Murder on Cold Street (Lady Sherlock #5) - Sherry Thomas Page 0,13
“You are absolutely right, Aunt Jo. And I believe it’s late enough in the day that we can have a bit of Madame Gascoigne’s cherry brandy while we work.”
They managed their departure with such grace and lightness that if Lord Ingram hadn’t already known Mrs. Watson wanted him alone with Holmes, he might not have guessed.
But now they were alone. At last.
The fire in the grate crackled softly. A horse whinnied on the street below. Rain came down, a soft percussion on the roof. Holmes adjusted the lace at her cuffs—the Christmas-themed dress, in addition to everything else, also boasted two extravagant spreads of snow-white broderie anglaise that cascaded from the middle of her forearms and matched the white lace cap on her head. The cuff lace swished pleasantly with her motion.
Satisfied with the image of exaggerated domestic tranquility she currently presented, she said, “Shall I assume that you plan to be in town for the immediate future, my lord?”
He had meant to stay in London a few days, in any case. For her. So that they might spend some time together, after he had . . . spoken to her. But this was not yet the moment for it—she was still preoccupied with her newest case.
“I will better serve Inspector Treadles here, rather than from a distance,” he said.
She gave him an even look. “Let’s speak of what you chose not to share with Mrs. Watson. I admire your desire to guard your friends’ privacy. But you of all people, Ash, should know that privacy becomes a mirage as a murder investigation gathers steam.”
“Nevertheless I hope that Inspector and Mrs. Treadles will manage to keep a large part of their lives private, that not all of it will have become fuel for public consumption.”
So many of the most pivotal events of his own life had been fodder for gossip. He wished, as much as possible, to spare his friends that particular torment. Life was difficult enough without one’s most harrowing experiences splashed over every major newspaper in the country, for the bemused speculation of strangers at breakfast.
“You and Mrs. Watson are well-matched in your gallantry,” answered Holmes. “However, you know as well as I do that Mrs. Treadles is holding something back—holding it back with all her might.”
He did know, alas.
Mrs. Treadles had made a great number of confessions: that she’d been having a terrible time at Cousins Manufacturing, that her husband hadn’t been where he’d said he would be, and even that his service revolver was missing from his dressing room.
However, everything she disclosed was something that a skilled investigator would have discovered within a day or two.
That she was having a difficult time helming Cousins would have become known upon interviewing, if not the men standing in her way, then the secondary actors, the clerks and secretaries, etc.
That Inspector Treadles hadn’t been where he was supposed to be was, at this point, probably already known to the police.
And her candor with regard to the service revolver? His guess was that someone else—a maid in her household, perhaps—had already noticed its absence, which made it futile for Mrs. Treadles to lie.
“I know you don’t wish to think unkind thoughts about your friends,” said Holmes, “but we must ask why Mrs. Treadles has been so suspicious of her own husband.”
The worst part was that he didn’t disagree with her, which made it even more disturbing to hear her speak those misgivings aloud.
“But she said she believes the truth will help him.”
“Allow me to rephrase: It behooves us to ask why she was so worried that others would think he did it. After all, if it is as she said, that Inspector Treadles and Mr. Longstead only met twice, and that the inspector considered Mr. Longstead a good man and a good ally, then even news of his arrest shouldn’t have made her as frantically fearful as she was.”
His shoulders slumped. Holmes was right. In Mrs. Treadles’s place, another woman’s first reaction would not have been to think of where her husband might have been when he had written her those letters. Nor would she have been rooting about in his dressing room.
That woman would have been stupefied by the turn of events, but she would have then marched directly into the office of his superior to ask for the misunderstanding to be cleared, rather than pretending to be a tourist at Scotland Yard, craning her head for a better view of the proceedings.