Murder on Cold Street (Lady Sherlock #5) - Sherry Thomas Page 0,134

radiance and elasticity.

Mrs. Cousins arrived shortly in a black wrapper worn over a voluminous nightgown, a maid with a tea tray following in her wake. “Alice, Miss Holmes, is everything all right?”

“I apologize for calling on you at this unreasonable hour,” said Charlotte, feeling more awake now, not only from her two quick naps, but also from the unhappy nature of her task.

She had given plenty of bad news in the course of her work as Sherlock Holmes. She was better suited than most for the undertaking, her natural detachment shielding her from the worst impact of shattering her clients’ illusions and breaking their hearts. All the same, she wished that she were elsewhere, still asleep.

“I do have news for the two of you and I’m afraid it’s not joyful news.”

All color drained from Mrs. Treadles’s face. “You don’t mean to say that the inspector—that my husband—”

“No, Mrs. Treadles. More than ever I am convinced of Inspector Treadles’s innocence.”

Charlotte gave an abbreviated account of what happened the night of the party, omitting all references to Mr. Woodhollow and Miss Hendricks. Mrs. Treadles listened and clutched at Mrs. Cousins’s arm. At one point, Mrs. Cousins dropped the teaspoon in her hand and didn’t even notice.

“When I presented this version of events to my colleagues last night, however, I still had an incomplete picture. Mrs. Cousins, I understand that your husband died of malaria?”

Mrs. Cousins took a moment to respond to this apparent non sequitur. “He did.”

“Did he not take quinine?”

Mrs. Cousins sighed. “This was a recurrence for him—he first suffered a malarial attack after visiting Italy on his grand tour. Unfortunately, he developed a deep hatred of quinine from that experience, as it caused him to suffer from terrible tinnitus. Not to mention he was always convinced that he was developing cancer—my mother-in-law died of a tumor and that left a deep mark on him.

“Afterward, Dr. Motley concluded that he probably didn’t have enough doses—hiding the tablets under his tongue and then spitting them out later, that sort of thing—because he detested quinine. And because he believed he wasn’t suffering from malaria, but cancer.”

Mrs. Treadles wrapped an arm around Mrs. Cousins’s shoulders. Mrs. Cousins gave Mrs. Treadles’s hand a squeeze.

Charlotte steeled herself. “I don’t know whether Mr. Cousins took all his proper doses, Mrs. Cousins, but I do know that in his case it wouldn’t have mattered.”

“What—” Mrs. Cousins looked toward Mrs. Treadles, whose expression of incomprehension mirrored her own. An incomprehension that was rapidly becoming dread. “What do you mean, Miss Holmes?”

“Someone took advantage of your husband’s fear of cancer and gave him some so-called cancer remedy. During this latest malarial attack, he took it. There is no such thing as an effective cancer remedy, and some contain small amounts of toxic substances. But this one was much worse, because most of it was arsenic.”

Mrs. Cousins screamed, a short, sharp wail that hung in the air. Her mouth remained open, but mutely, as if her voice had been excised.

“No!” shouted Mrs. Treadles. She shot to her feet. “No!”

Charlotte proffered the results from the chemical analyst. “Mr. Longstead suspected this. That was the reason he called on you, Mrs. Cousins, and obtained from you a piece of mourning jewelry. Because it contained your husband’s hair. And Mr. Barnaby Cousins passed away recently enough that his hair could still be analyzed for the presence of arsenic.”

Neither woman came forward to take the envelope from Charlotte. They only stared at her, as if they’d been turned into stone.

Charlotte exhaled. “I’m afraid it gets worse.”

* * *

“May I help you, miss?” asked the postal clerk, looking expectantly at Livia.

Livia’s hands tightened around her package. Her throat was dry, her face was warm, yet her heart beat at a strangely sluggish pace, as if she—or it—were still asleep.

“This parcel,” she said hoarsely. “And twenty penny stamps, please.”

Lady Holmes had decided, in the end, that going to London with Livia was better than staying home. They were changing trains, and Livia had decided to send off her manuscript in the little post office just outside the railway station.

Once she stopped deceiving herself, everything became blindingly obvious.

Charlotte had told her that Mr. Marbleton was most likely Moriarty’s son. Livia had never wanted to believe it. But it could not be a coincidence that right after they had burgled a Moriarty stronghold, Mr. Marbleton had abruptly bid her farewell.

Something had forced his hand.

Someone.

Moriarty.

That name alone chilled her lungs. She didn’t know how she could possibly get news to