A Study In Scarlet Women (9 page)

Charlotte rubbed her temples, wishing she'd bought a cache of foodstuff. The portions at supper might have been enough for a woman of smaller appetites, but Charlotte had never been one of those women.

What was really going on? And would people think
Charlotte
might have had something to do with it?

Charlotte,

You liar!

You swore up and down that all would be well, that you would have no trouble landing a post in short order. How inebriated I must have been, to have taken you at your word.

I have since skimmed through your stacks of books and magazines having to do with female employment. I ended my reading with a pounding headache and a heart that cannot sink any lower.

The vast majority of avenues open to gentlewomen seeking work are for those who already possess the necessary educational and professional qualifications. Of which you have none. And those other opportunities you mentioned? Most require a period of apprenticeship, for which
you
have to pay a premium with money you do not have. The only positions that do not demand either education or apprenticeship pay so little they are only suitable for young girls working to supplement the family income, not for a grown woman trying to live on her own.

And I have not even brought up the Working Ladies' Guild, which you described as so very helpful. It requires that a member personally vouch for you before you can seek employment via its registry. May the Almighty strike me dead for saying this to my own sister but Charlotte, no woman alive will risk her respectability to recommend you to any association or employer.

Not anymore. Not ever.

You knew all this. And you lied through your teeth. And I aided and abetted you in this hopeless venture. If I had shoved you in front of an oncoming omnibus, I could not have done worse as your sister.

Oh, what have you done, Charlotte? What have
we
done?

Livia

P.S. I wrote the above shortly before luncheon, but have not been able to leave the house to post it. I hope I will have better luck in the afternoon.

P.P.S. You were right about our parents' reactions. Mamma was in a state and Papa coldly angry—and he changed his mind after first saying he would bring you back, exactly as you had predicted.

P.P.P.S. As you instructed, I told them I did not know when or how you had left. I said I had too much to drink and went to bed early in a stupor and you must have stolen out at night. I do not know how much Mamma and Papa believe me. They questioned Mott, too, and Mott turned out to be a tremendous liar: He looked them in the eye, and his expression remained frank and naive throughout.

P.P.P.P.S. Mamma has forbidden me to leave the house. I will try to entrust this letter to Mott.

P.P.P.P.P.S. An awful realization: If I cannot leave the house, then I cannot withdraw any money from the bank. Charlotte, promise me you will not let yourself starve to death on the streets—or worse. No, forget that. There is no worse fate than your starving to death on the streets. Do not let your pride be your end. If things go ill, come home. Please.

Charlotte met Miss Whitbread, who carried a heavy-looking satchel, outside Mrs. Wallace's.

“Why, hullo, Miss Holmes,” said Miss Whitbread. “Back home early?”

“Yes,” Charlotte answered, opening the door for Miss Whitbread. “I have my own typewriter and the firm doesn't mind if I brought some work home.”

Charlotte had always been a good liar. According to Livia, her expression didn't change at all as she slipped between truths—having her own typewriter, for example—and falsehoods—in this case, having a firm that paid her for clacking away at said typewriter.

“That's capital. I'm doing the same here—bringing work home.” Charlotte remembered that Miss Whitbread painted silks and cards for a living. “My employer's got only the shop on the Strand—everybody who works for him takes their pieces home. It's nice in a way, but to tell you the truth I wouldn't mind if he had a studio somewhere, so I've a place to go during the day and people to see.”

“Yes, staying put in your room all day can become tedious.” Charlotte didn't mind it so much, but Livia became antsy if she couldn't get out for a daily walk.

“That, and not having anyone around for a good chinwag 'til supper.” Miss Whitbread set her satchel on a chair in the empty common room and rolled her shoulders. “That's why I stopped to see my cousin today. We had a cup of tea and she gave me the latest about the scandal.”

Charlotte's hand tightened on her reticule. “Do tell.”

Miss Whitbread needed no further prompting. “You won't believe it. Apparently, the girl's sister had a flaming row with the dead woman only hours before she died. A
flaming
row. They said she told the woman to her face that she, even more than her son, deserved to die for ruining her sister's life.”

Charlotte felt as if she'd been hit in the stomach by a cricket bat.

“Oh, dear,” she said, praying her suitably interested face was holding together.

“That's what I said.” Miss Whitbread nodded sagely. “I told my cousin, ‘Abby, this is going to be interesting before long. Real interesting.'”

The moment Charlotte had finished reading Livia's letter, a weight had settled in her stomach. Not because of Livia's dismay and anxiety at the realities of Charlotte's employment prospects, but because the former had not said a word about Lady Shrewsbury's death.

Now she knew why.

Just as she had concealed the truth from Livia, Livia was concealing the truth from her.

She didn't believe Livia would be in any trouble from the law: Even if the Shrewsburys suspected that something might be awry, they would not let matters proceed to an inquest, where under questioning Roger Shrewsbury's seduction of a virgin he could not possibly marry would become a matter of public record, carried in all the papers of the land.

Lady Shrewsbury would return from the dead first.

But Livia did not need to be wanted for murder to suffer. If rumors and speculations persisted long enough, Society would come to believe that she had
something
to do with Lady Shrewsbury's death. And that would be enough for her to become marginalized, if not outright ostracized.

At least this time Charlotte had some food on hand. She had asked for an extra sandwich when she'd bought her lunch—and also some apricots sold at a discount because they'd been bruised during their travels.

She finished the sandwich first, washing it down with a cup of weak tea. The apricots came wrapped in crumpled newspaper. By habit she scanned the columns of print. Her eyes widened. She read the small article again, this time more attentively.

Mr. Harrington Sackville of Curry House, Stanwell Moot was found unconscious yesterday morning, from an apparent overdose of chloral. Unfortunately, he could not be revived and was pronounced dead on the scene.

He was a well-respected gentleman, said to have been in good health and spirits before his passing.

An inquest will be held in two days.

Charlotte frowned. She had very few talents that her mother found useful. In fact, she had only two: one, she knew most of
Burke's Peerage
by heart; two, after her first Season in London, she developed a clear understanding of the myriad alliances and sometimes enmities that connected those families listed in
Burke's
. Therefore, she knew exactly who Mr. Harrington Sackville was, and how he was related to two others who had also passed away recently and abruptly, and whose deaths were even more inexplicable than his.

Maybe she could yet do something to break the siege for Livia.

She sat down and pulled out a piece of stationery she'd bought at Atwell & Dewsbury, Pharmaceutical Chemists.

“A
sh,” called Roger Shrewsbury. “Ash, a minute of your time, please.”

Lord Ingram Ashburton turned around. “What can I do for you, Mr. Shrewsbury?”

They had known each other since they were children. Lord Ingram had never called his old school chum Mr. Shrewsbury, except when he presented the latter in formal introduction. Shrewsbury swallowed: He understood the rebuke for what it was. He understood that Lord Ingram no longer considered him a friend.

They were at the private cemetery on the Shrewsbury estate, on a high bluff above an inlet of River Fal, not far from the southern coast of Cornwall. Overhead the sky lowered ominously; rain was imminent. Lady Shrewsbury was already in the ground, and the mourners were fast dispersing, hoping to find shelter before the storm unleashed.

Shrewsbury hesitated. Lord Ingram did not further prompt him. Shrewsbury's gloved hand opened and closed around the top of his walking stick. Opened and closed again.

One of their classmates walked by and inclined his head. They both nodded in return. Thunder rumbled, then cracked. Shrewsbury jumped. Lord Ingram remained stock-still.

Shrewsbury cleared his throat. “Ash—that is, my lord—”

He had never before called Lord Ingram “my lord,” except jokingly. But this was no jest. This was Shrewsbury acknowledging his new place, that of a mere acquaintance no longer accorded the privilege of addressing Lord Ingram as an intimate.

“My lord, I wonder if you would—ah—possibly—be so kind as to pass on a word for me.”

Lord Ingram only looked at him.

Shrewsbury put a hand at the back of his neck and cleared his throat again. “You see I feel terrible about what happened. I feel even worse now that I heard Miss Charlotte Holmes has run off on her own.

“Most of London is no place for a genteelly brought up young lady. It's bone-chilling, thinking about the mishaps that could befall her. I want to help—or at least mitigate my part in the whole . . . fiasco. But I can't approach her family or any of her lady friends—you know how it is. So I thought, well, perhaps she might come to you for aid. You two used to be thick as thieves, even if that was a while ago.”

“I have not heard from Miss Holmes since the fiasco,” said Lord Ingram.

“But you might in the future, mightn't you? If you do, please let her know that I'll be more than happy to put her up in a safe place and, well, look after her.”

“And how would she reciprocate your kindness?” Lord Ingram's words were even, almost good-natured.

“She was . . . she was willing to be my . . . paramour before. I . . . ah . . . I assume that hasn't changed.”

“I see,” said Lord Ingram, his tone even more kindly. “Should Miss Holmes seek my help, I will remember to point her in your direction. Would that be all?”

Roger Shrewsbury's throat moved. “I know you want to punch me. Why don't you? Go ahead!”

Lord Ingram lifted a surprised brow. “Mr. Shrewsbury, I'm a married man. I don't know about Mrs. Shrewsbury, but Lady Ingram would not care to hear that I brawled over another woman.”

Roger Shrewsbury flushed to the tops of his ears. “Of course. Of course. Please forgive me.”

Lord Ingram nodded. “My condolences.”

He turned and walked away.

Roger Shrewsbury would never know how close he had come to being thrashed within an inch of his life.

Lord Ingram looked up from his cufflinks. “Yes, Cummings?”

“I've saved the article on Mr. Holmes from the paper,” said his valet. “May I assume you'll have no more use for the rest of it, my lord?”

Lord Ingram stilled. He had purchased a West Country paper before his return journey, which had sat next to him on the train, unread, as he stared out of the window for hours on end. He vaguely recalled leaving Paddington Station with the paper in hand.

“You may dispose of the paper as you see fit.”

“Very good, sir. I have left the article in your dressing room.”

Lord Ingram waited until his valet had left before heading to the dressing room. Cummings handled the posting and collection of his correspondence from time to time, so it wasn't surprising that he would remember Sherlock Holmes. But why in the world was there an article about Holmes in the paper—a West Country paper, no less?

The newspaper clipping had for its headline

I
NQUEST
A
DJOINED
A
WAITING
F
URTHER
E
VIDENCE
.

Lord Ingram frowned as he read the opening account of Mr. Harrington Sackville's death. Sackville. He had heard the name in passing at Lady Shrewsbury's funeral. Lord Sheridan's long-lost
brother, whom no one had seen for many years. Lord Ingram didn't know the man, but the general reaction seemed to have been surprise—of the so-he-was-still-alive-as-of-recently variety.

Inquest testimonies from physicians and Sackville's household retainers were recorded verbatim in the paper; everything seemed more or less straightforward—and nothing had anything to do with Sherlock Holmes.

Had Cummings clipped the wrong article?

At the end of witness testimonies, the coroner read the following letter from Mr. Sherlock Holmes of London.

Lord Ingram swore.

Dear Sir,

It has come to my attention that Mr. Harrington Sackville's death, by apparent overdose of chloral, may not be an isolated incident: Lady Amelia Drummond preceded him in death by a week and a half; the Dowager Baroness Shrewsbury followed a mere twenty-four hours later. Lady Amelia was first cousin to Mr. Sackville's elder brother by the same father, Lord Sheridan, and godmother to one of Baroness Shrewsbury's children.

All three deaths were unforeseen. As was true in Mr. Sackville's case, Lady Amelia and Lady Shrewsbury, too, had been in excellent health and spirits. They all perished overnight. The only difference is that Mr. Sackville's maid came across him while he still drew breaths, albeit weakly, which gave the household sufficient time to fetch a physician and for the physician to diagnose an overdose of chloral, even if that diagnosis came too late for anything to be done.

Had the maid not tried to rouse him, he would have been found dead, and the cause of death would most likely have been given as failure of the
heart or an aneurysm of the brain—causes set down on the death certificates of Lady Amelia Drummond and Lady Shrewsbury, respectively. And his passing, however unexpected, would have been treated much in the same manner as theirs, attracting its share of gossip and speculation but no legal notice.

Each death, taken singly, may be accepted as unfortunate but not suspicious. However, the proximity of all three, not only in time, but in their social and familial connection, becomes difficult to ignore.

I urge you, sir, to share this intelligence with your jury.

Yours truly,
Sherlock Holmes

Lord Ingram swore again. By tomorrow the news would be in all the London rags. Holmes never once mentioned the word, but how long before speculations leaped from mere suspicious deaths to the most conspiratorial of murders? He didn't want to imagine the bedlam that would be unleashed.

Was this circus but a sleight of hand on Holmes's part, to draw the glare of unwanted attention away from a certain beleaguered relation? No. If a diversion had been all that was required, Holmes would have accomplished it without provoking a public uproar.

He read the letter again, pressing two fingers against the center of his forehead. Holmes believed that something was wrong—believed it enough to write from the wasteland of exile, in the hope of influencing the outcome of the inquest.

Lord Ingram closed his eyes, but it was no use. He was too accustomed to giving Holmes everything he could, always with a sense of urgency. And a sense of futility: What Holmes wanted most was beyond his power.

Some people never meet the right person in life. They, on the other
hand, met when they were too young to realize what they had found in each other. And when they did at last see the light, it was too late.

He tossed aside the newspaper clipping and headed for the front door.

“My lord!”

Inspector Treadles found himself a little uncertain at the appearance of Lord Ingram in his parlor. It wasn't yet late, but it was after dinner and he hadn't anticipated any social visits, let alone one from his lordship.

Lord Ingram inclined his head. “Mrs. Treadles, Inspector, I hope I haven't disturbed you in your hour of repose.”

“Of course not.” Alice rose from her seat and shook Lord Ingram's hand. “Do please sit down and let us know what brought you here.”

“This brought me here.” Lord Ingram handed over a large-ish newspaper clipping that had been carefully folded. “If you will do me the honor of reading the article to the end.”

Alice rang for tea. Then she and Treadles sat down with the article. They gasped at almost the same time, upon the first mention of Sherlock Holmes. Treadles sucked in another breath as he reached the conclusion of the letter.

“Does this mean that Holmes is well again?” he asked. “Or is this from before his misfortune?”

“I have no way of ascertaining—Holmes remains beyond reach.” Lord Ingram's gaze strayed to the mantel and lingered on a photograph of the Treadleses and himself, taken on the Isles of Scilly, in those days when Holmes was only a quick note away. “But it doesn't take a mind of extraordinary caliber to deduce that this must be important to Holmes.

“I understand Mr. Sackville's death took place outside the Metropolitan Police's district of authority. But I also understand that it
is not unusual for county police to request help from the C.I.D., especially in case of suspicious deaths, where there isn't enough local expertise to handle the investigation.” He looked back at Treadles. “Inspector, may I ask that you personally inquire into the matter?”

Treadles glanced at his wife, who gave a small nod. “Certainly, my lord. I will send a cable to some friends serving with the Devon Constabulary first thing tomorrow morning.”

Lord Ingram exhaled. “Thank you, Inspector. I am most obliged.”