrewsbury had been the one to broadcast Sophia Lonsdale's indiscretion. And if Lord Ingram gets hold of Lady Avery or Lady Somersby, it's quite possible he could unearth some connection between Lady Amelia Drummond and Sophia Lonsdale, too.”

In this scenario, Sophia Lonsdale would have ample reason to swoop in, cold-blooded murders on her mind, for the wrongs she perceived her victims had perpetrated against her all these years ago. For a fall from grace so complete that decades later she still carried discoloration on her hands.

Lord Ingram cradled his chin in the space between his thumb and forefinger. “This would have been a perfect explanation. Why don't you sound more convinced?”

“Because I don't understand Lady Sheridan's involvement in the present day. I feel we're still nowhere near the bottom of what she'd been trying to do on that trip to—”

She fell silent. There was something she had learned from Inspector Treadles's reports—the ones he had handed over for Sherlock Holmes to read during his first visit. What was it?

Her palm struck the tufted surface of the velvet chaise. “Inspector, when you interviewed Dr. Birch, the physician from the next village who was summoned because Dr. Harris was out, he mentioned that he had his dogcart already hitched because he was headed out to the village inn to see to an elderly traveler in need of morphine.

“I believe you can find Lady Sheridan's picture in recent Bath papers, from the opening of the new YWCA center. And I believe if you were to show her picture to both Dr. Birch and the innkeeper, they would confirm that she is the elderly traveler in question.”

Sergeant MacDonald was dispatched to Devon that same afternoon. By midmorning the following day, he was wiring back reports. The
young Marbletons were indeed recognized as the traveling photographer and his assistant who had come through the village. Inspector Treadles sent a pair of constables to Claridge's, but they telephoned from the hotel, reporting that the Marbletons had already vacated their suite and left no forwarding addresses.

Within a quarter hour, Sergeant MacDonald's next report came.

Dear Inspector Treadles,

I spoke to Dr. Birch and his sister, Miss Birch. They both identified Lady Sheridan as Mrs. Broadbent, the elderly patient staying at the inn in Barton Cross. Since Dr. Birch had to rush out to Curry House, Miss Birch was the one who took the morphine to the inn and administered it to Lady Sheridan.

When Dr. Birch came back from Curry House and called on Lady Sheridan, she was better, thanks to the morphine, though still in a state of great suffering. As he recounted what had kept him from seeing her sooner, she became more animated and asked a number of questions.

Dr. Birch doesn't recall whether he used Mr. Sackville's name in his exchange with Lady Sheridan—he thinks he might have. Miss Birch had this to add: After she administered the morphine, Lady Sheridan asked her to retrieve a framed photograph of her daughter from her reticule. And when Miss Birch reached in, the first thing she felt was not a photograph, but a pistol.