A Study in Scarlet Women (Lady Sherlock #1)(28)
“That was when I decided to look for the private entrance I knew must exist. And when I found it in the alley behind the house, what should I see, almost directly opposite, but the service door to Atwell & Dewsbury, Pharmaceutical Chemists.
“I visited the shop and met Mr. Atwell. When I mentioned that I am a new boarder at your establishment, he had nothing but the most effusive praise for you as a woman of substance and character. It really is too bad that he is already married.”
Mrs. Wallace’s face turned red, then pale, then splotchy. “Unfounded accusations, one and all.”
“Perhaps. But your other boarders will no doubt be curious as to the reason behind my hasty departure. I can disseminate a great many unfounded accusations during the hour you allotted for my packing.”
“You—you would destroy my reputation as you destroyed your own?”
“To the contrary, I have no intention at all of besmirching your good name, publicly or privately—notice I kept Miss Turner of the long ear and eager tongue far away from our conversation. I know nothing of Mr. Atwell’s domestic situation, but it is evident he and you have arrived at a comfortable state of affairs. There is your ongoing chess game in the corner. The bottle of Pimm’s on the shelf you probably enjoy together. And I can see him reading those William Clark Russell sea novels, should you be busy with business matters in the evening. I would not wish for anything to upset your cozy arrangement.
“But in return, I’d like you to extend a similar consideration to me. You should be able to deduce that I am in difficult circumstances. I will not blackmail you to let me remain under your roof—you do have your reputation to consider—but it is reasonable to ask for the rest of my money back.”
Mrs. Wallace’s jaw worked. A second later she rose, unlocked a drawer under the writing desk, took out a cash box, and returned Charlotte her money.
Charlotte pocketed the coins carefully. “Thank you, Mrs. Wallace. Your secret is safe with me. And . . . if I were you, my next move on the chessboard would be king rook to b4—if you wish to win, that is. If you prefer to let Mr. Atwell win, put your queen rook pawn to a5.”
Eight
DEVONSHIRE
Even in death, Mr. Harrington Sackville was a handsome man.
He was fifty-five, but his salt-and-pepper hair was still thick, his waist still trim, and his musculature that of a man twenty years younger. There was a bluish cast to his skin, but not so much that Inspector Treadles couldn’t tell that in life he had enjoyed a hale complexion, lightly tanned from time spent outdoors.
His expression was solemn. Peaceful. Had he died of natural causes, his would have been a much-admired corpse at the funeral, eliciting genuine lament that a man of such health and vigor should have been taken so abruptly.
Dr. Merriweather, the pathologist who was frequently engaged by the coroner’s district for his medical expertise, trailed behind Treadles and Sergeant MacDonald, also of the Criminal Investigation Department, as the latter two made slow circles around the body.
“As you can see, Inspector, there are no signs at all of a struggle. No bruises around the throat or anywhere else on the skin. No wounds or injuries. And since chloral was the culprit, I made a careful inspection of the entire body. There isn’t a single puncture mark to suggest the use of a syringe. Nor is there any evidence that chloral was administered rectally.”
The pathologist’s tone was professional and brisk. But Treadles heard a trace of vexation—that what should have been a straightforward inquest returning a verdict of accidental overdose had been unnecessarily prolonged by the involvement of that busybody Sherlock Holmes.
And now, of Scotland Yard.
At the same time, however, Treadles discerned a hint of excitement. Dr. Merriweather, like most men, was intrigued by the possibility of a truly unusual crime, one so subtle that even someone of his considerable knowledge and experience could not identify, let alone fathom, it.
Treadles had confessed the same excitement to his wife. What he had not told her was the tremulous hope in his heart that such a closely watched case—the C.I.D. had been bombarded by reporters hounding for the latest developments—might make his name known to the public. He cared little for fame, but he wanted those friends of Alice’s who had become mere nodding acquaintances after her marriage to a policeman to read about his exploits in their morning papers. They would never envy her, but perhaps someday they would no longer disdain her for her choice of mate.
He knew that she had no regrets about becoming his wife. He only wanted that she never would.
“And chloral is absolutely the culprit?” he asked.
“Absolutely,” said Mr. Smythe, the young chemical analyst for the county. He hadn’t Dr. Merriweather’s detachment before dead bodies, and had remained in a corner of the room as the policemen and the pathologist inspected the cadaver, but now he warmed up to his subject and launched into a detailed explanation of the tools and procedures used to ascertain that it was not chloroform or antimony found in the tissue, but chloral hydrate and only chloral hydrate. “I performed the assays myself, each step repeated multiple times. There can be no mistake.”
“Thank you, Mr. Smythe,” said Treadles. “And thank you, Dr. Merriweather.”
Dr. Merriweather was correct: there was no trace of foul play to be seen on Mr. Sackville’s body. And Treadles had no reason to doubt that the enthusiastic Mr. Smythe wasn’t just as meticulous at his work. From afar it had been easy to imagine all kinds of overlooked details that, once observed, would lead clearly and triumphantly to a conclusion of criminality. But up close such had not turned out to be the case at all. In fact, Mr. Sackville’s death appeared more and more what it had seemed at first glance: a simple matter of accidental overdose.