A Study In Scarlet Women (33 page)

“I spoke to the Sheridans' butler. He mentioned they used to have canisters of gas for carbonating water.”

“It was her. Clara Sackville killed herself.” Her voice was firm, implacable.

The implication of her words at last penetrated past the shield of numbness. “Are you saying that Mr. Sackville did something to his niece? His own niece, when she was a little girl?”

Miss Holmes returned to her seat, lifted the teapot, and poured, her hands perfectly steady while Treadles scrambled to reassemble his protective cocoon. “And Sophia Lonsdale was one of her best friends.”

Treadles was still reeling. “She killed Mr. Sackville for Clara?”

“It would explain the pistol in Lady Sheridan's reticule, wouldn't it? She would have done it herself, but he already died before she had the chance to confront him.”

A knock came at the door. “Miss Holmes,” said the manservant, “something came in the post. You said to bring everything to you right away.”

“Yes, thank you, Barkley.” She scanned the envelope. “Mrs. Marbleton—my name and address have been typed on the same typewriter she used to produce her first cipher for me to solve. Let's see what she wants to tell me.”

Dear Miss Holmes,

Two months ago, I returned to Britain for the first time in many years, to see an old friend on her deathbed. Before she passed away, she gave me a diary from another old friend who departed many years ago. My dying friend had never read Clara Sackville's diary, as Clara had asked her not to open it until her parents had both passed on. No other person of my acquaintance holds to her word as firmly as my friend did—I know because she had long kept my secrets.

But I have never been as resistant to curiosity. After my friend's funeral, I read Clara's diary. As I did so, I wept, screamed, threw an inkwell across the room in anger, and shook at the cruelty and injustice in this world.

And despised myself for having never guessed anything remotely near the incestuous truth.

Clara loved and trusted her uncle. He exploited that trust and love and twisted her innate desire to please. I cannot bear to think of how lonely and frightened she must have been. When he used her to satisfy some warped part of himself, he forever isolated her from everyone and everything else she held dear.

The more she descended into her private hell, the more she tried to love him. Love was her defense against the judgment that was to come. Love was the only excuse.

But as soon as she entered puberty, he had no more use for her. It annihilated her: the betrayal of trust, the belief that she had done the abominable in the eyes of God, the knowledge that she would have carried on doing the same if he hadn't abandoned her. Not to mention the fact that he was family, and that everyone, especially her parents, still expected her to be terribly fond of this uncle.

That she did not destroy the diary tells me that she wished for the truth to be known someday. So I proceeded accordingly. The choice was left to Mr. Sackville. He could choose to face exposure, or he could choose to not face it.

As for the women whose deaths you've connected to his, yes, indeed there was a connection. Lady Amelia and Lady Shrewsbury came upon Clara and Mr. Sackville. Clara recorded that she was terrified they would inform her parents, but her uncle assured her that it would not come to pass. Lady Amelia's husband owed Mr. Sackville a ruinous amount of money. Lady Shrewsbury was not in financial distress, but she was a social-climbing toady who didn't have enough character to gainsay Lady Amelia.

The incident took place when Clara was a few months short of eleven. These women failed her utterly. They did nothing to protect her from Mr. Sackville's predation, then or ever.

I offered them the same choice as I did Mr. Sackville.

They all chose chloral. Cowards, one and all.

Lady Sheridan died in the night. Expect the matter to be made public soon.

Yours truly,
An admirer

P.S. Best of luck with life as Sherlock Holmes.

P.P.S. I have taken temporary custody of the children from the house Mr. Sackville frequented in London. I hope they—or some of them at least—will grow up and be well.

P.P.P.S. Lady Sheridan and I ran into each other quite by chance. I have the habit of investigating establishments that purport to help women. She had long been a patroness to the YWCA. We met each other outside the association's institute in Bethnal Green, not a place I expected to encounter Society ladies.

Recognition shocked us both. But almost immediately we began to speak. I had always regretted the injury I must have caused her. Unbeknownst to me, she had devoted herself to the welfare of vulnerable young women because of the harsh fate I had met with—which she felt was far more punishment than I deserved.

At some point in the conversation we began reminiscing about Clara. She told me that she had never believed in the explanation the physician had offered, but only pretended to do so for her husband's sake. Clara had been far from well. Lady Sheridan had tried everything in her power to uplift the girl's spirit and blamed herself for failing.

I debated with myself, but in the end decided to tell her the truth—and assured her that I would not let the guilty parties go free.

But Lady Sheridan had decided to take matters into her own hands anyway. And it was only the full execution of Sophia Lonsdale's plan that had prevented her from committing murder at the end of her life.

“So all three of them took the chloral themselves,” Treadles heard himself murmur.

“Sophia Lonsdale must have been in the hansom cab Lady Shrewsbury got into the night before her death,” said Miss Holmes. “I wonder that she didn't also confront Lady Amelia in person.”

“But there is no evidence of her having been in the vicinity of Curry House.”

“I believe when the young Marbletons reported on how difficult it is for a stranger to go unnoticed in the area, she opted for the postal service instead—it can't be difficult to have her package resemble, from the outside, a wrapped magazine or some such, so that the servants would pay it no mind. The worst that could happen would be that someone finds a typed, unsigned letter detailing Mr. Sackville's perversions. But of course Mr. Sackville would have destroyed everything.”

Treadles nodded. “Do you think Sophia Lonsdale was in a hurry at the end? Almost a fortnight passed between Lady Amelia's death and Mr. Sackville's, but only a day elapsed between Mr. Sackville's and Lady Shrewsbury's.”

“It's possible she became impatient. It's also possible she wished to take advantage of my scandal.” Miss Holmes smiled slightly. “Seems more plausible to have a healthy woman die in her sleep when she'd been greatly angered by her son than for no reason at all.”

Treadles had no idea what he could say in response. He did not understand Miss Holmes's scandal. It made no sense how such a diamond-bright mind could have made such foolish, downright immoral decisions.

She took a sip of her tea. “What of the valet, Hodges? What will happen to him?”

He was glad to move away from the subject of her carnal weakness. “I do not believe Lord Sheridan, when he learns the truth, will
wish to prosecute. And if he declines, I have no reason to believe Scotland Yard would take on the task.”

Miss Holmes folded the letter and carefully placed it back in its envelope. “I have a presentiment that in revealing Clara's tragedy, Sophia Lonsdale will credit her dead friend, the one who had held Clara Sackville's diary for many years, with the plan for vengeance, so as to keep her own name out of the news.

“No woman goes to the trouble of staging her own death without a compelling reason. Inspector, would you please keep her involvement in the case out of public knowledge?”

Treadles considered a moment, before saying, “I will.”

“I am greatly indebted to you, Inspector, for your gallant assistance in this case.”

Treadles inclined his head and rose. It was not Miss Holmes's fault that what he'd always believed about his wife turned out to be not exactly the case, but all the same he was ready not to have anything to do with Sherlock Holmes for a good long while.

As if she'd heard every thought in his head, Miss Holmes set a prettily wrapped package in his hands. “The madeleines are for Mrs. Treadles. Please convey my warmest regards to her.”

“Y
ou know what I have been thinking?” asked Livia.

They were seated at the refreshments area set aside for the Reading Room patrons at the British Museum. Charlotte had resumed her weekly trip to the Reading Room, and Livia had snuck out of a skull-numbing garden party to visit with her favorite sister.

“What have you been thinking?” asked Charlotte.

She looked well, her serene, cherubic self—more than one gentleman had walked past their table unnecessarily, studying her out of the corner his eyes.

Life had improved drastically for Livia, too, since it finally became known that Lady Shrewsbury and Lady Amelia had committed suicide to avoid public shame. Of course, Charlotte's absence was always an ache in the heart and Livia dreaded the long months in the country after the end of the Season. But to be free of suspicions at last, to no longer live under that dark cloud hanging over her head—it was a pleasure well worth savoring.

And of course, Charlotte now had an income—her latest case earned a whopping four quid ten shillings, much to Livia's heart-palpitating joy.
I have become much thriftier
, Charlotte wrote in one of her letters.
I'm determined to accumulate enough to provide for all of us
—
you, me, and Bernadine.

Livia wiped her fingers on a napkin. “I think you should publish some of Sherlock Holmes's cases. Those accounts would be far better publicity for your services than newspaper adverts.”

Charlotte put another half sandwich on Livia's plate. “But by coming to a private consultant, my clients expect a certain amount of privacy.”

“Change their names, then no one will be the wiser.”

Charlotte shook her head. “The only case I've been a part of that has the makings of a proper narrative is the Sackville case. Even if I change the name of everyone involved, people would still already know what happened. Not to mention, magazines that might want to publish such accounts would shy away from that particular one, for fear of offending the sensibility of their readers.”

Livia was undeterred. “Then fictionalize it. Take the bones of the story and rebuild it. Sherlock Holmes is asked by Scotland Yard to help with a suspicious death. You can keep the method of the killing, but change chloral to some other poison. And you can also have the murderer come to you by means of a newspaper notice, except somewhat differently, of course.”

“I like it.” Charlotte grinned. “And what would this person be avenging?”

At the bright interest in her sister's eyes, Livia's mind suddenly swarmed with ideas. “That would be the easiest thing to come up with, wouldn't it? People are always doing horrible things to each other. In fact, last week I read a book by Mr. Twain and it mentioned a massacre that took place in Utah a generation ago. The local militia killed more than one hundred people from a wagon train headed to California. You can have someone who survived the massacre tracking down those responsible for it.”

“All the way to London?”

“Why not?” Livia reached for the half sandwich Charlotte had
given her and took a bite. Ah, everything tasted so much better when Charlotte was at the table. “The world is a small place nowadays. And it would also be in keeping with the spirit of the original case, that of an avenger coming from abroad.”

“A workable idea,” Charlotte pronounced, taking a sip of her lemonade.

Livia almost preened. Charlotte didn't give false compliments. If she said the idea was workable, then it was workable. “You will do it then?”

Charlotte shook her head. “
You
should write this story, Livia.”

“Me?”

“Yes, you.”

“But I've never written anything before.”

“That isn't entirely true.”

Of course Charlotte would know about Livia's notebooks filled with half-germinated ideas and stories that had fallen apart a few pages in. Livia's face heated—she ought to have burned those notebooks. It was too embarrassing for her amateurish efforts to have been seen by anyone, even if it was only Charlotte.

“Remember when you read Poe's ‘The Murders in the Rue Morgue'?” asked Charlotte. “Remember how outraged you were that after all the tension and excitement of the premise, in the denouement Mr. Poe couldn't do better than a crazed orangutan? You were scribbling in your notebook for days afterward.”

“Yes, but it's much easier to condemn him for using a crazed orangutan than to come up with a better story myself.”

Charlotte refilled Livia's glass of lemonade. “I never told you this but some of your openings were more than decent. I wish you'd have continued with those stories.”

Livia's heart thudded. She was good at something?

“Anyway, give this Sherlock Holmes story a try,” Charlotte said
firmly, as she pushed a plate of sponge cake in Livia's direction. “You'll surprise yourself.”

Charlotte returned from the British Museum in time for her last appointment of the day at 18 Upper Baker Street. At precisely half past seven, the bell rang. A few seconds later, a cheerful-looking young woman entered the parlor.

“Miss Oxford, how do you do?”

“Very well, thank you.” Miss Oxford shook Charlotte's hand vigorously and with a wide smile. “I'm pleased to be here.”

Her unencumbered high spirits struck Charlotte—her clients typically betrayed
some
signs of anxiety. The usual pantomime about Sherlock Holmes's disability ensued. Miss Oxford, after expressing her sympathy, declared emphatically that yes, she wished for a demonstration of Mr. Holmes's mental prowess.

Charlotte looked her over. Then she walked to the sideboard and poured two glasses of whisky. “You're a Londoner, born and brought up in this very area. But you've been abroad recently and only just returned. Paris, I would say. You weren't a tourist there. You didn't hold any positions. Nor were you living with family or friends. Which leads me to conclude that you are a student of medicine at the Sorbonne.”

She handed a glass of whisky to her “client” and raised her own. “Welcome home, Miss Redmayne.”

Miss Redmayne burst into a peal of laughter. “What gave me away? Is it the family resemblance? Everybody always says I take after my aunt.”

“There is a good likeness.”

The more Charlotte looked at her, however, the more Miss Redmayne began to resemble someone else: the late Duke of Wycliffe, Lord Ingram's father—or at least his official father.

Charlotte had always assumed that Miss Redmayne wasn't Mrs.
Watson's niece, but the latter's daughter—easier on everyone that way, and the girl could go about with a gloss of legitimacy. She had further assumed that Miss Redmayne's father was a man of considerable wealth—John Watson, an army doctor, would not have been able to provide for his widow in as comfortable a manner.

She had, however, never imagined there to be connections between Mrs. Watson and the Ashburtons.

Miss Redmayne merrily chatted away. Charlotte knew she must be making the correct responses, for Miss Redmayne laughed and continued talking. But Charlotte's head spun.

It wasn't uncommon for children to develop a rapport with their father's mistress, especially if they had already lost their mother. J. H. R., the mysterious entity to whom Lord Ingram's book had been dedicated, was none other than Joanna Hamish Redmayne, otherwise known as Mrs. Watson. She wasn't someone he disapproved of hugely, but a friend and confidante of long standing. And Mrs. Watson hadn't run into Charlotte by accident at the post office. She had been
sent.

Miss Redmayne stopped and looked at Charlotte expectantly. Charlotte made a concerted effort to recall what had been said to her. “I can't declare with one hundred percent confidence that I would have enjoyed dissection, but I'd like to think I wouldn't faint more than two or three times before I became used to it.”

Miss Redmayne chortled and launched into another anecdote from her anatomy class. Charlotte forced herself to pay attention and keep up with the discussion. A quarter of an hour must have passed before Miss Redmayne said, “Well, shall we go home? My aunt promised there will be a magnificent bottle of champagne waiting.”

“Why don't you go first? I have a bit of preparation that needs to be done before I'm ready for my first client tomorrow.”

After making Charlotte promise she won't be long, Miss Redmayne
flounced down the steps. Charlotte returned to her seat and sank down heavily.

A knock came at the door. Charlotte started. “Who is it?”

Lord Ingram walked in.

Charlotte was instantly on her feet. “What are you doing here?”

“You wrote me.”

He studied her closely, but with a measure of caution. Did he know? Had he taken one look at her and realized that she now knew what he had orchestrated?

She searched his face, but it did not reveal what he was thinking. “Yes, I wrote you but I didn't request to see you.”

She had gone to Somerset House, found the name of Sophia Lonsdale's husband in the wedding registry, and asked Lord Ingram whether he knew anything about the man Sophia Lonsdale had taken such pains to leave behind.

“I met with Bancroft just now.” He spoke with an exaggerated calm, as if he were bracing himself for trouble. “What he told me you need to hear right away.”

She didn't give a farthing for what Lord Bancroft had to say. Instead she closed the distance between them and jabbed a finger into his chest. “You lied to me. You did have me followed.”

He did not answer immediately, but looked at her—not scrutinizing her for clues, just taking her in feature by feature. “I have said a great many things to you that are convenient, rather than truthful.”

His dark eyes were turning darker. His gaze traveled from her eyes to her lips and back again. She was even closer to him than she'd thought: They were practically touching, separated by scant molecules of air. She inhaled the sandalwood scent of his shaving soap and the fragrance of clean, warm skin.

“And I only had you followed until you became Mrs. Watson's
companion. After that it was all Mrs. Marbleton, or I should say, Mrs. Mo—”

She kissed him.

He stood stock-still for a moment. Then he yanked her to him, cupped her face, and kissed her back with the force of Zeus's thunderbolts striking ground.

Sweet. Bitter. Pleasure. Pain. And then only fierce, mindless sensations, only heat and electricity.

She was panting for a while before she realized that the kiss had ended, that she stood with her cheek against the lapel of his coat, listening to the fast, strong beat of his heart.

He took a step back. She sighed—every sublime moment must come with a bereft hour. He didn't need to address the matter for her to understand that even though everything had changed, nothing had changed.

“I hope you will not be angry at Mrs. Watson,” he said quietly. “All I asked was that she pass on some funds to you. Welcoming you into her house and then taking you on as a business partner—those were her own decisions.”

The direction of his gaze: on the floor next to her feet. The placement of his hands: gripping the gloves he'd taken off as he came into the room. The rise and fall of his chest was rapid, agitated.

He was waiting for her verdict.

“I am not angry at Mrs. Watson.”

He did not relax. In fact, he appeared more tense—they both knew she could never be angry at Mrs. Watson.

But what about at him, her former partner in silence? Was she angry that he thought nothing of overstepping his bounds when he believed it necessary, only to now withdraw behind long-established lines of separation?

She sighed again. “What was it you were going to tell me about the tutor Sophia Lonsdale married?”

He gazed at her another moment. “Moriarty? Only that it gave Bancroft quite a turn to hear that name. He kept asking how I'd learned about the man. And when he was finally convinced that I wasn't personally embroiled with Moriarty, warned me in no uncertain terms never to be.”