Murder on Cold Street (Lady Sherlock #5) - Sherry Thomas Page 0,136

Mortimer Cousins two-and-half years ago, by ethylene glycol in the latter’s tea, when it looked as if he might recover from his severe pneumonia.

It was as Charlotte had thought. Just as Mr. Sullivan had accumulated evidence to someday point an accusatory finger at Moriarty, Moriarty’s lieutenants, who read his spiteful nature like an open book, had also secretly prepared to abandon him to the long arm of the law. After all, no investigation along that line could be allowed to proceed beyond Mr. Sullivan himself, certainly not when it might cause the confiscation of De Lacey Industries factories.

The news of the older Mr. Cousins’s murder did not surprise Charlotte. In the morning, after she had informed Mrs. Treadles and Mrs. Cousins of the abundant presence of arsenic in Mr. Barnaby Cousins’s hair, she had also warned them that she couldn’t be sure Mr. Mortimer Cousins hadn’t met a similar fate.

It didn’t surprise her, but it still saddened her. She thought of the night of the party, of uncle and nephew in that room, Mr. Sullivan with Inspector Treadles’s revolver pointed at Mr. Longstead’s chest. Had he told Mr. Longstead everything then, so that he could revel in Mr. Longstead’s pain and outrage before he killed him? And Mr. Longstead, an old man who had never been in robust health, how had he, with a bullet in his chest, found the strength to throw his walking stick at Mr. Sullivan, scramble for the fallen revolver, and fire?

Because Mr. Sullivan had been responsible, at least in part, for the death of his beloved friend and partner, who had put Mr. Longstead’s health above profits, and had loved him more than a brother.

Thanks to all the revelations, Inspector Treadles was released just before sunset, in what the evening editions would hail as a Christmas miracle. Both Lord Ingram and Sherrinford Holmes were there to greet him, alongside his lovely and faithful wife.

“Thank you,” said Inspector Treadles to Charlotte. “I knew that if anyone could save me, it would be you. Thank you.”

She shook his hand. “I’m glad to see you restored to us, Inspector. Brilliant work, by the way.”

“High praise indeed, to have that come from a representative of Sherlock Holmes.”

“It is the opinion of Sherlock Holmes himself. There was never any need to doubt yourself.”

Inspector Treadles blinked rapidly, shook his head, and said, his voice breaking, “Thank you again. Thank you always.”

He and his wife left arm in arm, like a pair of newlyweds marching past a throng of well-wishers to their brand-new future. At their carriage, they turned around and waved. Mrs. Treadles reached up and touched her husband’s cheek. He had tears in his eyes as he caught her hand and pressed a kiss into her gloved palm.

Charlotte remembered Lord Ingram’s optimism about them.

Maybe it wasn’t always a romantic outlook that caused one to be optimistic. Maybe sometimes it was simply the correct assessment.

She turned to the great romantic in her life. “How was your present hunting this afternoon, Ash?”

“Fruitful, I would say.”

She narrowed her eyes. “I still don’t know what you intend to give me.”

He grinned. “I am beyond astonished.”

“But I do know you bought yourself a hot water bottle—no, at least two—just now, so that you can put my present to use.”

“And you are right.” He laughed. “As you always are.”

Epilogue

Dread invaded Robert Treadles. He was dreaming still—dreaming of waking up in his own bed, as he had done every night in his cell. But he was also awake enough to know that he was dreaming, and that the illusions of comfort, safety, and freedom would evaporate the moment he opened his eyes.

Even as his dream self hugged Alice tighter and buried his face in her hair, his thoughts returned to the evening of their second dinner with the Longsteads. After the ladies had departed for the drawing room, leaving only the men at the table, Mr. Longstead had brought out not only a bottle of port, but a notebook.

I found this notebook, and several others like it, in the studio at number 33, he’d stated gravely. I hope you won’t find it far-fetched what I’m about to say, but I—I believe the contents of the notebook has to do with Cousins.

And so it had begun.

At first Treadles had listened only out of politeness. He’d been incredulous when the older man speculated that Barnaby Cousins, Treadles’s late and very much unlamented brother-in-law, had been murdered. But then Mr. Longstead had produced evidence in the form of reports from