A Study in Scarlet Women (Lady Sherlock #1)(77)

Certainly not without compelling reason.

Dear Charlotte,

A message arrived from Lady Avery just now. She had checked her diary from years ago and admitted that she and her sister were both incorrect as to where the tutor Sophia Lonsdale married went for his next position. It was neither Budapest nor Vienna, but Berlin.

The far more important part, however, was buried near the end of her note: Because of the third act starting, she did not have the time to tell me that Sophia Lonsdale died more than twenty years ago while on holiday in Switzerland.

Your servant,

Ashburton





Eighteen





“Bony like a goat” was an unkind description for Becky Birtle. But she was waiflike in appearance: small and thin, with big brown eyes and surprisingly pink lips.

Not beautiful, as Mrs. Meek had said, but pretty enough with the smooth skin and good health of youth.

And oddly familiar in her features.

She sat with her shoulders hunched, her teeth clenched over her lower lip. “Is it true, Inspector, that Mr. Sackville—someone poisoned him with arsenic?”

“Yes, it’s true.”

A hollowness came into her eyes. “I thought—when it came out that he’d been murdered, I thought it had to be his brother. But arsenic—that’s someone in the house, isn’t it?”

“Most likely.”

“But why?” That question was uttered so softly it was addressed more to herself than anyone else. “He was such a nice person.”

“How was he nice?”

She looked toward a row of postcards on the mantel, which was but a length of darkened wood beam that must have been salvaged from some other structure. The Birtles’ ancient cottage was a far cry from the modern splendor of Curry House. The ceiling was so low Treadles could scarcely stand straight. The smoke-darkened walls and the scarcity of windows gave the entire interior an air of permanent gloom.

“Mr. Sackville talked to me.” Again she seemed to be speaking to herself. “He was the only one who did. Everybody else only told me to do this and that.”

“I thought young maids had no leave to speak to the master. How did you and Mr. Sackville become so friendly?”

“We met on the coast path. I took a walk one Sunday afternoon and so did he. When I saw him, I said I was sorry to be in his way. He said a young lady never needed to apologize for going about her business. Then I told him that I worked for him and that Mrs. Cornish would have my hide if she knew I spoke to him.

“He laughed and said, ‘Never mind Mrs. Cornish.’ Then he asked me if I wouldn’t walk with him for a bit and tell him about myself.”

That easy demeanor and friendly curiosity must have made a powerful impact on the girl. “What did you tell him?”

“Hardly anything. He asked ’bout where I was from. How I liked Curry House. If the others treated me proper. And I said Yorkshire, yes, sir, and yes, sir. He said then if I was too nervous to talk I didn’t need to say ought else.”

“How much distance do you think you covered?”

“A mile. Maybe a mile and a furlong.”

Around twenty-five minutes then, depending on the terrain and their walking speed. “So you said nothing else the rest of that time?”

“No. But two days later I was in the study dusting. He came in for some papers and saw me with a book in my hand. I thought he’d be angry at me for touching his things, but he only asked what book was it. I told him it was a book about Japan. He asked if I liked it.” She emitted a wistful sigh. “And we started talking.”

“Was it always questions on his side and answers on your side?”

“He let me ask him questions, too. If he read all the books in the house. If he’d ever touched an electric switch. If he remembered a time before the queen was the queen.”

“He answered everything you asked?”

“Not everything. Not when I asked him why he went to London.”

Treadles’s ears perked. “How—and when—did that come about?”

“It was my fourth week at the house. Mrs. Cornish made me clean the upstairs sitting room again. Said it weren’t done proper the first time. That was when Mr. Sackville came in. He asked me why I looked put out, I explained, and he said it looked perfectly proper to him. I said it was a right travesty”—the girl pronounced the word carefully and with relish—“that what was good enough for him weren’t good enough for Mrs. Cornish. He laughed and said that of course a housekeeper was a greater expert on the cleanliness of the house than the master and I ought to listen to her. But he was going to London that day. Was there anything that he could get for me from London, to make me feel better about having to clean the sitting room twice?

“I said I didn’t have enough money to buy anything. He said it would be a gift. So I told him that I didn’t get a good look at London when I passed through and I’d like a nice postcard—then it’d be like I got to see at least one good place. He came back with half a dozen for me. Real pretty ones.”

Treadles glanced at the mantel. “Those ones?”

“Yes, Inspector.”

Treadles moved to the fireplace and examined the postcards. They each bore puncture marks at the corners. “You had these on the wall of your room at Curry House?”