Murder on Cold Street (Lady Sherlock #5) - Sherry Thomas Page 0,129
he never caught the manservant who did the interrupting. What did he do after that?”
“I believe he went back to the party,” said Charlotte. “Lord Ingram interviewed a number of guests. Miss Longstead’s friend, Miss Elizabeth Yates, told him that during the party she had spoken to a cousin of Miss Longstead named Mr. Proctor. But when Lord Ingram tracked down Mr. Proctor, he couldn’t recall any such conversation.
“After I left Miss Longstead’s this evening, I stopped by Miss Yates’s, and asked her to look at a photograph of Mr. Sullivan, whom she immediately identified as Mr. Proctor, Miss Longstead’s cousin.”
Miss Redmayne made a disgusted noise. “So he spoke to Miss Longstead’s friend under false pretenses? Was there anything this man didn’t stoop to?”
“Where his self-interest was concerned? Apparently not,” said Lord Ingram. “Now if I recall correctly, Miss Yates and this ‘Mr. Proctor’ discussed Miss Longstead’s studio, of all things. Was that how—”
Miss Redmayne almost knocked over a water goblet in her excitement. “My goodness. My goodness! Yes, that must be it. That must be how Mr. Sullivan learned that his secret was no longer safe.”
She recalled herself and grinned sheepishly at Lord Ingram. “My lord, forgive me for interrupting and do please continue.”
Lord Ingram waved away her apology with a smile. “You were absolutely correct in your conjecture. Miss Yates told me that she had been chatting with Mr. Longstead about the annual hiding of the Christmas present. No sooner had Mr. Longstead moved on to speak with another guest than the so-called Mr. Proctor appeared by her side. He claimed that he enjoyed this annual tradition between uncle and niece, and always liked to speculate as to where this year’s presents would be hidden. He asked Miss Yates whether she had any ideas. And Miss Yates, not suspecting either deceit or treachery, said she thought there was a good chance that Mr. Longstead hid the present he had prepared in the studio at number 33, given that it was a new location not available in previous years.
“Mr. Sullivan left then. Not long after, Miss Longstead came and sat with her for a bit. I’m guessing this was the chat Miss Yates said happened at five minutes to one?”
Charlotte nodded. “Which tells me that Mr. Sullivan went into number 33, for the second time, somewhere between quarter to one and five minutes to one. Mr. Longstead, somewhat after one, because Miss Longstead spoke to him after she spoke to Miss Yates.”
“Was Mr. Sullivan the one who shot open the door to Miss Longstead’s studio and destroyed everything inside?” Miss Redmayne asked, holding on to Mrs. Watson’s arm.
“When he couldn’t find his precious box, he vented his rage on Miss Longstead’s equipment and supplies. And I guess he’d just left the studio, headed downstairs, when Mr. Longstead arrived.”
Mrs. Watson put her hand over Miss Redmayne’s. “You don’t mean to imply that Mr. Sullivan killed Mr. Longstead and then himself?”
“No, not at all. I meant to say that Mr. Sullivan fatally wounded Mr. Longstead and the latter, in his final moments, rallied and shot Mr. Sullivan in return.”
Silence. The fire in the grate produced only an occasional soft hiss. Outside the window, the night was clear, and the stars were out, small, cold lights upon a dark vastness. Charlotte felt her body sinking into her chair, and her brain, following suit, drifting into a pleasant lethargy.
She straightened with a start. No, she couldn’t let herself become sleepy yet.
“Given the way the two dead men had fallen, I can see that Mr. Sullivan shot Mr. Longstead first,” said Lord Ingram, his hands tracing movements in the air. “And then Mr. Longstead threw his walking stick at Mr. Sullivan, probably not expecting that it would knock the revolver loose from his hand. But the revolver landed close to Mr. Longstead. He made a desperate lunge from where he lay, grabbed the revolver, and shot Mr. Sullivan, who also came for the gun. The shot struck the center of Mr. Sullivan’s forehead and sent him staggering backward, cracking the back of his head as he fell against the windowsill.”
Mrs. Watson, whose hands were around her own throat, slowly set them down. “But why? The box might contain evidence of Mr. Sullivan’s crimes. But surely, even if he thought that Mr. Longstead had found him out, would he not have tried to see whether Mr. Longstead would be amenable to not turning him over to the police?”