A Study in Scarlet Women (Lady Sherlock #1)(82)

Treadles pulled out a chair but did not sit down. “And then he proved himself not quite as above reproach as you had thought.”

Mrs. Cornish’s lips quivered. “You think . . . you think . . .”

“You failed to inform Tommy Dunn of details of Mr. Sackville’s condition that would have let a physician know that he was in need of strychnine. You said Becky requested to take the photograph when instead you stowed it among her things so that no one else would find out that she is your daughter and that you had a strong motive to protect her. Not to mention that you were, according to everyone else, desperately searching for a missing whisky decanter.”

“Are you implying there was arsenic in the whisky?” cried Mrs. Cornish, her gloved hands gripping the edge of the desk that separated them.

“Becky suffered a gastric attack the same day Mr. Sackville was forced to spend the night in Exeter. The only thing they both had was whisky from the decanter.”

“If there was arsenic in the whisky, I didn’t put it there. I might not have been completely truthful earlier, Inspector, but it was to save my position and my reputation, not my neck!”

Her breaths echoed harshly in the small room. Treadles waited until she had regained a measure of her composure. “Did Mr. Hodges tell you that Mr. Sackville offered Becky some of his whisky?”

“He did—and said I ought to keep a closer eye on the girl. So I snuck by when Becky cleaned abovestairs. Several times a day I did this and never once did I see Mr. Sackville with her. I kept it up until the day before Mr. Sackville died. What reason did I have to poison Mr. Sackville, when I’d no evidence that he took advantage of Becky, or even thought about it?”

“Then why were you scrambling for the whisky decanter, going so far as to snoop in Tommy Dunn’s quarters for it?”

“I didn’t want to believe that Becky took it.” She looked at him beseechingly. “I didn’t want to believe that my own flesh and blood was a thief.”

“Why did you secret the photograph in her luggage then?”

“Before Becky came, I was afraid I’d never want her to leave again. But she came and . . . she was a stranger. She thought a little too well of herself. She didn’t like to work too hard. And she didn’t care a whit for life in service except that she was in the household of a real gentleman.”

Mrs. Cornish sighed. “I remember the housekeeper at my first place scolding the maids and I remember thinking how unsympathetic and needlessly strict she was. But I’ve become that woman. I can’t understand why Becky doesn’t take greater pride in her work and I can’t understand why dust on the mantel doesn’t feel like dust in the eyes to her. She was a disappointing housemaid to me and I must have been an ogre of a housekeeper to her.

“But I wanted her to have the photograph. I didn’t offer it to her because I thought she’d find that offer strange. But I figured that if she had it, she’d keep it. And maybe someday, when she’s a good deal older herself, she’ll look back and understand that I wasn’t being unreasonable, but responsible.”

A knock came on the door, startling her. She looked fearfully at Treadles.

Treadles rose. “If you’ll excuse me.”

On the other side of the door was Constable Perkins. “Sir, the results from the chemical analyst.”

Treadles took the cable—and swore. The whisky he’d retrieved from Becky Birtle contained no trace of arsenic. Nor any trace of chloral.

“I also have a message on the Wheatstone machine from Sergeant MacDonald,” said the young constable.


Dear Inspector Treadles,

Dozens showed up at Scotland Yard to testify to Mr. Sackville’s movements in London—the hazards of soliciting help in the paper. One man seems credible.

According to him, Mr. Sackville regularly visited the house across the street from his in Lambeth, usually shortly before dinner. He remarked Mr. Sackville because he was a fine-looking gentleman and didn’t seem to belong to the district. The most interesting thing he said, however, was that the house burned down some six weeks ago—which fits nicely with the occasion of Mr. Sackville’s final trip to London, the one from which he returned early and distraught.

To be thorough, I showed the man a picture of the staff at Curry House. To my surprise, he immediately identified Hodges the valet. I asked if Hodges ever accompanied Mr. Sackville, he said not that he’d ever seen, but he remembered Hodges because once Hodges knocked on his door and asked if he knew what went on in the house Mr. Sackville visited.

I will interview others in the neighborhood to see if they have seen either Mr. Sackville or Hodges.

MacDonald




Clandestine entry into a suite of rooms at Claridge’s should be a straightforward affair: One bribed a porter or two and proceeded.

Apparently not, especially if one’s debut in breaking and entering was to take place under Lord Ingram’s watchful eyes. There was a protocol, which consisted of handing the matter over to Lord Bancroft Ashburton, Lord Ingram’s second-eldest brother and Charlotte’s one-time suitor, a man of many responsibilities and almost as many means of achieving his ends—and waiting until Lord Bancroft issued a suitable time for the burglary to take place.

“It takes the fun out of the thing to have approval from high places,” Charlotte complained to Lord Ingram, as they walked into Mrs. Marbleton’s large, empty suite. “This ought to feel more . . . illegal.”