A Study in Scarlet Women (Lady Sherlock #1)(86)

“How do you explain the discrepancies, Lady Sheridan?” Treadles demanded.

He was tired: He’d returned to London on the early train. But more than that, he was frustrated. The investigation had uncovered an abundance of information that seemed promising, only to then never lead anywhere. He wanted a suspect. He wanted proper answers. He wanted the case solved so he could sleep in his own bed—and wake up with his wife in his arms.

Lady Sheridan, however, displayed no inclination to help him achieve his objectives. “What does it matter when I left Bath, Inspector? An old woman is entitled to change her mind and head home earlier.”

She was even thinner than Treadles remembered, her voice scratchy and weary. He felt an onslaught of self-reproach. She was clearly not well and he’d fallen barely short of discourtesy.

“You had every right to modify your plans, ma’am. It is not that you changed your mind that brought me back, but that you failed to disclose the truth.”

Lady Sheridan sighed. Treadles had the strange sensation that her skeleton might rattle apart even with such a miniscule motion. “The truth is I had nothing to do with Mr. Sackville’s death.”

“Then, ma’am, you can have no objection to making your itinerary known—to remove yourself from suspicion.”

Lady Sheridan regarded him with something close to approval. “Very well then. I left Bath that evening, but had a spot of discomfort along my return route. I got off at the next stop, took a room at the nearest railway inn, and continued my journey the next day, when I felt more equal to the challenge.”

“Can anyone at the inn corroborate your account?”

“I’m afraid I didn’t pay much attention to where I was. All I needed was a bed that didn’t sway—it could have been any inn at any station along the line.”

It took a great deal of cheek to give such an answer. And a great deal of dignity to endow it with even a semblance of seriousness. “Ma’am, I’m afraid I can’t take that for an answer. Why wasn’t your maid with you?”

“When I decided to leave Bath she wasn’t feeling well. I told her she could follow the next day. But of course, en route I succumbed to the same thing.”

Treadles studied this frail yet formidable woman—and asked her the same question he’d asked Hodges. “What else have you been keeping from us, Lady Sheridan?”

The answer he received was also the exact same. “Nothing, Inspector. Nothing.”




Treadles did not neglect the servants of Lord and Lady Sheridan’s household. But her maid unhesitatingly confirmed that she had stayed overnight in Bath by herself. And none of the others could tell him anything more of Lady Sheridan’s precise itinerary—the majority had never even heard of Mr. Sackville.

Only the two senior-most staff recalled the days when Mr. Sackville had been a frequent and esteemed guest. “He’d bring friends. The friends would bring their friends,” said Mrs. Gomer, the housekeeper. “I used to complain about how much more work it was when he came around. But then he didn’t come around anymore and it was never the same. A house without young people is just not the same.”

“I was still a footman in those days,” said Mr. Addison, the butler. “A very young footman.”

They stood in the butler’s pantry, a small space allotted to Mr. Addison’s use, as he cleaned the tap meant to sit on top of a gasogene.

“Everybody looked forward to Mr. Sackville’s visits,” Mr. Addison continued, “especially Miss Clara—he was more a big brother to her than an uncle. And of course her friends visited—her cousins, too. It was a lively house then, the place in the country.”

“Mr. Sackville was well-liked?”

“Oh, yes.”

“Did he have any vices that you know of?”

Mr. Addison was filling the lower globe of the gasogene with water. He paused for a moment. “Not me, Inspector. He didn’t drink too much or gamble too much. Never made unreasonable demands of the staff. Never took advantage of us, if you know what I mean.”

Treadles nodded—he did know what Mr. Addison meant. “Would you happen to know why Lord Sheridan and Mr. Sackville fell out?”

Mr. Addison did not answer immediately, but concentrated on tapping scoops of white powder through a small funnel into the gasogene’s upper globe. “Inspector, I ought not say anything about it, but I’ll tell you because you’re looking for Mr. Sackville’s murderer in the wrong place.”

“Please do. I’ll be more than delighted to eliminate your master and mistress from the list of suspects.”

Mr. Addison peered at Treadles. When he was satisfied that Treadles had spoken in complete sincerity, he set aside the funnel. “The last time Mr. Sackville came to visit, I overheard an argument between the brothers. You probably know that Mr. Sackville was a great deal wealthier than his lordship. Well, Mr. Sackville’s advisors encouraged him to make certain investments. He passed on the suggestions to Lord Sheridan. The investments turned out badly. Mr. Sackville insisted on compensating his lordship for his losses and his lordship wouldn’t have it—said nobody forced him to put money in any ventures and he deuced well could take his losses on the chin, like a man.

“But Mr. Sackville wouldn’t let it rest. He went on insisting until his lordship exploded and told Mr. Sackville that Mr. Sackville understood the world only through the lens of his fortune. So his lordship was now poor as a church mouse, but what did it matter when his only child was dead and nothing would bring her back. Why couldn’t Mr. Sackville at least let him have his pride?”