A Study in Scarlet Women (Lady Sherlock #1)(68)

Treadles sighed inwardly. “I do not plan to—yet. But I strongly caution you to remain in this house—or be considered a fugitive from the law.”




Treadles did not forget about the photograph, but Mrs. Cornish had a ready explanation. “Becky took it with her when she left. She wanted to go home, but she was afraid her parents wouldn’t let her leave again. So she asked for the photograph as a memento.”

Treadles nodded. “During my interviews with other members of the staff, I learned of a whisky decanter that you were searching for, Mrs. Cornish. You failed to mention it to me.”

Mrs. Cornish sucked in a breath. “But that had nothing to do with the case. There’s never been any theft in this house for as long as I’ve been here and I was upset that as soon as Mr. Sackville died somebody thought it was all right to swipe something of his.”

On the face of it, this was a plausible enough explanation. But then again, if one merely went by appearances, there would not be an investigation into Mr. Sackville’s death. “Did you ever find it?”

“No,” said the housekeeper immediately.

“Do let us know if it turns up.”

“Of course, Inspector.” Mrs. Cornish smiled tightly. “Of course.”





Sixteen





The response to Sherlock Holmes’s advertisement in the papers was beyond anything Charlotte could have anticipated. Even Mrs. Watson declared herself more than gratified by the influx of inquiries.

There were, as she had cautioned Charlotte, a number of letters that had nothing to do with perplexing issues that needed unraveling. Several missives scolded Sherlock Holmes for interfering in matters that were none of his concern—one purporting to be from a friend of Lady Amelia’s, another a relation of Lady Shrewsbury’s. A few others claimed friendship—and kinship—with the fictional Holmes, expressing hope for renewed acquaintance and perhaps some financial assistance. The ones that amused her the most were a half dozen or so marriage proposals, from women who didn’t want the singular genius of their time to lack the warmth and solicitude of a good wife.

There was even a gentleman convinced that Holmes must be of the Uranian persuasion.

Great men, in my observation, are more likely than not to harbor a deep love for other great men. I therefore urge you to join our society and together strive to overturn the prejudices that would condemn us and the barriers that would have us always be outsiders, fearful of discovery and banishment.

“I would join his society in a heartbeat,” said Charlotte to Mrs. Watson, “but I fear I shall disappoint him bitterly.”

A portion of the remaining inquiries were rejected right away as spurious.

“This man asserts that he has an income of four thousand pounds a year and wants to know whether his fiancée is sincere in her affection for him or only for his money.” Mrs. Watson scoffed. “Look at this paper. I should be surprised if he has an income of four hundred pounds a year.”

Another letter, from a young woman who worked in a florist shop and was puzzled by the conduct of a customer who always bought a single rose but suddenly bought a bouquet of yellow zinnias, seemed legitimate enough to Mrs. Watson. But Charlotte, after looking at it, declared it fabricated. “Lord Ingram is an accomplished calligrapher. And he has taught me that while it is possible for a person to master more than one style of handwriting, it takes a great deal of practice to achieve fluidity in the flow of the letters. And even when one does, there might still be noticeable hesitation at the beginnings and the ends of words. In fact, looking at the script, I would guess the writer to be working for a newspaper.”

Mrs. Watson’s eyes widened—there had been a number of inquiries from the papers, wishing for a word with Mr. Holmes, which they’d promptly discarded. Charlotte grinned. “No, his handwriting didn’t tell me that, but the letter is postmarked very close to the premises of The Times. Our would-be trickster didn’t realize that he had better be more committed to his fraud if he wanted a face-to-face meeting with the mysterious Sherlock Holmes.”

Their first actual client at 18 Upper Baker Street was a young man with a pink, eager face. He had been courting a lovely young lady. Her birthday was in three weeks and he had asked what he ought to give her. In response she had given him a riddle to test the depth of his devotion.

What I’d like to receive is to be found at the beginning of the year, in the middle of the longest word in the dictionary, at the bottom of the stairs, and the end of eternity. Does this turn you upside down? Then you must flip yourself the right way around.

Charlotte disappeared into “Sherlock’s” bedroom for three minutes, then returned with a big smile on her face. “My brother has solved the riddle for you. If you take the letter at the beginning of the word ‘year’—”

“I did try that route earlier,” said the young man. “The beginning of the word ‘year’ yields the letter y. Bottom of the stairs would give me s, and end of eternity another y. But what’s the longest word in the dictionary?”

“That would depend on the dictionary, wouldn’t it? But the longest word in the word ‘dictionary’ is itself.”

The young man gasped with delight. “And the letter in the middle of the word is . . . ah . . .”