A Study in Scarlet Women (Lady Sherlock #1)(41)

I implied nothing of the sort. He could have committed suicide, for all we know.—Not him, not Mr. Sackville. He told me he wanted to live to a hundred twenty.

He did? When?—Not long ago.

Under what circumstances did he tell you that?—I took a walk one Sunday afternoon, a couple of weeks after I started working at Curry House, and he did the same. We ran into each other right above the cove. I said I was sorry that it happened, but he said not to apologize. He said of course I’d want to have a stroll on a beautiful spring day. Said he looked forward to every spring. More so now that he was older and there wouldn’t be as many springs left for him. I told him he was going to live to a hundred. And he said he much preferred carrying on another twenty years past that.

I see. So you would swear on a Bible that he wouldn’t take his own life.—I would, Inspector. I’d swear on a stack of Bibles taller than me.

Then do you know anyone who might have a grudge against him?—I say them what be good and generous always have people who hates them.

Anyone specific?—His brother.

His brother?—Yes.

Have you met his brother?—No, his brother is some high and mighty lordship.

Then how do you know?—Mr. Sackville told me, of course. He said his brother would be happy if he were dead.




Ever since Treadles took on the investigation, he had been trying to arrange an interview with Lord Sheridan. And the next of kin to Lady Amelia Drummond and Lady Shrewsbury.

The ladies’ relations flatly refused to have anything to do with the police. Lord Shrewsbury—Lady Shrewsbury’s firstborn son and the current baron—went so far as to call Sherlock Holmes “a ghoulish, depraved rumormonger” and characterized Treadles’s professional interest as “shamelessly intruding on a family’s private grief.” But after some more back-and-forth with Lord Sheridan’s secretary, Treadles did manage to gain an appointment with the man’s employer.

The Sheridans’ address, unless Treadles was mistaken, placed their dwelling close to Lord Ingram’s, though not on the same street. Treadles had never seen Lord Ingram’s town house and found himself curious.

But first, business.

The Sheridan residence was third in a row of town houses, in white stone and stucco, with wrought-iron railings and a small portico above the entrance. A dour-looking footman opened the door and conducted them to a study.

The sight of an entire wall of books, as always, was delightful. As for the rest of the room—Treadles was no expert on the furnishing of houses, but even to his relatively untrained eye, the study appeared . . . threadbare. Literally so, in places. The two padded chairs set against the far wall should have been reupholstered years ago. The curtains, too, looked sorry. The carpet, which had once probably cost a fortune, was now in its most heavily trod areas barely thicker than a tea towel.

The footman left to fetch his master.

Sergeant MacDonald scooted closer to Treadles. “Thought I’d be afraid to set me bum down in a place like this. But I never guessed it’d be because I don’t dare put any more wear and tear on the chairs.”

Treadles answered in a similar whisper. “It’s the price of crops. They’ve been dropping a good long while and these old families who depend on the land for their income, well, that income has been dropping, too.”

“Then why doesn’t his lordship sell this house and live someplace smaller and cheaper, so he can at least afford new chairs?”

“Not so simple. The house might be entailed. In which case he can’t sell it even if he wants to, not without first petitioning Parliament or something equally complicated.”

“Huh, fancy that. But now he won’t be as poor, not with his dead brother’s money coming his way.”

The day before, Sergeant MacDonald had paid a visit to Mr. Sackville’s solicitors, who had confirmed for him that Mr. Sackville, despite his regular visits to London, had seldom called on his men of business. MacDonald had also obtained a copy of Mr. Sackville’s will: There were various odds-and-ends bequests, but the bulk of his fortune had gone to Lord Sheridan.

Which meant that Lord Sheridan, unlike everyone else involved with the case so far, had a motive that passed muster. He needed a great deal of funds; and by getting rid of his brother, he would come into a great deal of funds.

Men had killed for much less.

The door of the study opened again and their best suspect walked in. Lord Sheridan, a man of about seventy, was short and bald, but his eyes were sharp and his movement spry. He greeted the policemen and bade them to take seats before the big desk.

“My secretary tells me you have questions for me, concerning my brother’s death.”

“We hope you can shed some light onto the circumstances of Mr. Sackville’s passing, sir. You have heard of the connection that has been made between his death and those of Lady Amelia Drummond and Lady Shrewsbury?”

“It is one of the leading topics of the day,” said Lord Sheridan with distaste. “That and the identity of this meddlesome Sherlock Holmes. Harrington retired from Society decades ago. The younger generation does not even know who he was. And now all manners of unfounded speculations circulate and multiply.

“But no, I cannot help you. My brother and I had not spoken in many years. I am unfamiliar with what his habits and inclinations had become.”