A Study in Scarlet Women (Lady Sherlock #1)(40)
Except Charlotte wasn’t dressed like a typist at all. This was what she would have worn for a day at the Reading Room of the British Library—and no one there had ever treated her as anything but a lady.
Miss Oswald pursed her lips. “Your typing speed, Miss Morrison?”
“Forty-five words a minute. I’m also familiar with Pitman’s system of phonemic orthography.” An honest answer. In her former life, she had many, many hours to fill—learning shorthand was as good a way to pass time as any. “If there are employers willing to have a female secretary, I’m sure I can handle the demands.”
“Indeed,” said Miss Oswald coolly. “I shall be astounded if you aren’t equal to the task, Miss Morrison. But first I must get in touch with Broadbent, Lucas and Sons.”
Charlotte sucked in a breath. The reason she’d gone to the trouble to counterfeit a law firm’s stationery was so that its authenticity wouldn’t be questioned.
“We’ve had word of a lady journalist masquerading as an applicant,” Miss Oswald continued, “trying to dig up dirt on those of us in the business of matching qualified women with reputable employers. I’m not saying that you are she—of course not—but you will understand why I have no wish to unwittingly assist in such muckraking.”
“Naturally not.”
“It will take me ten days or so to complete the check and to review my openings. You may return Friday of next week to see whether I have found anything appropriate to your background and skills.”
If Miss Oswald had heard about such a lady journalist from others in the business, then no doubt she would pass along that she had encountered the very woman, one who dressed too well for an applicant and bore with her a letter of character from Broadbent, Lucas and Sons.
Her stomach clenched, Charlotte rose, said her thank-you, and left.
Inspector Treadles, back at his desk at Scotland Yard, scanned the papers for their coverage of the Sackville case. Speculation was rampant, as much regarding the mysterious Sherlock Holmes as concerning the identity and motives of those dastardly individuals who might have done away with Mr. Sackville, Lady Amelia Drummond, and Lady Shrewsbury.
Theories on the deaths were wildly inventive—everything from dangerous secret societies to the testing of a new, untraceable chemical. About Sherlock Holmes, opinions were sharply divided. Some insisted that he was no relation to Miss Olivia Holmes, the young woman who had quarreled with Lady Shrewsbury the night before the latter died—Holmes was hardly a rare surname. Others pointed out that one was far more likely to find this man by searching more obscure branches of the family tree than among the general public: Didn’t it make more sense for a kinsman, however remote, to come to the aid of the beleaguered Olivia Holmes?
“Your post, sir,” came Sergeant MacDonald’s voice. “Something from Inspector Waller for you.”
Before Inspector Treadles left Devonshire, he had sent a cable to Inspector Waller of the West Riding Constabulary, calling in a favor. “Excellent!” he exclaimed, accepting the letter from MacDonald. “Any further response from Lord Sheridan’s secretary?”
“Not yet.” MacDonald pulled out his watch. “But the next post is only fifty-five minutes away.”
He sauntered off. Treadles looked fondly at his retreating form, remembering himself as a bright-eyed young sergeant, eager to learn the tricks of the trade.
With a wistful shake of the head, he returned his attention to Inspector Waller’s missive.
Dear Treadles,
Enclosed please find a transcript of my interview with Becky Birtle. Constable Small, who came with me, takes excellent shorthand. You may be certain of the accuracy of the document.
The girl was a bit of an odd bird. Thinks very highly of herself. The parents are all right, solid, salt-of-the-earth sorts. They were befuddled by the whole affair and sought reassurance several times that their daughter wasn’t in any trouble.
Anyway, glad to render a service—delighted, in fact. Let me know if there is anything else I can do for you.
Waller
Treadles picked up the transcript. Becky Birtle’s version of events didn’t accord in every detail with those given by Mrs. Cornish and Mrs. Meek—a good thing, or it would lead him to think she had been tutored in her answers. But all three women’s accounts agreed enough that minor disparities could be attributed to the vagaries of human memory.
Her description of the twenty-four hours before also did not differ too much from everyone else’s: household duties, an afternoon spent with the vicar’s wife, who organized activities so that girls in service didn’t get into trouble on their half days and Sundays, and a return to Curry House in the evening for supper and bed. She complained about Mrs. Meek’s food, “so bland, but she’s a nice woman,” and about being locked in nightly with Jenny Price, “as if we was chickens in a coop, with weasels prowling outside.” And she’d have had more to say about Mrs. Cornish’s strictness, but Inspector Waller moved on from the subject.
An exchange toward the end of the interview caught Treadles’s eye.
Now most likely your Mr. Sackville died of an accidental overdose, but since we can’t be sure yet, I have to ask you this: Do you know of anyone who might wish him harm?—You mean someone killed him? I knew it. I knew it the moment I heard that letter at the inquest.