A Study in Scarlet Women (Lady Sherlock #1)(30)

“Yes, Inspector.”

They moved to the other upstairs rooms. Besides the private facilities, there were two more bedrooms, a sitting room, a study, and the valet’s room. “Mr. Hodges lives up here because we are all women below,” Mrs. Cornish explained.

Treadles nodded. “The windows in these rooms were also secured that night?”

“I unlatched them the next day—we aired out the entire house.”

Her responses were concise and to the point—Mrs. Cornish was not a talkative woman. But something in the way she held herself—a tightness in her jaw, the hard clutch of her fingers around one another—belied her apparent composure.

She was deeply unsettled to be speaking to the police. But whether it was because the entire affair was upsetting or for some other reason, Treadles could not decide.

“And the doors?”

“I check them every night at nine.”

“Is it possible for someone to slip into the house unnoticed before nine o’clock?”

“I suppose it’s possible.” But her tone indicated that it was so improbable, the very thought was ridiculous.

If the deaths of Mr. Sackville, Lady Amelia, and Lady Shrewsbury were related, then an outsider—or more than one outsider—must be involved. But that theory of interconnectedness appeared ever more tenuous, now that Treadles had seen for himself the isolation of the house—and of the nearest village. This was the kind of place where a stranger would be immediately noticed. Or, likewise, a local doing something out of the ordinary.

Tourists did come through the area, tramping along the edge of the coast and taking in the views. But the preliminary report listed only two sets of guests at the village pub-and-inn in the preceding week: a traveling photographer and his assistant, who had stayed overnight and left five days before Mr. Sackville died, and some friends of the vicar’s brother, who’d come with the brother for a visit and slept at the pub, rather than cramming into the crowded vicarage.

Treadles and MacDonald were now back on the ground floor. “Would you mind showing us the rest of house, Mrs. Cornish?”

Kitchen complexes at large country houses were often separate from the main building, to reduce the risk of fire. Here, however, the kitchen was on the ground floor, separated from the drawing room and dining room by two sets of heavy, green baize–covered doors. The corridor led past the larder, the pantry, and the scullery before coming to the kitchen proper.

Stairs at the end of the corridor led down to other domestic offices, as well as to the servants’ hall and staff quarters. Mrs. Cornish showed Treadles where the linens from Mr. Sackville’s bed had been stowed, and they might as well have been freshly laundered, given how pristine they were.

“We changed the bedding frequently,” said Mrs. Cornish, not without a note of pride.

Another avenue of inquiry shut off. But Treadles was a patient man. He would find his openings.

“Will you take your tea now, Inspector, Sergeant?” Mrs. Cornish went on.

“We will,” answered Treadles. “Most kind of you, Mrs. Cornish.”

The housekeeper hesitated a moment. “Inspector, Sergeant, you are visitors to this house and by rights ought to be received abovestairs. But I wouldn’t feel right sitting down in the drawing room . . .”

“We’ll use the drawing room for our interviews but we’ll be happy to take tea where you’ll be comfortable, Mrs. Cornish,” said Treadles.

They had tea in Mrs. Cornish’s small office, next to the storeroom. Two-thirds of the entire floor was below ground level, but enough light came through windows set high on the wall that the room didn’t feel subterranean.

Mrs. Cornish poured tea. Treadles took the opportunity to ask some questions. From the preliminary report, he already knew that Mrs. Cornish had been at Curry House the longest, fourteen years, taking over the housekeeper’s position while the former Mrs. Curry was still in residence.

Mrs. Cornish confirmed that, as well as information about the rest of the staff. The cook, Mrs. Meek, was the newest, arriving on the Devon Coast little more than a month ago. There was also a valet, a housemaid, a kitchen maid, and a lad who looked after both the garden and the horses.

With the exception of the valet, Hodges, the servants were paid by the owner of the house, who charged higher rents for a property that came with a full implement of competent staff. Mr. Sackville’s solicitors had agreed that his estate would continue to foot the lease—and Hodges’s wages—until their client’s death had been properly investigated.

Treadles didn’t doubt the lawyers were irked when the inquest didn’t immediately return a verdict of accidental overdose.

“Will you tell me something of Mr. Sackville’s daily routines?” he asked Mrs. Cornish.

Mrs. Cornish did so readily. On an ordinary summer day, Mr. Sackville would have taken his morning cup of cocoa in bed at half past six. Then he bathed and dressed. At quarter past seven he rode. Breakfast was at half past eight, when he returned. He liked to spend some time in his study after breakfast. Luncheon was at one. He often went for a long walk afterward, returning home to take tea at half past four, and dinner at eight. Twice a month he traveled to London after luncheon and didn’t return until tea time the next day.

Inspector Treadles knew about the London trips from the preliminary report—Constable Perkins of the Devon Constabulary had been thorough at his task. He also knew that the visits were a source of curiosity in the village. Some thought he went to visit friends, some speculated that he gambled, and a few more were of the opinion that Mr. Sackville simply wished to get away regularly—that they would, too, if they had his wealth and freedom of movement.