A Study in Scarlet Women (Lady Sherlock #1)(65)

“It is what every housekeeper supposes—and hopes for—that those who serve under her are a meticulously law-abiding lot. But you do not know the background of everyone here, do you?”

Reluctantly Mrs. Cornish shook her head.

“Who in this household would wish Mr. Sackville harm?”

“No one!”

“You know that is not true: Someone under this roof very much wished the master harm. You are responsible for the running of the place. You should know of any domestic tension that had the potential to mutate and fester.”

Mrs. Cornish gripped her teacup with both hands. “Sir, you mustn’t think this house was a hotbed of ill will. It was nothing of the sort.”

“It would be a thoughtless poisoner who makes his hatred widely known. Have you observed subtler signs of discontent and resentment?”

“I’ve never had any complaints against Mr. Sackville. Becky thought him a fine gentleman. Jenny Price adored him. Mrs. Meek is new here and she’s anyway the cheerful sort, always a good word for everything and everyone.”

This did not sound to Treadles like a compliment, more the politeness of someone who could do with a bit less of that determined agreeableness.

“Tommy Dunn thought the sun rose and set on Mr. Sackville’s shoulders. And Mr. Hodges . . . Mr. Hodges holds his cards close to his chest.”

Treadles raised a brow but only waited.

Mrs. Cornish took a large gulp of her tea. “I used to think that he and Mr. Sackville rubbed along just fine. But last Christmas, when Tommy Dunn had the fob from the master and couldn’t stop taking out his watch to check the time, Mr. Hodges looked at him as if he were an idiot. I thought maybe he was a little jealous—Tommy Dunn had no reason to receive a gift almost as fine as the one he himself got.

“When Mrs. Meek came, she was impressed with everything. Mr. Hodges would have this stony look on his face when she and Tommy Dunn agreed on how fine the house was and what a grand gentleman the master was. One time he even got up and left the servants’ hall.”

Hodges, when called in to the drawing room to answer questions, immediately repudiated Mrs. Cornish’s claims. “Maybe I did roll my eyes at Tommy Dunn a few times, but only because it was bordering on unseemly, how often he showed off that watch fob. A grown man ought to know better. I left the servants’ hall that day after supper because it was about to rain and I remembered I’d left my window open a crack—I was back five minutes later. And it wasn’t Tommy Dunn Mrs. Meek was talking to at that time, it was Becky Birtle.”

A thought came to Treadles. “You are sure it wasn’t Miss Birtle speaking with Mr. Dunn?”

“As far as I could tell, those two had nothing to say to each other.”

This was odd. In a household full of older people, they were the only two youngsters. “Has it always been like that?”

“Not always. When Becky first arrived, she talked a good deal to Tommy Dunn. And he was helpful to her. But then it all changed. He used to stay after supper to hear us talk—never said much himself but wanted to listen, especially if we brought up places we’d been and sights we’d seen. Not long after Becky came, he stopped. Just left at the end of supper and went back to his own room.”

This fit with the supposition that Tommy Dunn had perhaps been sweet on Becky Birtle—and disappointed in his affection.

“Is there anything else you can tell us, Mr. Hodges, that might help us in our investigation?”

Hodges thought for a moment. “When I came back from my holiday for the inquest, the whisky decanter in Mr. Sackville’s bedroom was gone.”

“Did you look for it?”

“I asked Mrs. Cornish. She said she’d looked all over the house and couldn’t find it.”

Whisky would have been a good means of administering arsenic. In fact, anything would have been a good means of administering arsenic. It was not for nothing that arsenic had been a favorite weapon in the poisoner’s arsenal. The powder was odorless and tasteless, easy to disguise in food and beverage. Not to mention, the symptoms of arsenic poisoning closely matched those of cholera—and in places where the water supply was not in question, could be blamed on gastric attacks.

“I might as well let you know, Mr. Hodges, that arsenic was found in Mr. Sackville’s body.”

Hodges’s hands closed into fists. He exhaled heavily a few times. “The tricks with the strychnine were ghastly enough. Arsenic, too?”

“Arsenic, too. How frequently did Mr. Sackville take his whisky?”

“Almost—” Hodges blew out another shaky breath. “Almost every day, but he never took more than a thimbleful or two.”

“On what occasions did he not take it?”

“When the weather was warm, he might ask to have a glass of wine instead. The cellar keeps the wine cool.”

“I believe I’ve asked you this before, but let me ask you again, Mr. Hodges. Do you know of anyone—specifically, anyone in this house—who might have wished Mr. Sackville dead?”

A muscle leaped at the corner of Hodges’s jaw, but his answer was firm. “No.”

“Do you know of anyone who might have wanted him to suffer?”

The gastric attacks Mr. Sackville had endured in recent months were most likely not gastric attacks at all, but the effects of arsenic.