A Study in Scarlet Women (Lady Sherlock #1)(35)

Jenny Price, her mouth now full of anchovy sandwich, didn’t bother to respond. Treadles asked more questions about Mr. Sackville, life at Curry House, and her work in the kitchen. And managed to receive not so much as a mumble in response: Jenny Price had no more answers to give.

Treadles and MacDonald admitted defeat and escorted her back to the kitchen. Mrs. Cornish happened to be in the kitchen, talking to Mrs. Meek. Treadles asked the housekeeper to show him the rest of the rooms belowstairs, to make sure that they did not make for easy entries.

Mrs. Cornish agreed, but with visible reluctance. Treadles gave an apologetic nod—he wouldn’t want the police to inspect his home either. But suspicious deaths had a way of trumping the wishes of the living.

The housekeeper’s private quarters consisted of a small parlor and an even smaller adjoining bedroom. Above the fireplace in the parlor hung a framed photograph of the staff—an older batch, before the arrival of Mrs. Meek and Becky Birtle. Another framed photograph, of a vivaciously pretty young woman, sat on Mrs. Cornish’s nightstand.

Treadles nearly made the mistake of asking whether the young woman was a niece before he realized she was none other than Mrs. Cornish, from half a lifetime ago. It occurred to him that the housekeeper wasn’t that old now—likely younger than Jenny Price.

“May I ask, Mrs. Cornish, why you gave a place to Jenny Price?”

“Oh, I didn’t, Inspector. Mrs. Struthers—the former Mrs. Curry—she took Jenny in about ten years ago.”

“And why did Mrs. Struthers make that choice?”

“The Prices are yeoman farmers. Lots of men trudging about, especially during planting and harvest. And Jenny, well, I’m sure you wouldn’t, Inspector, but there are men who would take advantage of a girl like that. Her parents tried to lock her in her room, but she gets in a bad way if she’s locked up all the time.”

Mrs. Cornish opened the door to the maids’ room. Two neatly made iron beds were arranged in the shape of an L. The one that presumably belonged to Jenny Price had a pair of slippers underneath. Inspector Treadles noted the bars on the window and the padlock on the door.

“Mrs. Struthers offered to take Jenny in,” Mrs. Cornish continued. “She was a widow then and except for the man who took care of her horses and her garden there was no other man on the property—and he lived above the stables, not in the house. Jenny can only manage simple tasks, but she works hard and Mrs. Struthers didn’t have to pay her. In fact, to this day the Prices supply a good portion of the foodstuff that goes into the kitchen.”

“But with Mr. Sackville’s arrival there were men in the house.”

“At first there was only Mr. Sackville himself—Mr. Hodges came later. It was when we knew that the house had been let to a gentleman that I put the lock on the maids’ door—and the bars outside the window. I wasn’t so much worried about anyone getting into Jenny’s room as that she’d be lured out. But I needn’t have worried. Mr. Sackville wasn’t that kind of man—and neither is Mr. Hodges.”

They were now in Mrs. Meek’s room. A photograph of her younger self sat on a desk. She had not been nearly as pretty as the young Mrs. Cornish, but she beamed with confidence.

“I haven’t asked you this, Mrs. Cornish. What is your opinion of Mr. Sackville as a man?”

Mrs. Cornish was taken aback. “He was a gentleman, of course.”

“Many men are born gentlemen, but not all are worthy of that term.”

“Well, he was a true gentleman. He was always courteous to everyone. And considerate. We used to do all our own washing here, in the house. When Mr. Sackville saw how hard and rough the work was, he told me to have the laundry sent out—he’d pay for it.” Her voice cracked a little. “Now that was real kindness, that.”

Her anecdote left an impression on Sergeant MacDonald. As they walked away from the house, after saying good-bye to Mrs. Cornish, he said, “A shame this Mr. Sackville died. He seemed a real gentleman.”

“It would appear so. But if experience has taught me anything, those who knew the deceased are unlikely to speak ill of him so soon after his passing—especially not to a pair of police officers.”

From Curry House, they were to head back to the village to call on Dr. Harris. But Treadles exclaimed softly, turned around, and rang the doorbell again.

Mrs. Cornish opened the door. “Inspector, did you forget something?”

“I did indeed, Mrs. Cornish. I forgot to ask where the Birtles live.” He and MacDonald could easily pay Becky Birtle a visit while they were in the area.

“They live in Yorkshire.”

“Yorkshire?” Young girls in service tended to find work nearby. Or they departed for the big cities via connections with family and friends. For Becky Birtle to travel from Yorkshire to a barely on-the-map village four hundred miles away was unusual, to say the least.

“I worked in Yorkshire years ago and knew the Birtles. When Becky was old enough to work, they asked me if I had a place for her—they said they’d feel less worried if someone they trusted kept an eye on her.”

“I see. Did you inform Becky that the police would like a word with her?”

“I wrote her parents as soon as I heard. But I don’t expect to hear back from them before tomorrow.”

“I see.”