A Study in Scarlet Women (Lady Sherlock #1)(95)
Treadles nodded. “Do you think Sophia Lonsdale was in a hurry at the end? Almost a fortnight passed between Lady Amelia’s death and Mr. Sackville’s, but only a day elapsed between Mr. Sackville’s and Lady Shrewsbury’s.”
“It’s possible she became impatient. It’s also possible she wished to take advantage of my scandal.” Miss Holmes smiled slightly. “Seems more plausible to have a healthy woman die in her sleep when she’d been greatly angered by her son than for no reason at all.”
Treadles had no idea what he could say in response. He did not understand Miss Holmes’s scandal. It made no sense how such a diamond-bright mind could have made such foolish, downright immoral decisions.
She took a sip of her tea. “What of the valet, Hodges? What will happen to him?”
He was glad to move away from the subject of her carnal weakness. “I do not believe Lord Sheridan, when he learns the truth, will wish to prosecute. And if he declines, I have no reason to believe Scotland Yard would take on the task.”
Miss Holmes folded the letter and carefully placed it back in its envelope. “I have a presentiment that in revealing Clara’s tragedy, Sophia Lonsdale will credit her dead friend, the one who had held Clara Sackville’s diary for many years, with the plan for vengeance, so as to keep her own name out of the news.
“No woman goes to the trouble of staging her own death without a compelling reason. Inspector, would you please keep her involvement in the case out of public knowledge?”
Treadles considered a moment, before saying, “I will.”
“I am greatly indebted to you, Inspector, for your gallant assistance in this case.”
Treadles inclined his head and rose. It was not Miss Holmes’s fault that what he’d always believed about his wife turned out to be not exactly the case, but all the same he was ready not to have anything to do with Sherlock Holmes for a good long while.
As if she’d heard every thought in his head, Miss Holmes set a prettily wrapped package in his hands. “The madeleines are for Mrs. Treadles. Please convey my warmest regards to her.”
Twenty-two
“You know what I have been thinking?” asked Livia.
They were seated at the refreshments area set aside for the Reading Room patrons at the British Museum. Charlotte had resumed her weekly trip to the Reading Room, and Livia had snuck out of a skull-numbing garden party to visit with her favorite sister.
“What have you been thinking?” asked Charlotte.
She looked well, her serene, cherubic self—more than one gentleman had walked past their table unnecessarily, studying her out of the corner his eyes.
Life had improved drastically for Livia, too, since it finally became known that Lady Shrewsbury and Lady Amelia had committed suicide to avoid public shame. Of course, Charlotte’s absence was always an ache in the heart and Livia dreaded the long months in the country after the end of the Season. But to be free of suspicions at last, to no longer live under that dark cloud hanging over her head—it was a pleasure well worth savoring.
And of course, Charlotte now had an income—her latest case earned a whopping four quid ten shillings, much to Livia’s heart-palpitating joy. I have become much thriftier, Charlotte wrote in one of her letters. I’m determined to accumulate enough to provide for all of us—you, me, and Bernadine.
Livia wiped her fingers on a napkin. “I think you should publish some of Sherlock Holmes’s cases. Those accounts would be far better publicity for your services than newspaper adverts.”
Charlotte put another half sandwich on Livia’s plate. “But by coming to a private consultant, my clients expect a certain amount of privacy.”
“Change their names, then no one will be the wiser.”
Charlotte shook her head. “The only case I’ve been a part of that has the makings of a proper narrative is the Sackville case. Even if I change the name of everyone involved, people would still already know what happened. Not to mention, magazines that might want to publish such accounts would shy away from that particular one, for fear of offending the sensibility of their readers.”
Livia was undeterred. “Then fictionalize it. Take the bones of the story and rebuild it. Sherlock Holmes is asked by Scotland Yard to help with a suspicious death. You can keep the method of the killing, but change chloral to some other poison. And you can also have the murderer come to you by means of a newspaper notice, except somewhat differently, of course.”
“I like it.” Charlotte grinned. “And what would this person be avenging?”
At the bright interest in her sister’s eyes, Livia’s mind suddenly swarmed with ideas. “That would be the easiest thing to come up with, wouldn’t it? People are always doing horrible things to each other. In fact, last week I read a book by Mr. Twain and it mentioned a massacre that took place in Utah a generation ago. The local militia killed more than one hundred people from a wagon train headed to California. You can have someone who survived the massacre tracking down those responsible for it.”
“All the way to London?”
“Why not?” Livia reached for the half sandwich Charlotte had given her and took a bite. Ah, everything tasted so much better when Charlotte was at the table. “The world is a small place nowadays. And it would also be in keeping with the spirit of the original case, that of an avenger coming from abroad.”