A Study In Scarlet Women (29 page)

“I
was
being followed. I changed vehicles three times before I could be sure I'd shaken my tail loose.”

“You think it's the Marbletons?”

“I'd much rather it be someone you hired. Why would the Marbletons follow
me
?”

“Why did Mrs. Marbleton counterfeit a case for you to begin with? It isn't safe, this Sherlock Holmes business.”

“Well, this next client is definitely safe,” she promised him. “Sherlock Holmes would give up the business altogether if this one proves anything but safe.”

A subdued Roger Shrewsbury walked into Sherlock Holmes's parlor.

In advance of his visit, a hole had been drilled in the wall between the parlor and the bedroom—then concealed in such a way as to allow Charlotte to see into the parlor without herself being seen. But all that had been completed the day before, with help from a friend of Mrs. Watson's who invented magic tricks. The one hour's preparation Charlotte mentioned to Lord Ingram involved no further work
on the flat, only further work on Mrs. Watson, begging her to not to be too hard on Roger Shrewsbury.

Mrs. Watson took on the role of Holmes's sister. She briskly explained to the client the infelicities of the great detective's health and the necessity for her to act as a go-between. Then, without asking Shrewsbury whether he needed to be reassured Holmes still had all his faculties, she said, “I can see that you have rarely been a man of your own mind, sir—you are surrounded by those accustomed to imposing their will on you, and you have been content to let them make your decisions. This then is quite a leap for you.”

“Yes,” came Shrewsbury's hesitant words. “Yes, I suppose.”

“You mentioned nothing of what you wish to see Sherlock about, but he has hazarded that it has something to do with the circumstances surrounding your mother's death.” Mrs. Watson smiled. “It couldn't have been an easy decision to trust a stranger. My brother commends you for it.”

Her smile was so warm and encouraging, Charlotte would never have guessed that she had been adamantly against speaking any kind words to their caller.
No, Sherlock Holmes ought to give him hell, expose him for the spineless cad he is.

The man probably believed, for at least forty-eight hours, that his conduct had been directly responsible for his mother's death,
Charlotte had explained.
He's useless, not heartless—not to mention we don't want him to run out in mortification.

“I'm beyond gratified by Mr. Holmes's understanding,” said Shrewsbury, sounding almost teary.

Charlotte sighed. The poor man, so unaccustomed to receiving a bit of compassion.

“He's right—I've indeed come about my mother,” Shrewsbury continued. “When Mr. Holmes's letter came about, linking her death with Lady Amelia's and Mr. Sackville's, everyone in the family was furious. But I—I couldn't help wonder whether there wasn't
some truth to it, some nefarious conspiracy at work, if you will. My mother had the constitution of a camel. She could hike fifteen miles in the country, summer or winter. She never suffered from any aches or pains. And her physician, twenty years her junior, always said that her heart would keep on ticking long after his had given out.”

“So you agree with Sherlock's assessment that hers hadn't been a natural death.”

“I haven't told anyone this, but the night before we found her dead, she went out. Now you must understand that it had been an awful evening. Nobody said anything at dinner. My wife was terribly upset because my mother scolded her for failing at her duties to keep me on the straight and narrow. I hadn't received any lecture myself, but I was on pins and needles: It would be only a matter of time before mine crashed over me like an avalanche.

“As soon as dinner ended my wife retired for the evening. I hovered around my mother for a while, until she told me to go away—she'd deal with me the next day. It was oppressive at home, so I went out for a walk. And as I was coming back, I saw the most amazing sight, my mother getting inside a hansom cab.

“A
hansom cab
! She had never used a public conveyance in her life. She used to say that they smelled of unhygienic drunks and that she shuddered to think about the encrusted grime and filth. I couldn't imagine what would have prompted her to get into a hansom cab when she was in town, with her own carriage parked in the mews behind the house, a quick summons away.”

“Did you ever ask?”

“No. Even if she hadn't died I wouldn't have dared. She was the one who asked the questions and pointed out where we fell short—not the other way around.” He was silent for a few seconds. “That was the last I saw her. I returned home and proceeded directly to the whisky bottle. I didn't even hear Miss Livia Holmes and Mother
having a row outside. The next thing I knew was my wife shaking me, trying to make me understand that Mother was no more.”

He clasped his hands together, as if trying to hold on to his courage. “Since then I've been trying to find out where she'd gone that evening and whom she'd seen, if anyone. So far I've managed to eliminate a few of her closest friends—but I always knew it couldn't possibly have been them in the first place. She'd call on them in sackcloth before she would in a hansom cab.”

“Sherlock believes you would like for us to pass on this information to Scotland Yard—without revealing the source, of course. Is he correct?

Shrewsbury grimaced. “Mother would be turning over in her grave if she knew what I was doing. But I don't want to accept that she died of an aneurysm of the brain. I don't want to accept that I was the one who sent her to her grave.”

Mrs. Watson smiled again. “You have done very well to bring the matter to Sherlock's attention.”

“Will it—will it help solve what happened to my mother?”

“Let me confer with Sherlock first.”

Charlotte already had her questions written down in a notebook.
See
, she mouthed to Mrs. Watson,
he's not so bad
. To which Mrs. Watson responded with a dramatic roll of her eyes before taking the notebook and returning to the parlor.

“Sherlock has a few questions. First, Mr. Shrewsbury, where exactly did you see Lady Shrewsbury get on the hansom cab?”

“Near the corner of George Street and Bryanston Square.”

“And which way did it go?”

“Toward the east.”

“Did you watch it for some time? Did it turn onto any other street?”

“It kept going for a while and then it turned south. I think that was at Montague Street.”

After he left—with a full slate of compliments for Mr. Holmes—Charlotte emerged from the bedroom, poured a cup of tea, and helped herself to a slice of the cake that he didn't touch.

Mrs. Watson stood by the window, looking at Charlotte one moment, out of the window the next, then again at Charlotte, peacefully enjoying her cake.

“You're awfully unsentimental, Miss Holmes, about the man who was your first.”

“It was a purely strategic decision.” Charlotte took another bite. “I like him, but not enough to stand at the window and watch him leave.”

Mrs. Watson sighed. “Young ladies these days. But I must admit, he isn't as despicable as I thought he would be.”

“He isn't despicable at all,” Charlotte said. “His misfortune is that he was born fun-loving into a tribe that doesn't understand fun. They require him to be serious and ambitious, to have a lofty reputation, an enviable family, and an illustrious career in politics, of all things. He's never been allowed to decide anything for himself, and therefore has never developed either confidence or judgment. So it really was remarkable that he would go against the will of his entire clan to tell us what he knows.”

“But does it help, what he has told us?”

Charlotte looked longingly at the rest of the cake on the plate. Alas, she was already at one-point-four chins and must refrain from a second slice. “We now know that something extraordinary took place the night before Lady Shrewsbury died. We only need to find out what it was.”

H
odges, when he'd been brought into the interrogation room Mrs. Cornish recently vacated, betrayed no hint of anxiety. He nodded pleasantly at Treadles. “Evening, Inspector. Constable Perkins says you have some questions for me?”

Treadles regarded him for some time without speaking, a tactic meant to intimidate. From time to time suspects broke down under the weight of his gaze. Often they fidgeted in discomfort, eyes darting everywhere. But occasionally a suspect would stare right back at him with defiance. Or, even more rarely, with a great display of equanimity.

Hodges fell into this last category. He met Treadles's gaze with a calm fearlessness that early Christian martyrs would have prayed for. But tranquility before an interrogator did not necessarily imply innocence: It could just as well indicate an arrogance bordering on pathology—or a complete lack of conscience.

Treadles tapped his knuckles against the cable from Scotland Yard. “Mr. Hodges, you said you didn't know where your late employer went in London or what he did. But now we have a reliable eyewitness who placed you at exactly the same place as Mr. Sackville, asking for his purpose. How do you explain that?”

“Fairly simple,” said Hodges, as if he'd long expected the question and had the answer ready. “I was a boxer before I entered service, and lived in London for twenty years. Sometimes when Mr. Sackville went off to London, I did, too, to see old friends in the area.

“One day I saw him in Lambeth and I was curious—wouldn't anyone be, under the circumstances? So I knocked on a few doors and asked if anyone knew what went on in the house Mr. Sackville entered. Nobody was sure but they all thought it a little dodgy. Gambling, most likely. Probably loose women, too. I was frankly disappointed. It was too . . . common. I thought Mr. Sackville would have had some more gentlemanly vices.”

Treadles didn't believe him. “If they were truly such pedestrian sins, why did you keep them a secret?”

“Mr. Sackville can't defend his good name anymore, so it's up to the rest of us. Men have sinned much worse. But when they die of natural causes, nobody cares what they've done in their spare time. Mr. Sackville ought to be given the same privacy—he'd have wanted it.”

Treadles raised a brow. “You didn't have as high a regard for his good name when you insinuated to Mrs. Cornish that he might be taking advantage of Becky Birtle.”

“I said no such thing.” For the first time, a note of vexation crept into Hodges's voice. “I warned Mrs. Cornish that the girl was taking liberties with Mr. Sackville's expensive liquor—and made up the nonsense about Mr. Sackville offering it to her. Told Mrs. Cornish she ought to have a stern word with Becky. Even an amiable gentleman wouldn't hesitate to give the sack when his whisky is endangered.”

A former boxer. A man accustomed to dodging and counterpunching. And conditioned by years in the ring to keep a cool head under pressure. “What else have you been keeping from us, Mr. Hodges?”

“Nothing, Inspector,” said Hodges evenly. “Nothing.”

“Very well, Mr. Hodges. I will need a written statement of your whereabouts during the twenty-four hours leading to Mr. Sackville's death.”

Hodges inclined his head. “And you'll have it, Inspector.”

Hodges was not the only liar. Lady Sheridan's story, too, turned out to be less than entirely truthful. The YWCA had indeed dedicated a new center, and Lady Sheridan had indeed been there—rather unexpectedly, as she had cabled her regrets only two days prior, citing ill health.

But she had not left Bath the next morning, as she'd informed Inspector Treadles. Instead, she had departed immediately after the evening reception, even though she had paid for a night's lodging at the hotel.

“How do you explain the discrepancies, Lady Sheridan?” Treadles demanded.

He was tired: He'd returned to London on the early train. But more than that, he was frustrated. The investigation had uncovered an abundance of information that seemed promising, only to then never lead anywhere. He wanted a suspect. He wanted proper answers. He wanted the case solved so he could sleep in his own bed—and wake up with his wife in his arms.

Lady Sheridan, however, displayed no inclination to help him achieve his objectives. “What does it matter when I left Bath, Inspector? An old woman is entitled to change her mind and head home earlier.”

She was even thinner than Treadles remembered, her voice scratchy and weary. He felt an onslaught of self-reproach. She was clearly not well and he'd fallen barely short of discourtesy.

“You had every right to modify your plans, ma'am. It is not that
you changed your mind that brought me back, but that you failed to disclose the truth.”

Lady Sheridan sighed. Treadles had the strange sensation that her skeleton might rattle apart even with such a miniscule motion. “The truth is I had nothing to do with Mr. Sackville's death.”

“Then, ma'am, you can have no objection to making your itinerary known—to remove yourself from suspicion.”

Lady Sheridan regarded him with something close to approval. “Very well then. I left Bath that evening, but had a spot of discomfort along my return route. I got off at the next stop, took a room at the nearest railway inn, and continued my journey the next day, when I felt more equal to the challenge.”

“Can anyone at the inn corroborate your account?”

“I'm afraid I didn't pay much attention to where I was. All I needed was a bed that didn't sway—it could have been any inn at any station along the line.”

It took a great deal of cheek to give such an answer. And a great deal of dignity to endow it with even a semblance of seriousness. “Ma'am, I'm afraid I can't take that for an answer. Why wasn't your maid with you?”

“When I decided to leave Bath she wasn't feeling well. I told her she could follow the next day. But of course, en route I succumbed to the same thing.”

Treadles studied this frail yet formidable woman—and asked her the same question he'd asked Hodges. “What else have you been keeping from us, Lady Sheridan?”

The answer he received was also the exact same. “Nothing, Inspector. Nothing.”

Treadles did not neglect the servants of Lord and Lady Sheridan's household. But her maid unhesitatingly confirmed that she had
stayed overnight in Bath by herself. And none of the others could tell him anything more of Lady Sheridan's precise itinerary—the majority had never even heard of Mr. Sackville.

Only the two senior-most staff recalled the days when Mr. Sackville had been a frequent and esteemed guest. “He'd bring friends. The friends would bring their friends,” said Mrs. Gomer, the housekeeper. “I used to complain about how much more work it was when he came around. But then he didn't come around anymore and it was never the same. A house without young people is just not the same.”

“I was still a footman in those days,” said Mr. Addison, the butler. “A very young footman.”

They stood in the butler's pantry, a small space allotted to Mr. Addison's use, as he cleaned the tap meant to sit on top of a gasogene.

“Everybody looked forward to Mr. Sackville's visits,” Mr. Addison continued, “especially Miss Clara—he was more a big brother to her than an uncle. And of course her friends visited—her cousins, too. It was a lively house then, the place in the country.”

“Mr. Sackville was well-liked?”

“Oh, yes.”

“Did he have any vices that you know of?”

Mr. Addison was filling the lower globe of the gasogene with water. He paused for a moment. “Not me, Inspector. He didn't drink too much or gamble too much. Never made unreasonable demands of the staff. Never took advantage of us, if you know what I mean.”

Treadles nodded—he did know what Mr. Addison meant. “Would you happen to know why Lord Sheridan and Mr. Sackville fell out?”

Mr. Addison did not answer immediately, but concentrated on tapping scoops of white powder through a small funnel into the gasogene's upper globe. “Inspector, I ought not say anything about it, but I'll tell you because you're looking for Mr. Sackville's murderer in the wrong place.”

“Please do. I'll be more than delighted to eliminate your master and mistress from the list of suspects.”

Mr. Addison peered at Treadles. When he was satisfied that Treadles had spoken in complete sincerity, he set aside the funnel. “The last time Mr. Sackville came to visit, I overheard an argument between the brothers. You probably know that Mr. Sackville was a great deal wealthier than his lordship. Well, Mr. Sackville's advisors encouraged him to make certain investments. He passed on the suggestions to Lord Sheridan. The investments turned out badly. Mr. Sackville insisted on compensating his lordship for his losses and his lordship wouldn't have it—said nobody forced him to put money in any ventures and he deuced well could take his losses on the chin, like a man.

“But Mr. Sackville wouldn't let it rest. He went on insisting until his lordship exploded and told Mr. Sackville that Mr. Sackville understood the world only through the lens of his fortune. So his lordship was now poor as a church mouse, but what did it matter when his only child was dead and nothing would bring her back. Why couldn't Mr. Sackville at least let him have his pride?”

So Lady Sheridan had not been lying when she'd characterized the spat as an argument about manly honor.

Mr. Addison carefully fitted the long-tubed tap on top of the gasogene and shook the entire apparatus for the powders—tartaric acid and bicarbonate of soda, if Treadles remembered correctly—to react with water. The contents of the gasogene bubbled, hissing faintly. “Mr. Sackville left that day itself. I always felt bad about their estrangement. It wasn't really any kind of insurmountable dispute. But Mr. Sackville never came back. And I guess he had the last word after all, when he left his fortune to his lordship.”

Sometimes, the more you know, the less things make sense
, Treadles's father-in-law had once said. If it had been the other way around, if Lord Sheridan had insisted Mr. Sackville compensate him for soured
investments and Mr. Sackville had refused, then the Sheridans would have been much more likely to hold a grudge all these years, a grudge that could have turned cancerous.

But why would anyone kill a man who wanted to make it up to them, even though strictly speaking he hadn't been at fault and had suffered his own losses?

“I think Lord Sheridan always expected that Mr. Sackville would come striding back someday—and it would be as if there had never been a quarrel,” said Mr. Addison, setting the gasogene aside for the gas to percolate into the water. “A shame that didn't happen—and won't ever happen now.”

Treadles thanked the butler. And then, out of personal curiosity, he said, “I rather like that gadget, the gasogene. But the missus won't allow one—she says too many of them explode and she has no desire to be married to a one-eyed policeman.”