Murder on Cold Street (Lady Sherlock #5) - Sherry Thomas Page 0,121
you he was a distasteful subject.”
The bafflement on Miss Longstead’s face turned into unease. “That is strange. He never expressed any interest in number 33. Is Miss Hendricks sure that she saw him and not a different man?”
Charlotte nodded and picked up another finger sandwich, this one with a filling of potted chicken, the paste smooth and buttery.
“Do excuse me for a second.” Miss Longstead left and returned shortly with a diary. She riffled through it. “I’m not the most consistent diarist. But—” Her page-turning came to a halt. “I see I did put down an entry toward the very end of July. Ah, I remember now, my uncle issued an invitation to all his nephews who were in London at the time. He never said so but it was not long after young Mr. Cousins’s passing and I believe he was more affected than he’d thought he would be, seeing his best friend’s only son cut down in the prime of life.”
She moved her index finger down the page, her eyes searching. “Yes, the subject did come up. Mrs. Sullivan mentioned that she’d heard our tenants had moved out. She wanted to know if we would let the house out again. And my uncle said no, he’d decided against it, and was in fact about to instruct his solicitor to relate that decision to the letting agent.”
She looked up. “And Miss Hendricks said Mr. Sullivan was there the very next day?”
“She was very certain about that. Did he know of your love for the attic studio, by any chance?”
“I should say not—neither Uncle nor I ever brought it up in front of him.” Slowly, Miss Longstead closed her diary. “What could he have possibly wanted with the place?”
“Not to live there, that we can be sure of,” said Charlotte. “Would you mind showing me to Mr. Longstead’s study again? I still need to locate his keys.”
* * *
The mountainous miscellany that used to be on top of Mr. Longstead’s desk were still spread out on old newspaper on the floor.
Miss Longstead tapped an index finger on her temple. “I used to know where he kept everything, but it has been a good few years since I dug through this study for unexpected treasures. Let me think. No, he never did keep keys in the desk. They were usually . . .”
She picked her way to the shelves and carefully extracted an unused vase—it must have once marked the end of a row of books, but was now nearly swallowed by surrounding volumes, reminding Charlotte of a half-exposed fossil in a slab of a coastal shale. Miss Longstead shook it. It made no sound. Taking care not to step on the vast archaeological proliferation on the floor, she tiptoed along the shelves and excavated another vase. It, too, was empty.
The fifth vase she found clanged with her motion. She tipped it over and a set of keys dropped into her palm. “Here they are.”
She weaved back to the door and handed the lot to Charlotte. Charlotte inspected the four keys, especially the two brass ones with long shanks and elaborate bows: There were bits of white powder stuck on them. She took a sniff. Peppermint?
Mr. Sealy, the chemist, had said that Mr. Longstead enjoyed peppermint lozenges once in a while. And when Charlotte had examined the physical evidence the police had gathered, one pocket of his evening coat had contained a residue that smelled of peppermint.
“Do you remember whether your uncle carried those keys on his person on the night of the dance?”
Miss Longstead took off her glasses and wiped the lenses with a handkerchief. “He checked on me when I was getting ready. Mrs. Coltrane was with me at the time. She took one look at him and cried, ‘Good gracious, Mr. Longstead, whatever have you got in your pocket? It’s making your jacket appear lumpy.’ And he chuckled and said that he would get rid of it presently.”
They rang for Mrs. Coltrane. When the housekeeper arrived outside the study, she confirmed Miss Longstead’s account. “Yes, that did happen, but I can’t tell you what was in his pocket. He was standing half in the passage, which wasn’t lit as brightly as Miss Longstead’s room.”
Mrs. Coltrane returned to her duties. Charlotte said to her hostess, “I have one more request to make of you, Miss Longstead. Would you show me the places in this house where you and Mr. Longstead have hidden Christmas presents in the past?”