A Study in Scarlet Women (Lady Sherlock #1)(31)

“Do you happen to know, Mrs. Cornish, what had been his purpose for those trips?”

“Not at all, Inspector.”

“He did not speak of them when he returned?”

She shook her head. And of course a self-respecting servant would never think to interrogate her employer on his private affairs.

“Which train did he take?”

“The 3:05 from Barton Cross.”

Barton Cross was the next nearest village. Treadles had studied the local railway timetable. The 3:05 from Barton Cross didn’t arrive on a mainline until almost four o’clock in the afternoon. And even if Mr. Sackville caught the next express to London, it would be well past business hours by the time he pulled into Paddington Station.

Not the kind of itinerary a man would choose, if his primary intention was to see his agents or solicitors.

“Did he always leave on the same days?”

“The second and fourth Thursday of each month.”

The London theatrical season ran from September to the end of July. But the regularity of Mr. Sackville’s visits didn’t suggest the jaunts of a theater lover. It also seemed unlikely that he went to see friends—members of his social class congregated in London during the Season and spent the rest of the year in the country, where the air was far more salutary.

“You are certain London was his destination, Mrs. Cornish?”

“Mr. Hodges said so. He went through Mr. Sackville’s pockets before his clothes were sent out for laundering. And he always found punched tickets issued from Paddington Station, from Mr. Sackville’s return trips.”

Mrs. Cornish blushed slightly, as if embarrassed that she’d gossiped about her employer with the valet.

“I see. I understand Mr. Sackville’s London trips became a little more irregular in the weeks before his passing.”

“Gastric attacks,” Mrs. Cornish replied with great authority. “They happened twice in April. Once he never left the house, the next time he began to feel poorly while he was on the train. He got off at the next station and spent the night at the railway hotel.”

This was in accordance with what the ticket agent at the Barton Cross railway station remembered.

“A fortnight after that he did go.”

“He did, but he came back the next morning, earlier than usual. And two weeks after that he didn’t go at all, even though he was well.”

“Were those two times in April the only occasions he suffered from gastric attacks?”

“No, Inspector. He’d had them for as long as I’ve worked for him. I think there was once before when he didn’t go to London because he wasn’t feeling up to it.”

Once in seven years and then twice in a month. Curious. Not curious enough to suggest outright foul play—the nature of random events was that they were random—but noteworthy, nevertheless. “Did he say anything about why he came back early that time in May?”

“No, he didn’t.”

“How did he appear when he arrived back at Curry House?”

“He kept to himself that day and didn’t want to be disturbed.”

“He also went to church, I understand, before he returned home that day. The vicar saw him, as well as some other villagers.”

This for a man who had never attended service the entire time he had resided at Curry House.

“I heard the same.”

“Were you surprised the Thursday a fortnight later, when he didn’t head for London at all?”

“I . . . I was, but not terribly so.”

“Why not?”

“He had a resigned air about him.”

This had not been part of the village gossip. Inspector Treadles frowned slightly. “How resigned?”

Mrs. Cornish thought for a moment. “Disheartened, I’d say. Restless, too. His habits used to be regular. But in those last few weeks, he’d disappear a whole day at a time. And once he came back drenched in rain—and it’d been raining even when he left.”

The information did not bode well for Sherlock Holmes’s conjecture. The relevant dates for Mr. Sackville failed to line up with Lady Amelia’s sudden death, which came too late to explain his downheartedness. The most likely hypothesis would be that Mr. Sackville had a mistress in town whom he visited with clockwork regularity. And then what happened? Had she left him for greener pastures? Or perhaps accepted a proposal of marriage from another smitten man?

It was hardly unheard of for a man in the throes of heartache to be overly generous with substances that offered him a few hours of oblivion and forgetfulness.

Inspector Treadles pressed on. “Please describe for me the household activities in the twenty-four hours preceding Mr. Sackville’s death.”

“There isn’t much to tell, Inspector. It was a half day. I had the Anglican Women’s meeting in the afternoon. Then I went to Bideford, had myself a spot of tea, walked around the shops a bit, and came back at half past seven. Everyone else returned a little before eight—except Mr. Hodges, he was out on his annual holiday.

“We had our supper in the servants’ hall and then brought back the dishes from the dining room—on half days Mrs. Meek, the cook, left Mr. Sackville a cold supper. At nine I took him a cup of tea, a plate of biscuits, and the evening post and asked if there would be anything else. He said no, I might retire. And that was the last I saw him conscious.”