A Study in Scarlet Women (Lady Sherlock #1)(16)
For that had to be it, hadn’t it, a deep coma? What else could Lord Ingram possibly mean by Holmes being alive, yet completely beyond his reach?
His wife, in a lilac dressing gown printed with a paisley pattern, came into the room. “Nothing, eh?”
He shook his head. “Nothing.”
Alice sighed. “Poor Mr. Holmes. Whatever could the matter be?”
Treadles could only continue to shake his head. As an investigator, he had decent instincts. And his instincts told him that he was in the wilderness with regard to the misfortunes of Mr. Sherlock Holmes, not even near the right track, let alone following it.
“And I’ve certainly been put into my place,” Alice went on, “given that Lord Ingram and Mr. Holmes aren’t remotely the same person.”
“Well, I for one thought your hypothesis was remarkably elegant. It really is too bad that sometimes inconvenient facts surface to thumb their noses at remarkably elegant hypotheses.”
“Poo to inconvenient facts.” She came around and laid a hand on his shoulder. With her other hand she turned the pages of the papers. “Ludwig the second of Bavaria found dead. Fire destroys nearly one thousand buildings in Vancouver, British Columbia. What an age we live in—bad news from the entire world delivered right to our doorsteps.”
She selected a different paper. “Not that news from home is much better. Recriminations over the failure of the Irish Home Rule bill. Police still looking for suspects in the fire in Lambeth that destroyed a building and killed two.”
“I know about that building in Lambeth,” said Treadles. “Every last inspector in Scotland Yard got letters about it—and it isn’t even a copper hell, but a bookmaker’s. You close one down and it opens right back up two streets over.”
She flipped a page. “Even society news is no help: Lord Sheridan’s birthday celebration canceled due to a death in the family.”
“It would be a newspaper that turns no profit if it reported only fires that didn’t burn any houses and parties that took place as expected.” Treadles kissed the palm of her hand. “Fortunately for me, whenever I see the mistress of my household, I feel as if I have received an abundance of good news.”
She smiled. “Ah, Inspector Treadles. I do love you. Come, lay aside the mysterious fate of Mr. Sherlock Holmes for the moment. For you know this much flattery will lead nowhere, sir, except straight to the marriage bed.”
Inspector Treadles needed no further prompting to serve his lady.
Four
“Thank God for Great Aunt Maribel,” Livia said thickly.
Great Aunt Maribel, a spinster, had lived to be eighty-three. When she died, she left Livia an entire crate of her own creative endeavors—embroidery, glazed pottery, and watercolor paintings, all amateurish work that displayed little talent and even less effort. Livia, unpacking the crate, had grown increasingly dismayed: Was this really how life was lived for a spinster, full of long, idle hours that must be filled with useless crafts?
Halfway through the contents, she’d come across an envelope addressed to her, with a note inside.
Ha, you thought I’d wasted decades on this lot of rubbish, didn’t you? No, my dear. I have been well satisfied with my life and hope you will be, too, in time. But until then, a bit of consolation to assist you in getting through those more trying years. I don’t know about you, but I always need a stiff drink after a visit with your parents . . .
The bottom of the crate, underneath all the artistic flotsam, was lined with liquid gold: whisky from every distillery on the Isle of Islay, calvados, madeira, sherry, good vintages of claret, even two bottles of absinthe.
Livia had carefully stowed this most marvelous bequest. She had since been frugal with it—she didn’t want to squander her only source of wealth before her most desperate hour.
Well, this was somebody’s most desperate hour. She’d say it was Charlotte’s, but Charlotte was holding herself together rather well. Instead it was Livia who couldn’t stop swallowing gulp after gulp of sweet madeira, Livia who couldn’t stop shaking and weeping, Livia who ranted and cursed.
“He’s such an imbecile, that Roger Shrewsbury, such an utter, irredeemable, muttonheaded dolt.” She waved the bottle for emphasis. “Oh, God, Charlotte, of all the amoral and reckless married men to be had in London, why did you pick him?”
Charlotte sat on the windowsill, her feet on top of a packed suitcase. Livia had hours ago shed her blouse and corset to swaddle herself in an old, comfortable dressing gown. Charlotte remained in her day dress, a summery confection of cream silk printed with roses and climbing vines. Livia preferred her garments as unadorned as possible, but Charlotte relished a good ruffle, yards of lace, and the most dramatic tassels swinging from the shiniest cords of braided silk.
You are more upholstered than a dowager’s boudoir, Livia had once said to Charlotte, exasperated by the latter’s more-is-always-better taste. And Charlotte had laughed and countered, Didn’t I tell you? Great Aunt Maribel always said that I reminded her of her favorite needlepoint footstool.
Tears welled in Livia’s eyes. She drank directly from the bottle. “I’m going to smash something into Roger Shrewsbury’s face the next time I see him.”
“Oh, I can’t condone that,” said Charlotte. “Mr. Shrewsbury’s face is his only contribution to humanity. I recommend you instead smash something into his derriere, which is rather ordinary and not as worthy of preservation.”