Murder on Cold Street (Lady Sherlock #5) - Sherry Thomas Page 0,115

in the middle of the entry about Madame de la Live d’Épinay.”

Charlotte’s attention perked up. “Why do you suppose that was the case?”

“He said too much education wasn’t good for a woman.” Mrs. Sullivan made a dismissive sound. “I think he just wanted to frustrate me. He put locks on things for the same reason.”

“You don’t think he had anything to hide?”

Mrs. Sullivan went completely still. Then, she pulled a different pin from her lips and went on with her lock-picking, as if that moment had never happened. “Of course he had something to hide. I’d rather believe that he was playing lovers’ games with me, but I doubt he cared enough to put that much effort into foiling me.”

“Did you take up reading the small notices because he had an interest in them?”

“You were the one who put the notice about the carriage in the paper, weren’t you?” Mrs. Sullivan put her ear on the padlock. “They don’t offer much challenge anymore, the small notices. Hardly anyone thinks to devise real ciphers. One can only decode so many Caesar ciphers before they become as tasteless as old bread.”

The padlock popped open.

“Well done,” said Charlotte.

Mrs. Sullivan turned around, looking surprised—almost flustered—at the compliment. She cleared her throat. “That’s the easy part—Mr. Sullivan liked padlocks. I’m not sure I can work the lock mechanism on the door itself.”

“You don’t need to. Mrs. Portwine graciously allowed me to borrow something from the housekeeper,” said Charlotte, taking out a ring of keys from her reticule.

Mrs. Sullivan stared at them as if they were the best Christmas present she would ever receive.

Charlotte opened the door. Mrs. Sullivan rushed in and immediately began to open drawers on the large mahogany desk. Her face fell to find them unlocked—and mostly empty.

The leather-bound volume Charlotte took off the shelf did not have any of its pages cut. She checked a different book from a different shelf, the same. A third book, still uncut.

Mrs. Sullivan, meanwhile, had discovered an unopened box of Cuban cigars, as well as a loaded revolver and a box of cartridges. Charlotte pulled open the glass door on the top half of a display cabinet and inspected the decanter of whisky that had been thoughtfully placed inside.

“Did Mr. Sullivan enjoy his cigars and whisky?”

“As much as any other man,” muttered Mrs. Sullivan, who was now on her knees, peering at the drawers.

Charlotte felt under the shelves, examined the cabinets, and even looked inside the grate. When she was satisfied that these locations held no other secrets, she approached the desk, the top of which held a marble inkstand, a blotting paper holder, and a copy of Paradise Lost by John Milton.

Unlike the books on the shelves, the pages of this volume had been cut, every last one.

“Was Mr. Sullivan interested in poetry? Or metaphysics?”

“One time I saw him read Shakespeare—First Folio,” said Mrs. Sullivan, as she perused every square inch of the desk. “But when I asked him about his favorite plays, he said Shakespeare made his head ache. I even came across him with an open Bible in his hand on a few occasions—and he grew no closer to God. So who knows why he read Milton.”

A movement outside the window caught Charlotte’s eye. She had told Miss Redmayne to go home, as it was cold and she didn’t want the young woman perched on the driver’s box for too long. But now Mrs. Watson’s carriage was back, driven by her coachman, Lawson.

And there was a passenger inside.

She turned back to Mrs. Sullivan. “Allow me.”

She removed all the drawers for a closer look. None had false bottoms. She lit a pocket lantern and shone its light inside the gaping cavities where the drawers had been.

On the right side of the desk, at the very back, the bottom seemed a little thicker. She reached in. Her hand discerned a piece of wood a quarter inch thick, placed along the back panel. It was little more than an inch in width, and exactly as long as the cavity was wide.

She tried to move it, but it remained firmly in place. A few seconds later, she felt a depression on top of this small plank. Hooking two fingers inside the depression, she pulled.

A thudding noise came from the other side of the desk.

The small plank must have been dovetailed into the bottom of the back panel. With the plank removed, the back panel had dropped down.

Mrs. Sullivan, who had been crouched beside Charlotte, leaped up for