A Study in Scarlet Women (Lady Sherlock #1)(34)

There was most certainly something rather not right with Holmes at the present. Treadles liked to think that true genius couldn’t be easily obliterated. But with Lord Ingram so tight-lipped about Holmes’s actual condition, Treadles had little to go on except his faith that his friend wouldn’t waste his time by personally requesting a fruitless pursuit.

“Let’s have a little more patience,” he said. “We haven’t even spoken to all the witnesses yet.”




Whereas Mrs. Meek had been loquacious, Tommy Dunn was taciturn almost to the point of muteness.

He had been working at the house for three and half years. Never had any trouble with Mr. Sackville or any of the other servants. For his half day he went for a walk and sat on a rock in a nearby cove and watched the sea until it was time for supper in the servants’ hall.

“You have no family nearby to visit, Mr. Dunn?” asked Treadles.

“I’m an orphan, Inspector.”

“I see. Go on.”

“I went to bed after supper. Was sweeping out the stables in the morning when Mrs. Cornish came running. I rode to Dr. Harris’s but he wasn’t home. Rode to Dr. Birch’s and fetched him. He needed strychnine so we rode back to Dr. Harris’s. When we came back it was too late. Mr. Sackville, he was dead.”

With further prodding from Treadles, Dunn added that he knew nothing of Lady Amelia Drummond or Lady Shrewsbury, and could think of no one who might have wanted to harm Mr. Sackville. He had, however, noticed Mr. Sackville’s low spirits in the weeks leading up to his death.

“His mind was somewhere else. Once I saddled his favorite mare. He stood there for a bit, holding on to the reins, and then walked off.” Dunn clenched his hands. “I should’ve asked what was the matter, even if it wasn’t polite. We lived in his house. We lived on his money. We knew he didn’t have no one else. And not one of us bothered to ask him if everything was all right.”

This was the first emotional response to Mr. Sackville’s death Treadles had encountered. He gave the young man a moment to pull himself together before asking gently, “I take it he was a good master?”

“The best,” said Dunn. “He gave me one of his own watches my first Christmas here—had it engraved with my initials, too.”

“May I see?” asked Treadles.

The watch Tommy Dunn produced was very fine, of comparable quality to the one Treadles had received from the late Mr. Morton Cousins, his excellent and much lamented father-in-law. And on the cover of the watch, a large letter D with a small T to the left and a small E to the right.

“A very generous gift, indeed.”

“And he gave me a new fob for it last Christmas, but it’s so fancy I only wear it to church.”

“The others who were in his service, did they receive as handsome gifts?”

“Mrs. Cornish got nice vases and picture frames. Hodges got silver cufflinks. And Penny Price got huge puddings and cakes that she didn’t have to share with anyone.”

“Mrs. Meek and the young one, Becky Birtle?”

“They ain’t been here long enough. Becky came in spring and Mrs. Meek even later than that.”

They thanked him and asked him to fetch Hodges.

Treadles had anticipated a trim, natty man, in the mold of his late father-in-law’s valet. Hodges, however, was wide-shouldered to the point of burliness—and his nose must have been broken a few times in his youth. But he was well turned out and when he spoke, he sounded much more polished than his smashed nose would have suggested.

He couldn’t help the police with what happened during the days and hours immediately preceding his employer’s death, since he’d been away on holiday to the Isle of Wight. But he did confirm that Mr. Sackville had suffered gastric attacks for many years—“Since when he was in school, I believe.” He complimented Mrs. Meek on being a skilled and caring cook—“She was always conferring with me about how he looked and trying to ferret out what foods to avoid.” And he firmly declared that in five years of working for Mr. Sackville, he’d never had a harsh word from his employer—and couldn’t think of anyone who would want to harm a man who never gave any trouble at all.

Treadles thanked him and requested that he convey word to Jenny Price that she was wanted for questioning.

Hodges’s eyes widened. “But Jenny Price is a half-wit.”

“Be that as it may, we still must speak with her.”

Jenny Price wasn’t a young girl, as Treadles had assumed, but a heavyset woman in her mid-thirties. She looked worried when Mrs. Meek, who brought her in, left the drawing room, but her eyes lit with pleasure as she discovered the plates of biscuits, cakes, and sandwiches that had been laid out for the visitors from London.

She moved astonishingly quickly—and polished off several biscuits before Treadles recovered from his surprise.

“Ah, Miss Price, we have some questions for you.”

She looked at him blankly while chewing on a piece of seed cake.

Treadles tried again. “Jenny, is it?”

She nodded.

“Can you tell me anything about the day Mr. Sackville died?”

“They took ’im away.”

“Do you remember anything else from that day?”

She shook her head.

“Nothing at all?”