A Study in Scarlet Women (Lady Sherlock #1)(79)

“I—I guess so.”

“Then can you tell me who might have had suspicions?”

She twisted her fingers. “Will that person become a suspect?”

“With no obvious motives, and in a household this small, everybody already is a suspect. You wouldn’t be broadening our field of suspects, Miss Birtle, but narrowing it.”

“I suppose that’s all right then,” she said uncertainly. “And it really wouldn’t make him a suspect, I don’t think.”

A him. “Was it Tommy Dunn?”

“Tommy?” she laughed. “Tommy wouldn’t care if I fell off the cliffs.”

“I understand he was initially receptive to having another young person at Curry House. What changed?”

“Ask him.” Amusement flashed in Becky’s eyes. And a trace of smugness.

“I have. He refused to answer. Perhaps you could help him out—tell me why and eliminate him from suspicion.”

This was not strictly true. Even if Tommy Dunn’s dislike of Becky had nothing to do with what went on between the latter and Mr. Sackville, he could still be an accomplice, albeit an unlikely one, for Lord or Lady Sheridan.

“Only if you swear never to tell anyone.”

“I can only promise that if it has nothing to do with the case.”

“It has nothing to do with anything. I caught Tommy with Mr. Weeks, the sexton from Barton Cross, when I was out on a walk.” Her expression turned more somber. “You truly mustn’t ever tell anyone, Inspector. I teased Tommy—and told him I had a hard time keeping secrets. I didn’t mean it. But he was so scared. I was put out that he thought I would tell on him. But he must have been mad with fear—he didn’t have anywhere else to go and Mr. Weeks has children to support. He didn’t believe that I’d keep him safe.”

Treadles couldn’t understand such goings-on between men, but he well knew the consequences of exposure. “His secret is safe with me.”

“Thank you, Inspector,” Becky Birtle said softly.

Treadles let a minute of silence pass. They sat, almost companionably, he drinking his tepid tea, she nibbling on a biscuit that looked rock hard.

“So it was Mr. Hodges who noticed something about you and Mr. Sackville?”

The girl nodded. “The next day after my horrible stomachache, Mr. Hodges asked if I’d pinched Mr. Sackville’s whisky. I asked him if he was calling me a thief. He said Mr. Sackville is careful about his tummy and don’t take more than a few sips but twice that much was gone from the decanter—and that I was the only other person to go in that room.

“So I told him that I did drink but only because Mr. Sackville offered, and it would have been rude to refuse. Mr. Hodges scowled something mighty and said gentlemen was different than regular folk. Nobody holds them accountable and I better have a care for myself.”

She turned her face to the side. With a start Treadles understood why she had looked oddly familiar when he met her for the first time: the picture of a young Mrs. Cornish that he had seen at Curry House. There was a good resemblance if one happened to see Becky from certain angles.

He had considered Mrs. Cornish from the perspective of a scorned lover, an angry bystander, and opportunistic collaborator. But Mrs. Cornish as a deeply concerned kinswoman opened an entire new vista of possibilities.

“When you left, Mrs. Cornish said you took a photograph of the staff as a memento.”

“I didn’t leave, Mrs. Cornish dismissed me—said I was making too much of a nuisance of myself, fainting and crying.” She flattened her lips. “Maybe I was. And I never took that photograph—the only person I’d have wanted to remember was Mr. Sackville and he wasn’t in it. I found the picture in my suitcase after I came home.”

The discrepancies made Treadles’s heart pound: having Becky hundreds of miles away—and the only image of her exiled from the house—would ensure that no one suspected any blood ties between the two. “I’d like to see the photograph. And I’ll need you to hand me the decanter of whisky.”

Becky Birtle excused herself and returned with both items.

Treadles examined the decanter, which still contained two inches of intoxicant. It occurred to him that Becky Birtle could have emptied and replaced the contents of the decanter. But a quick sniff was enough to let him know that the amber fluid inside was no cheap grog, but the best Scotland had to offer.

He next turned his attention to the photograph. The captured images of Mrs. Cornish and Becky Birtle did not show much likeness, but all the same Treadles asked Becky Birtle to fetch her parents.

Mr. Birtle, a former gamekeeper who could no longer work on account of his arthritis, was indeed old for someone with so young an only child. His wife was a square slab of a woman and possibly even older than he. Becky Birtle closed the door and left, her footsteps fading away on the squeaky floorboards.

Treadles waited until she was out of hearing range. “Mr. Birtle, Mrs. Birtle, I understand that the questions I am about to ask will seem intrusive. I hope you will forgive me.”

The couple looked at each other.

“Yes, Inspector?” Mrs. Birtle sounded as if she rarely spoke, her voice resembling the rasp of rusted gears forced to rotate.

“I must ask whether you are Becky’s natural parents.”