A Study in Scarlet Women (Lady Sherlock #1)(84)

Mrs. Watson took on the role of Holmes’s sister. She briskly explained to the client the infelicities of the great detective’s health and the necessity for her to act as a go-between. Then, without asking Shrewsbury whether he needed to be reassured Holmes still had all his faculties, she said, “I can see that you have rarely been a man of your own mind, sir—you are surrounded by those accustomed to imposing their will on you, and you have been content to let them make your decisions. This then is quite a leap for you.”

“Yes,” came Shrewsbury’s hesitant words. “Yes, I suppose.”

“You mentioned nothing of what you wish to see Sherlock about, but he has hazarded that it has something to do with the circumstances surrounding your mother’s death.” Mrs. Watson smiled. “It couldn’t have been an easy decision to trust a stranger. My brother commends you for it.”

Her smile was so warm and encouraging, Charlotte would never have guessed that she had been adamantly against speaking any kind words to their caller. No, Sherlock Holmes ought to give him hell, expose him for the spineless cad he is.

The man probably believed, for at least forty-eight hours, that his conduct had been directly responsible for his mother’s death, Charlotte had explained. He’s useless, not heartless—not to mention we don’t want him to run out in mortification.

“I’m beyond gratified by Mr. Holmes’s understanding,” said Shrewsbury, sounding almost teary.

Charlotte sighed. The poor man, so unaccustomed to receiving a bit of compassion.

“He’s right—I’ve indeed come about my mother,” Shrewsbury continued. “When Mr. Holmes’s letter came about, linking her death with Lady Amelia’s and Mr. Sackville’s, everyone in the family was furious. But I—I couldn’t help wonder whether there wasn’t some truth to it, some nefarious conspiracy at work, if you will. My mother had the constitution of a camel. She could hike fifteen miles in the country, summer or winter. She never suffered from any aches or pains. And her physician, twenty years her junior, always said that her heart would keep on ticking long after his had given out.”

“So you agree with Sherlock’s assessment that hers hadn’t been a natural death.”

“I haven’t told anyone this, but the night before we found her dead, she went out. Now you must understand that it had been an awful evening. Nobody said anything at dinner. My wife was terribly upset because my mother scolded her for failing at her duties to keep me on the straight and narrow. I hadn’t received any lecture myself, but I was on pins and needles: It would be only a matter of time before mine crashed over me like an avalanche.

“As soon as dinner ended my wife retired for the evening. I hovered around my mother for a while, until she told me to go away—she’d deal with me the next day. It was oppressive at home, so I went out for a walk. And as I was coming back, I saw the most amazing sight, my mother getting inside a hansom cab.

“A hansom cab! She had never used a public conveyance in her life. She used to say that they smelled of unhygienic drunks and that she shuddered to think about the encrusted grime and filth. I couldn’t imagine what would have prompted her to get into a hansom cab when she was in town, with her own carriage parked in the mews behind the house, a quick summons away.”

“Did you ever ask?”

“No. Even if she hadn’t died I wouldn’t have dared. She was the one who asked the questions and pointed out where we fell short—not the other way around.” He was silent for a few seconds. “That was the last I saw her. I returned home and proceeded directly to the whisky bottle. I didn’t even hear Miss Livia Holmes and Mother having a row outside. The next thing I knew was my wife shaking me, trying to make me understand that Mother was no more.”

He clasped his hands together, as if trying to hold on to his courage. “Since then I’ve been trying to find out where she’d gone that evening and whom she’d seen, if anyone. So far I’ve managed to eliminate a few of her closest friends—but I always knew it couldn’t possibly have been them in the first place. She’d call on them in sackcloth before she would in a hansom cab.”

“Sherlock believes you would like for us to pass on this information to Scotland Yard—without revealing the source, of course. Is he correct?

Shrewsbury grimaced. “Mother would be turning over in her grave if she knew what I was doing. But I don’t want to accept that she died of an aneurysm of the brain. I don’t want to accept that I was the one who sent her to her grave.”

Mrs. Watson smiled again. “You have done very well to bring the matter to Sherlock’s attention.”

“Will it—will it help solve what happened to my mother?”

“Let me confer with Sherlock first.”

Charlotte already had her questions written down in a notebook. See, she mouthed to Mrs. Watson, he’s not so bad. To which Mrs. Watson responded with a dramatic roll of her eyes before taking the notebook and returning to the parlor.

“Sherlock has a few questions. First, Mr. Shrewsbury, where exactly did you see Lady Shrewsbury get on the hansom cab?”

“Near the corner of George Street and Bryanston Square.”

“And which way did it go?”

“Toward the east.”

“Did you watch it for some time? Did it turn onto any other street?”