Murder on Cold Street (Lady Sherlock #5) - Sherry Thomas Page 0,113

in . . . what he kept you for?”

A corner of Mrs. Portwine’s lips turned up. “Interesting that you should ask. One time, some minutes after we were finished, Mr. Sullivan swore and leaped up. I followed him out and found him downstairs before the door of the study. Mrs. Sullivan was there, too. I judged from their interaction that he’d caught her trying to pick the lock with her hairpin.”

Charlotte turned to Mrs. Sullivan. “Do you know how?”

She tilted her chin up. “I’ve succeeded once or twice.”

Charlotte turned back to Mrs. Portwine again. “Surely it would have been a bother to disengage oneself every time, post coitum, to rush out and check whether one’s wife was picking locks again.”

Mrs. Portwine looked as if she was holding back laughter. “I agree. I did wonder what he would do the next time she was in the house. But the next time he was in no hurry. And when he left, I heard him say to Mrs. Sullivan, ‘Are you still trying to unlock that door with your hairpin, you stupid woman? I’m going home now. Are you coming or not?’”

Mrs. Sullivan had become completely still, as if she were made of stone.

Charlotte sighed inwardly. “How would you describe his tone, Mrs. Portwine?”

“More amusement than irritation, though there was definitely irritation, too.”

“And they left together?”

“They left together.”

“When did this particular incident take place?”

Mrs. Portwine thought for a moment. “August. Early August.”

“And the previous lock-picking incident?”

“A month before that, I’d say.”

Charlotte rose. “With your permission, Mrs. Portwine, I would like to speak to your coachman.”

* * *

Mrs. Portwine would have summoned Whitmer, but Charlotte said that she’d prefer to speak to him in the coach house, where he would be more comfortable.

As soon as the door of the coach house opened, the horizontally striped carriage was visible. It was, in fact, blue and white, but the blue was deep. Little wonder that in the middle of the night Mr. Bosworth had thought it black and white.

Rather warily, Whitmer confirmed for Charlotte that on the night of Miss Longstead’s party, he had driven Mr. Sullivan to 31 Cold Street, and then picked up Mrs. Sullivan and brought her to the same spot.

“And then?”

Whitmer hesitated.

“You may answer Miss Holmes truthfully,” said Mrs. Portwine.

Whitmer hesitated one more moment. “Mrs. Sullivan got out. She tried the front door of number 33, then she climbed over the garden gate between number 31 and number 33.”

Tenacious, to say the least, Mrs. Portwine had said of Mrs. Sullivan. What did Mrs. Sullivan herself think of all the time and energy she had expended on her husband, a man no one else cared for? “Do you recall what time that was?”

“I can’t be sure. Quarter to midnight, maybe.”

With a small beckoning gesture of her hand, Charlotte indicated for him to continue.

Whitmer scratched the side of his neck. “After she went in, I drove twice around the garden. When I came around the second time, she came out of number 33 from the front door.”

Which she hadn’t been able to get into earlier.

“She asked me to bring her back here,” continued Whitmer. “So I did.”

Charlotte glanced at Mrs. Portwine, who nodded in confirmation. “I can’t remember what time Mrs. Sullivan got here, but it would have been before one in the morning.”

“Pray carry on, Mr. Whitmer,” said Charlotte.

Whitmer scratched the other side of his neck. “I drove back to Cascade Lane, a few streets over from Cold Street. A little before two someone from the house came and said carriages had been called because the fog was getting bad. I went behind the others so I could park farther away on the street: Mr. Sullivan didn’t mind being seen occasionally in this carriage, but he didn’t want to be too obvious about it either.

“I waited. But all the other carriages drove off and he never did come out of the house. I didn’t know what to make of it. I waited until the lights shut off in number 31 and then I drove round the garden a few times, looking for him. When I still didn’t see him, I came back here, thinking maybe he went back to his own house in someone else’s carriage.”

He glanced at Mrs. Portwine again.

“You may carry on,” she said.

“Yes, mum. When I reported this to Mrs. Portwine, she shrugged, but Mrs. Sullivan was worried. She said we ought to go back to Cold Street. Mrs. Portwine said that was rubbish. She said that Mrs. Sullivan should