A Study in Scarlet Women (Lady Sherlock #1)(57)

He frowned and set the notebook down again.

Lord Ingram was before the mantel, looking at framed photographs, his brow furrowed. Treadles moved to the bookshelf and picked up a slim volume lying on its side, by none other than Lord Ingram himself, titled A Summer in Roman Ruins. Treadles remembered his lordship mentioning that he’d explored the remnants of a Roman villa on his uncle’s estate. He didn’t know Lord Ingram had also produced a written account.

The book was dedicated to “that wellspring of warmth and good sense, my friend and ally, J. H. R.” The next page bore an inscription, To Holmes, Long may you carry on as a reprobate of the first order. Ash.

“Holmes dictated that inscription,” said Lord Ingram from across the room.

Treadles chuckled. He’d read only two pages when Miss Holmes said, a hint of mirth in her voice, “Oh, the twists and turns in the plot of Lord Ingram’s archeological adventure.”

Treadles returned the book to its place. “Mr. Holmes has read everything?”

“Yes.”

“And does he have any fresh insights?” asked Treadles, almost embarrassingly eager to receive what bounty of perspicuity Holmes might have to impart.

“He noticed a discrepancy about the curtains in Mr. Sackville’s room.”

“Oh?”

“Becky Birtle, the maid who first found Mr. Sackville in an unconscious state, said in her testimony at the inquest that she opened the curtains as soon as she went to Mr. Sackville’s room. But in your interview with Mrs. Meek, the cook, she is recorded as saying that she and Mrs. Cornish, the housekeeper, opened the curtains after they reached the room, to have a better look at Mr. Sackville.”

Treadles hoped his disappointment didn’t show. “I noticed that as well, but I attributed it to the vagaries of memory—witnesses almost always recollect the same events with noticeable differences. What does Mr. Holmes see as the significance of that discrepancy?”

Miss Holmes glanced at Lord Ingram. “With regard to the reconvening of the inquest tomorrow, nothing. It will be easily dismissed as vagaries of memory, as you said. Overall Sherlock concurs with your assessment that there isn’t enough evidence to persuade the coroner’s jury to return a verdict that will allow you to carry on with the investigation.”

This time Treadles didn’t bother to hide his dismay. “Is there nothing we can do then?”

Miss Holmes tapped the tips of her fingers against one another. “You can test the bottles of strychnine in Dr. Harris’s and Dr. Birch’s dispensaries.”

Had he misheard? “Strychnine? Mr. Sackville died of chloral.”

“We, however, are operating on the assumption that his death was not an accidental overdose, but a murder that is meant to appear as an accidental overdose.” Miss Holmes leaned forward an inch. “Were you the systematic executor who could pull off multiple murders that appear otherwise, Inspector, what would you have done ahead of time to make sure that Mr. Sackville wasn’t saved by a dose of strychnine delivered just in time?”

It was the first time that anyone had, within Treadles’s hearing, referred to the deaths of Mr. Sackville, Lady Amelia Drummond, and Lady Shrewsbury as murders. A chill ran down his spine. “Are you implying, Miss Holmes, that I would have tampered with the supply of strychnine in the vicinity?”

“Yes. So that even if help reached Mr. Sackville before the point of no return, that help would have been administered in vain.”

Treadles let out a breath. “That is both diabolical and brilliant.”

“It is, let’s face it, quite a reach,” said Miss Holmes modestly. “But at this point, Inspector, what do you have to lose?”

“True, nothing. But I must make haste, if I hope to achieve anything in time.”

Cables needed to be sent immediately to have the evidence gathered for testing. He had planned to leave for Devon first thing in the morning, but now it would seem that he had better be on his way as soon as possible, to be there in the morning and urge matters along.

He rose. “Thank you, Miss Holmes. And please convey my gratitude to Mr. Holmes. I will see myself out.”

“Inspector?”

“Yes, Miss Holmes?”

Miss Holmes smiled a little. “My brother advises that you request the chemical analyst to also test Mr. Sackville for every poison for which he has an assay. If the strychnine turns out not to have been tampered with, then this will be our last hope, to find something in Mr. Sackville’s system that couldn’t have arrived there accidentally.”





Thirteen





A silence fell at Inspector Treadles’s departure.

Charlotte moved to the window seat and poured a little water into the vase of roses. She was surprised to see raindrops rolling down the windowpanes. A shower fell, quiet and steady. A carriage passed below, hooves and wheels splashing, a yellow halo around each lantern.

She had expected Lord Ingram to stay longer—they were friends of long standing, having known each other since they were children. She had very much looked forward to a word in private with him. But she forgot, as she usually did, the silence that always came between them in these latter years, whenever they found themselves alone.

The sensation in her chest, however, was all too familiar, that mix of pleasure and pain, never one without the other.