A Study in Scarlet Women (Lady Sherlock #1)(32)

“Can you recall what came in the post for him?”

“A magazine or two and maybe a few pamphlets—he liked to send for those from time to time,” Mrs. Cornish said rather reluctantly, as if finding it distasteful to admit that she’d guessed the contents of her employer’s mail.

“And how did he look?”

“A bit tired, but not in a way to alarm anyone.”

Had he any idea those would be his final hours?

“You were at the inquest. You heard the letter read from Mr. Holmes, connecting Mr. Sackville’s death to those of two ladies in his circle. What did you think of that?”

“I’m sure I don’t know what to think of it at all,” answered Mrs. Cornish, her expression as circumspect as her words.

“Have you ever heard Mr. Sackville mention either Lady Amelia Drummond or Lady Shrewsbury?”

“No, sir.”

“Did he write to them?”

“I have never seen an envelope with either of those names.”

“Whom did he correspond with?”

“His lawyers, mostly.”

“And the morning of the discovery? Please give an account.”

Mrs. Cornish thought for a moment. “Before Mr. Hodges went on his holiday, he gave the task of Mr. Sackville’s morning cocoa to Mrs. Meek. But that morning she was busy in the kitchen so Becky Birtle, the housemaid, carried it upstairs.”

“According to Becky Birtle’s testimony at the inquest,” said Treadles, “she set down the tray and wished Mr. Sackville good morning. And when he didn’t respond, she spoke louder. And when he still didn’t respond, she shook him by the hand, only to feel that his hand was alarmingly cool.”

Mrs. Cornish nodded, her brow furrowed. “She went to Mrs. Meek—and Mrs. Meek came to me. The three of us went to Mr. Sackville’s room together. He was still breathing then. Mrs. Meek said it didn’t look good for him. Becky started shaking. I ran to find Dunn in the stable. He rode to the doctor’s house, but Dr. Harris wasn’t home. He had to ride another four miles to Barton Cross to fetch Dr. Birch.

“When Dr. Birch finally came and examined Mr. Sackville, he asked me whether Mr. Sackville used chloral. I said I’d seen some about. He said that if he’d had a better description of Mr. Sackville’s condition, he’d have brought strychnine. He and Dunn rushed off to Dr. Harris’s house, raided his dispensary, and came back with strychnine. But by then it was too late. Mr. Sackville, he’d stopped breathing several minutes before.”

Mrs. Cornish’s voice quavered slightly at the end of her recital.

“I have an unpleasant question that must be asked,” said Treadles. “Do you know of anyone who might wish Mr. Sackville harm?”

“No!” The housekeeper’s answer was instant and fierce, the strongest reaction they’d seen from her this day. “No one. Well, certainly not anyone in these parts.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Cornish. I have no further questions for you at the moment,” said Treadles.

Mrs. Cornish inclined her head, her breaths still noticeably shallow.

“The next person I’d like to see would be Becky Birtle, the maid who found Mr. Sackville,” Treadles went on. “But Constable Perkins reported that Becky Birtle is no longer at this house. Can you elaborate on that, Mrs. Cornish?”

“The whole thing upset the girl terribly. And the letter from that Holmes man even more so. After the inquest she begged to be let go so she could return to her parents. She’s still a child and I didn’t have the heart to say no.”

There was a faintly mulish set to Mrs. Cornish’s mouth, as if daring Inspector Treadles to question a decision she’d made out of compassion.

“Of course you were right to think of her, Mrs. Cornish,” he said mildly, rising. “Sergeant MacDonald and I will remove to the drawing room upstairs. Please inform Mrs. Meek that we would like to speak with her next.”




Mrs. Meek, the thinnest cook Inspector Treadles had ever come across, turned out to be a much more voluble witness.

“I think it was food from the pub—those two gastric attacks in April. You see Mrs. Oxley, who was cook here before me, she had to leave end of March to look after her orphaned nieces. Until I came, folks here had to make do with what the inn could supply. Now Mrs. Pegg at the inn is a fine woman and serves ample portions, but her food is a bit rough around the edges, if you know what I mean.

“But me—before I came here, I worked at Mrs. Woodlawn’s Convalescent Home in Paignton. For ten years I did nothing but cook for ladies with the most worrisome digestions in the whole country. I’m proud to say that Mrs. Woodlawn’s was awful sorry to see me go—I helped make the reputation of her establishment.”

“And your food agreed with Mr. Sackville?” asked Treadles, though that was obviously Mrs. Meek’s point.

“I had no complaints. But then again, I didn’t cook very long for him, did I?”

“I’m sure your work was most satisfactory. Now, if I may have your description of the twenty-four hours before Mr. Sackville was found comatose—and your account of the events of that morning.”

Mrs. Meek took a long swallow of her tea. “Certainly. The day before was our half day. I was busy in the kitchen most of the morning. There was luncheon to be thought of and cold suppers for everyone, but we were also making jam that day—Tommy Dunn has a green thumb and we had strawberries and gooseberries coming in by the boxful from the kitchen garden. When the washing up from luncheon and the jam-making was done, I walked Jenny Price, our scullery maid, to her parents’ place. They are lovely people, the Prices. I had a chat with Mrs. Price. We had tea together. And in the evening we were sent back in the dogcart.