A Study in Scarlet Women (Lady Sherlock #1)(22)

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.





Six





“Ash,” 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.”