A Study in Scarlet Women (Lady Sherlock #1)(87)

So Lady Sheridan had not been lying when she’d characterized the spat as an argument about manly honor.

Mr. Addison carefully fitted the long-tubed tap on top of the gasogene and shook the entire apparatus for the powders—tartaric acid and bicarbonate of soda, if Treadles remembered correctly—to react with water. The contents of the gasogene bubbled, hissing faintly. “Mr. Sackville left that day itself. I always felt bad about their estrangement. It wasn’t really any kind of insurmountable dispute. But Mr. Sackville never came back. And I guess he had the last word after all, when he left his fortune to his lordship.”

Sometimes, the more you know, the less things make sense, Treadles’s father-in-law had once said. If it had been the other way around, if Lord Sheridan had insisted Mr. Sackville compensate him for soured investments and Mr. Sackville had refused, then the Sheridans would have been much more likely to hold a grudge all these years, a grudge that could have turned cancerous.

But why would anyone kill a man who wanted to make it up to them, even though strictly speaking he hadn’t been at fault and had suffered his own losses?

“I think Lord Sheridan always expected that Mr. Sackville would come striding back someday—and it would be as if there had never been a quarrel,” said Mr. Addison, setting the gasogene aside for the gas to percolate into the water. “A shame that didn’t happen—and won’t ever happen now.”

Treadles thanked the butler. And then, out of personal curiosity, he said, “I rather like that gadget, the gasogene. But the missus won’t allow one—she says too many of them explode and she has no desire to be married to a one-eyed policeman.”

Mr. Addison chuckled. “Well, gasogenes don’t come wrapped in wicker for nothing. They will explode if they aren’t handled carefully. That’s why I make the soda water myself, instead of giving the task to a footman.”

The gasogene didn’t look as if it would hold more than two quarts of water and it needed to sit for a considerable amount of time to complete the carbonation. “I can see that it makes enough for a small family, but what about when you have guests?”

“We have another one. And we can always store water that’s been carbonated in bottles for a short while. But you are right, this wouldn’t have been enough in the old days. When we used to have a house full of guests we had gas delivered in canisters—but then again, canisters have their dangers, too. Any gas under pressure does.”

“Very true.” Treadles glanced at the gasogene again, still tempted. Perhaps Alice might relent if he could find a way to further reinforce those glass globes. “And if you don’t mind one last question from me, Mr. Addison, do you have any theories as to why anyone would wish Mr. Sackville harm?”

The butler shook his head. “It’s been decades since any of us last saw him. He could have met all kinds of unsavory characters in those intervening years. All I can tell you is that his death has nothing to do with anyone in this house.”




A knock came on the door of Lord Ingram’s darkroom. “My lord,” said a footman, “Mr. Shrewsbury to see you. Are you at home to him?”

That ass. “You may show him in here.”

Shrewsbury knew enough to enter quickly, closing the door behind himself. “Oh, good. This place doesn’t stink as badly as I’d have expected.”

“It’s ventilated,” Lord Ingram said coolly, as he pinned another photograph to a cord strung across the width of the room. “What can I do for you, Mr. Shrewsbury?”

“Ah . . . you wouldn’t happen to have heard from Miss Holmes, would you, my lord? The rumors are growing wilder every day and I’m beginning to really worry about her.”

“Only beginning to?”

“Well, I thought she’d have come to me by now.”

“That foolish woman. What good reason could she possibly have for not seeking your aid?”

In the crimson glow of the small, red-glass-encased lightbulb, it was impossible to tell whether Shrewsbury flushed. But the scrape of his heels across the floor was quite audible.

He cleared his throat. “I’m also beginning to see that maybe she might not want to be my mistress. If you hear from her, will you please tell her that I’m offering help, plain and simple, whatever she needs, and no conditions attached. I only want to make sure she’s all—wait, who’s that?”

Lord Ingram followed the direction of Shrewsbury’s gaze. The prints had come out well. Despite the dim, reddish light, Stephen Marbleton’s features stood out in relief. “I don’t know—I’m developing someone else’s negatives. Have you seen the man before?”

“The man? No, never seen the man. But the woman looks familiar—even though I’m certain we’ve never been introduced.”

Lord Ingram unpinned a print of Frances Marbleton, taken at some seashore, and handed it to Shrewsbury so he could take a closer look. “Have you gone tramping over the summer? Perhaps you passed her in some field.”

“No, I haven’t been anywhere near Devon this summer.”

The hairs on the back of Lord Ingram’s neck rose. He exhaled carefully, so he could continue to speak with some semblance of detachment. “This is Devon?”

“There must be pebble beaches elsewhere in Britain, but this looks a good deal like the one at Westward Ho!. What a name, eh, exclamation supplied. Went there with my mates a few times when I was at university. You’ve a house somewhere in the vicinity, don’t you?”