A Study in Scarlet Women (Lady Sherlock #1)(33)

“After dinner that night I made sure the kitchen was all tidylike and went to bed. I was in the kitchen again at six in the morning, as usual. Mr. Hodges was out, so I made Mr. Sackville his cocoa, and Becky Birtle took it to him.

“A few minutes later she was back in the kitchen, all alarmed like. ‘Mrs. Meek, I don’t think Mr. Sackville is all right. He’s cold.’ My heart rather did a turn. ‘You don’t mean he’s dead, do you?’ I asked her. ‘No, he’s breathing. But real cold. Come and see for yourself, please.’

“I was about to rush upstairs with her, but then I thought Mrs. Cornish ought to know. So I jogged down to her room. She was still in her dressing gown. She gasped when I told her what Becky told me and we all ran up together. And there Mr. Sackville was, like Becky described, still breathing but cold as a bucket of water kept in the cellar.

“We opened the curtains for a better look. And I said to Mrs. Cornish that whatever it was, I didn’t think Mr. Sackville was going to make it. Becky started whimpering and shaking. Mrs. Cornish told me to look after her; she herself ran out for help.

“I slapped Mr. Sackville a few times, took him by the shoulders and shook him, but he didn’t even twitch. Becky started to cry. I remembered then that Jenny Price was in the kitchen alone and that if I wasn’t there to supervise, she’d eat what I’d cooked for the master, or add goodness knows what to the pot. So I told Becky to come with me to the kitchen but she said she didn’t want Mr. Sackville to be all alone.

“I went down to the kitchen by myself. I heard Mrs. Cornish coming back in and running upstairs. She came down after a while and said Tommy Dunn was gone to fetch Dr. Harris and she supposed there was nothing we could do except wait. I still had everyone’s luncheon to see to so I kept working, or at least I tried to. But every few minutes I’d stick my head out of the door and see if I couldn’t hear anyone coming.

“When finally someone came, it wasn’t Dr. Harris but a different doctor. When he’d worked out that it was chloral, he shouted at us to get some hot water bottles next to Mr. Sackville so that he wouldn’t keep getting colder. We were in a mad scramble. Becky, that silly child, filled the pot with too much water and then she was crying again that it wasn’t getting hot. Jenny Price thought we were playing a game and almost got herself burned. Mrs. Cornish had to drag her out of the kitchen and lock her in her room.”

This was a much more detailed and dramatic account of the events. Inspector Treadles found himself leaning forward in his seat, even though he knew the eventual outcome.

“We tucked in several hot water bottles around Mr. Sackville. Then Mrs. Cornish took his pulse and said, ‘I can’t feel anything.’ That was when Dr. Birch and Dunn came pounding up the stairs with strychnine. ‘I can’t feel any pulse,” Mrs. Cornish said to Dr. Birch.

“Dr. Birch rushed to Mr. Sackville. He felt and listened and held out his card case in front of Mr. Sackville’s nose. Then he let out this tremendous groan. ‘I might have been able to save him if only I’d known what was ailing him.’

“He wrote down the time of death. Mrs. Cornish offered him tea and asked the rest of us to return to our duties. I suppose that’s what we’ve been doing since, carrying on.”

“What did you think when you heard about the possible connection to the deaths of Lady Amelia Drummond and Lady Shrewsbury?”

“I’m sure I’ve never been more amazed. But it couldn’t have been more than a coincidence, could it?”

“That’s what we’re here to find out,” said Treadles, a faint note of apology to his voice. He sympathized with those whose lives were disrupted by the appearance of policemen—especially in a case like this, when it could very well turn out to be much ado about nothing. “Have you ever heard of either of the ladies?”

“Never. I barely saw Mr. Sackville himself and I didn’t have anything to do with the post coming or going. Mrs. Cornish and Mr. Hodges will know more.”

“Can you think of anyone who might have carried a grudge against Mr. Sackville—or wished him harm?”

Mrs. Meek shivered. “No, not at all. But I’m the wrong person to ask—I’ve been here only a month and hardly stepped out of the kitchen.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Meek, you’ve been most helpful. If you could ask Mr. Dunn to spare a minute for us, it would be very much appreciated.”

“Of course, Inspector.” Mrs. Meek rose to leave. But she turned around at the door. “Do you really think, Inspector, that there was foul play here?”

Anxiety tinged her voice—but even more than anxiety, dismay. The dismay of someone fearing the shattering of innocence, fearing to find herself embroiled in the cold-blooded killing of one person by another.

“We’re here because certain irregularities have been pointed out. Our goal is only to determine whether there is sufficient cause to warrant further investigation.”

“I hope you’ll determine that it’s all just happenstance. And that Mr. Holmes who wrote the letter a mischief-maker with nothing better to do than rousing groundless suspicions and inconveniencing innocent people.”

She spoke with surprising vehemence. After she left, Inspector Treadles and Sergeant MacDonald exchanged a look.

“Do you think she might have a point, sir?” asked Sergeant MacDonald, gently blowing over his notebook page to help the ink dry faster. “This Mr. Holmes, from everything you’ve said, Inspector, sounds rather extraordinary. But you know how it is with extraordinary men. They aren’t always right in the head all the time.”