A Study In Scarlet Women (28 page)

He had considered Mrs. Cornish from the perspective of a scorned lover, an angry bystander, and opportunistic collaborator. But Mrs. Cornish as a deeply concerned kinswoman opened an entire new vista of possibilities.

“When you left, Mrs. Cornish said you took a photograph of the staff as a memento.”

“I didn't leave, Mrs. Cornish dismissed me—said I was making too much of a nuisance of myself, fainting and crying.” She flattened her lips. “Maybe I was. And I never took that photograph—the only person I'd have wanted to remember was Mr. Sackville and he wasn't in it. I found the picture in my suitcase after I came home.”

The discrepancies made Treadles's heart pound: having Becky hundreds of miles away—and the only image of her exiled from the house—would ensure that no one suspected any blood ties between the two. “I'd like to see the photograph. And I'll need you to hand me the decanter of whisky.”

Becky Birtle excused herself and returned with both items.

Treadles examined the decanter, which still contained two inches of intoxicant. It occurred to him that Becky Birtle could have emptied and replaced the contents of the decanter. But a quick sniff was enough to let him know that the amber fluid inside was no cheap grog, but the best Scotland had to offer.

He next turned his attention to the photograph. The captured images of Mrs. Cornish and Becky Birtle did not show much likeness, but all the same Treadles asked Becky Birtle to fetch her parents.

Mr. Birtle, a former gamekeeper who could no longer work on account of his arthritis, was indeed old for someone with so young an only child. His wife was a square slab of a woman and possibly
even older than he. Becky Birtle closed the door and left, her footsteps fading away on the squeaky floorboards.

Treadles waited until she was out of hearing range. “Mr. Birtle, Mrs. Birtle, I understand that the questions I am about to ask will seem intrusive. I hope you will forgive me.”

The couple looked at each other.

“Yes, Inspector?” Mrs. Birtle sounded as if she rarely spoke, her voice resembling the rasp of rusted gears forced to rotate.

“I must ask whether you are Becky's natural parents.”

Another look exchanged between the Birtles. Mrs. Birtle wiped her hand on her apron. “Why do you need to know, Inspector?”

“I am investigating a murder. None of the suspects with the means to have committed it appear to have concrete motives. Therefore I must get to the bottom of every possible connection among all parties involved. If you are concerned the information might get someone into trouble, please consider that withholding the necessary intelligence from me may result in an innocent bystander being charged with the crime.”

Mr. Birtle placed his hand atop his wife's. Mrs. Birtle glanced at her husband and then looked Treadles in the eye. “We took Becky in the day she was born and raised her as if she were our own.”

Treadles let out the breath he didn't realize he was holding. “And is Mrs. Cornish of Curry House Becky's natural mother?”

Mrs. Birtle nodded.

“Thank you for your trust in me.” Treadles inclined his head. “I will do my best to keep this from becoming public knowledge.”

It felt almost unsettling to finally have a prime suspect, but the scenario made sense. Mr. Hodges must have told Mrs. Cornish about the closer-than-necessary rapport between their employer and Becky Birtle. Mrs.
Cornish would have become more and more concerned about her daughter's involvement with Mr. Sackville. At an impressionable age, she herself had been taken advantage of by a man who refused to marry her and look after their baby—possibly an unscrupulous employer—and she was desperate for the same not to happen to her child.

Becky Birtle returned to the parlor. Treadles had asked for her—he still had one last point he wanted to clear up. But one look at the girl's face let him know that she had heard everything. How? The floorboards would have squeaked had she snuck back to eavesdrop.

As if she heard his question, she pointed behind his head. He turned around to see a small, half-open window—she had eavesdropped from outside.

“Mrs. Cornish can't be my mother,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. “She doesn't even like me.”

“I can't speak to the state of her affection, but I have no doubt she feels a tremendous sense of responsibility toward you.”

“Enough to kill Mr. Sackville when he did nothing wrong? That can't be.”

“If she was the one who poisoned Mr. Sackville, she wouldn't be the first to have attempted murder for what she
perceived
he did.”

“But what could she even perceive?”

Treadles could not have asked for a better lead-in to his question. “Perhaps unbeknownst to you, she witnessed the incident that caused Mr. Sackville to no longer be there everywhere you turned.”

Becky Birtle squinted at him. “That's ridiculous.”

“Is it? I can't tell since I don't know what happened.”

“
Nothing
happened.
Nothing
.”

“It might not have been nothing to Mrs. Cornish.”

Becky Birtle threw up her hands. “Fine. I'll tell you. It was a few days after Mr. Sackville and I had those horrible tummy troubles. I—I had my monthly and it was an awful one. I could hardly stand,
but Mrs. Cornish said it was no excuse—the other women in the house didn't take to their beds during their time.

“Mr. Sackville saw that I was in pain and he was worried. He thought maybe it was something I ate. So I told him the truth, that it was only my monthly.”

Treadles could only hope he wouldn't stammer—his face scalded with embarrassment. “That was it?”

“That was it. Mum—my real mum, not Mrs. Cornish—always told me that men hate it when women bring up their menses. I thought it was ridiculous. They love to moan about their own aches and pains, why should they begrudge us a little complaining about ours? But Mum was right. That was the end of anything between Mr. Sackville and me.” The light dimmed in Becky Birtle's eyes. “Guess he wasn't a real friend after all.”

Charlotte twisted the black handkerchief with her black kidskin-clad fingers and reminded herself that she must give the impression of frailty and forlornness. It would not do for her to swivel about, scanning the guests who moved through the lobby of Claridge's: The widow's veil might obscure her face, but it couldn't completely disguise the set of her shoulders or the angle of her head.

She glanced discreetly toward the front entrance, followed it with a sideways glimpse toward the staircase. Perhaps now she should lift the handkerchief and give it a helpless flutter. Maybe even—

“My condolences on your loss, my dear lady.”

Her heart thudded—Lord Ingram had materialized out of nowhere. “What are you doing here?”

One corner of his lips lifted. Her heart thudded again: She couldn't remember the last time he smiled—or half smiled—at her. “And I thought you'd be glad to see me, since you're always scheming for it.”

“Yes, when I've nothing better to do.”

He sat down next to her on the chaise longue. The half smile had disappeared but no forbidding look took its place. How rare and incomprehensible: at the moment he was not actively displeased with her.

“With your penchant for diminishing a man to little more than a shell of his former manhood, it never ceases to amaze me that you managed to receive all the proposals you did.”

She had indeed reaped her fair share, including one from his brother, Lord Bancroft, her favorite proposal of them all.

“It's my décolletage—when gentlemen stare at my bosom, they don't hear a word I say. I strongly believe that if trees sprouted breasts tomorrow, they would soon be wearing wedding rings.”

He chortled.

Her nerves tingled.

Some men had that effect on women, as Mrs. Watson declared. But it was Charlotte's obligation not to respond to said effect when she was in the middle of a surveillance mission—or at least not to respond to such a degree as to diminish her concentration. “So what
are
you doing here?”

He blew out a soft breath. “You are many things, Charlotte, but terribly experienced you aren't. It was almost too easy to predict that you'd be setting up shop at Claridge's to see what you can find out about your Mrs. Marbleton.”

Had he come to put a stop to it or . . . “Don't tell me you mean to keep me company.”

“Easier than bailing you out of trouble later.”

She wondered whether she ought to object to his presence, but he was right that she had no experience in this sort of thing. And if he was going to take the trouble to make sure she was all right, she'd rather he sit next to her than lurk somewhere unseen.

She smoothed her gloves. “I won't be here for much longer. I've a client to meet.”

“A less troublesome one, I hope.”

“Don't be such a constant killjoy. If nothing else, my association with Mrs. Watson has already made us five pounds—and we've clients lined up for the next fortnight.”

Five pounds! The thought never failed to make her giddy.

But he would not let go of his entrenched cynicism. “She has certainly been quick to exploit your acuity for her own gains.”

She peered at him through her veil. “What's the matter, your lordship? Usually you are a bit more generous in your opinion of people, especially when you don't know enough about them.”

“I can afford to be more generous when those hypothetical people aren't essentially in control of your life, Charlotte. I still think it w—”

But she was no longer listening to him.

“What is it?” he asked softly, taking her by the hands, so that to passersby they would appear deep in conversation, a bereaved young widow and a gallant friend trying to comfort her.

“Do you see the man in the gold paisley waistcoat?” She indicated his location with a tilt of her head. “I know him.”

Lord Ingram glanced unobtrusively at the man. “Who is he?”

“The first time I went to Mrs. Watson's place, before I arrived, she had let in another young woman, thinking she was me. But that caller turned out to have fraud in mind, claiming kinship with Mrs. Watson where none existed.”

“And?”

“And she had an accomplice, a young man.” Charlotte took one more look at Paisley Waistcoat. “That one.”

B
y the time Inspector Treadles reached the closest police station to Curry House, Mrs. Cornish had already been brought in and put into an interrogation room.

He wasted no time. “Mrs. Cornish, you said nothing about the fact that Becky Birtle is your daughter.”

Mrs. Cornish flinched, as if he'd thrown sand in her face. “That's—that's—”

“I wouldn't try to deny it, not when I already have confirmation from Mrs. Birtle.”

Mrs. Cornish glanced at the door.

“I've dismissed the constable who stood guard outside,” said Treadles. “I gave my word to Mrs. Birtle that as much as possible, I would keep Becky's true parentage a secret.”

Mrs. Cornish stared at her hands—she'd come to the police station in a pair of kid gloves, probably her best pair. “Surely you must understand why I couldn't possibly bring it up, Inspector. It took years of hard work to rise to where I am.

“After Mr. Sackville passed, Mrs. Struthers wrote me and said if the next tenant at Curry House didn't need a housekeeper, I was welcome to go work for her. But if word got out that I have an
illegitimate child, she won't want me anymore. No one will want me anymore. Respectability is everything in my line of work.”

The anxiety in her voice was overwhelming.

“Then why bring her to your place of work at all?”

“Mrs. Birtle was worried that Becky was getting too headstrong and restless. The Birtles don't have much. Becky would have to go into service. And service can be . . . it can be a small, closed life. I remember how bored I was as the underhousemaid, how little there was to look forward to. I never wanted to get into trouble, but a flirtation here and there was the only cure for boredom.

“And then I fell in love with the son of the house and he promised to look after me. It's that same old story. But when it happened to me, I thought he was special and I was special. And it turned out that neither of us was special at all.

“I didn't want that to happen to Becky. Here I am in a position of some authority. I could look after her. But more than anything else, I felt Curry House was a safe place. Mr. Sackville never made any advances toward me or any other women in the house. And he treated Jenny Price with more care than most able-bodied folks did.”

Treadles pulled out a chair but did not sit down. “And then he proved himself not quite as above reproach as you had thought.”

Mrs. Cornish's lips quivered. “You think . . . you think . . .”

“You failed to inform Tommy Dunn of details of Mr. Sackville's condition that would have let a physician know that he was in need of strychnine. You said Becky requested to take the photograph when instead you stowed it among her things so that no one else would find out that she is your daughter and that you had a strong motive to protect her. Not to mention that you were, according to everyone else, desperately searching for a missing whisky decanter.”

“Are you implying there was arsenic in the whisky?” cried Mrs.
Cornish, her gloved hands gripping the edge of the desk that separated them.

“Becky suffered a gastric attack the same day Mr. Sackville was forced to spend the night in Exeter. The only thing they both had was whisky from the decanter.”

“If there was arsenic in the whisky, I didn't put it there. I might not have been completely truthful earlier, Inspector, but it was to save my position and my reputation, not my neck!”

Her breaths echoed harshly in the small room. Treadles waited until she had regained a measure of her composure. “Did Mr. Hodges tell you that Mr. Sackville offered Becky some of his whisky?”

“He did—and said I ought to keep a closer eye on the girl. So I snuck by when Becky cleaned abovestairs. Several times a day I did this and never once did I see Mr. Sackville with her. I kept it up until the day before Mr. Sackville died. What reason did I have to poison Mr. Sackville, when I'd no evidence that he took advantage of Becky, or even thought about it?”

“Then why were you scrambling for the whisky decanter, going so far as to snoop in Tommy Dunn's quarters for it?”

“I didn't want to believe that Becky took it.” She looked at him beseechingly. “I didn't want to believe that my own flesh and blood was a thief.”

“Why did you secret the photograph in her luggage then?”

“Before Becky came, I was afraid I'd never want her to leave again. But she came and . . . she was a stranger. She thought a little too well of herself. She didn't like to work too hard. And she didn't care a whit for life in service except that she was in the household of a real gentleman.”

Mrs. Cornish sighed. “I remember the housekeeper at my first place scolding the maids and I remember thinking how unsympathetic and needlessly strict she was. But I've become that woman. I
can't understand why Becky doesn't take greater pride in her work and I can't understand why dust on the mantel doesn't feel like dust in the eyes to her. She was a disappointing housemaid to me and I must have been an ogre of a housekeeper to her.

“But I wanted her to have the photograph. I didn't offer it to her because I thought she'd find that offer strange. But I figured that if she had it, she'd keep it. And maybe someday, when she's a good deal older herself, she'll look back and understand that I wasn't being unreasonable, but responsible.”

A knock came on the door, startling her. She looked fearfully at Treadles.

Treadles rose. “If you'll excuse me.”

On the other side of the door was Constable Perkins. “Sir, the results from the chemical analyst.”

Treadles took the cable—and swore. The whisky he'd retrieved from Becky Birtle contained no trace of arsenic. Nor any trace of chloral.

“I also have a message on the Wheatstone machine from Sergeant MacDonald,” said the young constable.

Dear Inspector Treadles,

Dozens showed up at Scotland Yard to testify to Mr. Sackville's movements in London—the hazards of soliciting help in the paper. One man seems credible.

According to him, Mr. Sackville regularly visited the house across the street from his in Lambeth, usually shortly before dinner. He remarked Mr. Sackville because he was a fine-looking gentleman and didn't seem to belong to the district. The most interesting thing he said, however, was that the house burned down some six weeks
ago—which fits nicely with the occasion of Mr. Sackville's final trip to London, the one from which he returned early and distraught.

To be thorough, I showed the man a picture of the staff at Curry House. To my surprise, he immediately identified Hodges the valet. I asked if Hodges ever accompanied Mr. Sackville, he said not that he'd ever seen, but he remembered Hodges because once Hodges knocked on his door and asked if he knew what went on in the house Mr. Sackville visited.

I will interview others in the neighborhood to see if they have seen either Mr. Sackville or Hodges.

MacDonald

Clandestine entry into a suite of rooms at Claridge's should be a straightforward affair: One bribed a porter or two and proceeded.

Apparently not, especially if one's debut in breaking and entering was to take place under Lord Ingram's watchful eyes. There was a protocol, which consisted of handing the matter over to Lord Bancroft Ashburton, Lord Ingram's second-eldest brother and Charlotte's one-time suitor, a man of many responsibilities and almost as many means of achieving his ends—and waiting until Lord Bancroft issued a suitable time for the burglary to take place.

“It takes the fun out of the thing to have approval from high places,” Charlotte complained to Lord Ingram, as they walked into Mrs. Marbleton's large, empty suite. “This ought to feel more . . . illegal.”

Instead they'd been given a perfectly safe window of three-quarters of an hour from the man who defended the empire against threats from without and within.

Lord Ingram only shook his head.

“I don't mean to sound ungrateful,” Charlotte said, feeling a little apologetic. “You called in a favor, I take it?”

In spite of his brother's assurance that no Marbleton would return during the allotted forty-five minutes, Lord Ingram approached a window and peered down to the street. “It's the only currency Bancroft understands.”

“You can't possibly have that many favors left to call in.” Charlotte knew something of this trade between brothers.

A faint regret tinged his answer. “Used my last.”

From time to time he would leave England for a while, ostensibly for a dig. But Charlotte could always tell whether he'd been to an excavation—and when he'd been somewhere else entirely.

Archeology, as it turned out, was an excellent excuse for all kinds of foreign jaunts. Once he returned on a crutch and attributed his injury to a large statue falling over. Another time he came back with a heavily bandaged hand and said that there had been feral dogs at the site.

The scar on his hand hadn't remotely resembled the marks of canine teeth or claws.

Does your wife never have any suspicions?
she'd asked him once.

No
.

To have suspicions, one would have to pay attention. After their falling out, Lady Ingram had not bothered with any more false affections.

There must be ways to find temporary escape without risking your life
, Charlotte had told him.

You have fewer choices, Charlotte,
he'd answered.
It doesn't mean I have many.

She let her gaze linger on him another second, then ventured farther inside the suite, carefully opening drawers, wardrobes, steamer trunks. When she'd taken a mental inventory of everything, she went
back to a cupboard that housed a portable darkroom, several cameras, and a large stack of photographs.

Mrs. Marbleton did not stay alone. Also registered to the suite were two young people, Stephen and Frances Marbleton, her children, ostensibly, with Frances Marbleton being none other than Miss Ellie Hartford from the Dog and Duck in Bywater, the woman who had wanted to claim Mrs. Watson as her mother.

And judging by the photographs, the young Marbletons had been traveling.

Many of the pictures featured only scenery but some had captured one of the young Marbletons in the frame—they were probably traveling alone, taking each other's pictures.

In those images they seemed to have deliberately chosen not to include any landmarks. There was the sea and there was open landscape. But the coast could have been any stretch of British headland. And the rolling countryside was as likely to have been plucked from Sussex as Derbyshire.

“If you can afford to live at Claridge's Hotel,” called Lord Ingram from the next room, “would you still seek employment?”

He had found a list of employment agencies. “I believe they specialize in helping women, don't they?”

Charlotte sucked in a breath. On the list was Miss Oswald's employment agency, where Miss Oswald had all but accused Charlotte of being a journalist going about trying to write an exposé on similar agencies.

Briefly, she recounted that conversation to Lord Ingram. “I wonder whether Frances Marbleton went around to all these fine establishments—and what she might have been doing there.”

“Since they have a portable darkroom, they must have photonegatives. I can make prints of her images and find out.”

“You do that, dear sir. I'm afraid I must go and prepare for my next client,” says Charlotte.

“A client you need to
prepare
for?”

“Oh, yes. At least an hour of preparation.”

He rolled his eyes. “You are up to no good, Charlotte Holmes.”

“You should try it sometimes. Or more precisely, you should return to it sometimes—you used to be excellent at being up to no good, your lordship.”

He did not rise to her goading, but asked, “Why did you ask me to wait for you on a street corner last night? And why did you look back several times after I got in the hackney? Are you again suspecting that you might be followed?”