your new social circle.
“You were already hungry for camaraderie and now you grew starved for support. Understandably enough, you mistook Mr. Sullivan’s seeming lack of enmity for friendship. And he, sensing your vulnerability, exploited it to the utmost.
“What did you confess to him? Probably not too much directly. You are, after all, a sensible woman. But he was a clever man and deduced the rest for himself, didn’t he? Did he make advances? Did he demand an affair?”
Mrs. Treadles, who had been shrinking farther and farther into her chair, flinched.
“He did, then. And when you refused, did he threaten to tell your husband lies that would have irreparably damaged your marriage?”
Inspector Brighton paused again, a craftsman studying his handiwork—in this case, the ashen pallor on Mrs. Treadles’s face.
“You yourself are not inclined to lie,” he mused. “Nor are you good at it. But you realized that Mr. Sullivan was a liar of a different caliber. You had believed him, when he’d feigned friendship. Why would your husband not believe him, were he to insinuate that you two had become closer than necessary?
“And that was why you were paralyzed by Mr. Sullivan’s betrayal—and his threats. Your husband already faulted you for trying to carve out a place for yourself at Cousins. And now this happened. Even if Inspector Treadles were sympathetic, what would be his counsel? To give up trying to change things at Cousins and come home—which you were loath to do.
“Furthermore, you worried that Inspector Treadles, a good investigator, would soon unearth the grain of truth in Mr. Sullivan’s story. You didn’t do anything with him. But could you have denied that before you discovered his treachery, you had looked forward to seeing Mr. Sullivan, that he had become the one you thought you could rely on, when everyone else, including your husband, had turned their backs on you?”
Had he been on a stage, Inspector Brighton would probably have taken a bow. Certainly he sounded enormously pleased with himself.
“And how would your husband feel—he a son of laborers—to discover that you had formed an attachment, however innocent, to a man of your own class, the sort of man he could never be, no matter how successful he became as a police investigator?”
Mrs. Treadles rose abruptly. “Your conjectures are moot, Inspector. I never brought up Mr. Sullivan’s name at home, nor did Mr. Sullivan ever seek an audience with Inspector Treadles.”
The front door rang loudly and insistently. Inspector Brighton half turned his head, revealing a sharp, frowning profile. Mrs. Treadles fell back into her seat, set her elbows on an armrest, and buried her face in her hands.
The moment the door was answered, a woman’s voice ordered, “Out of my way.”
Footsteps stormed up the stairs, followed by the sound of the drawing room door bursting open.
“Is it true, Mrs. Treadles, what they are saying about your husband?” said the same woman.
“Eleanor, please, this isn’t the best time.” Mrs. Treadles made as if to lift up her head from her hands. She did not manage that, but sank more deeply into herself, a woman at the limits of her endurance. “Can you come back tomorrow instead? I still must answer questions for Scotland Yard.”
A very pretty woman of about Mrs. Treadles’s age, dressed in widow’s weeds, appeared at her side. She set a hand on Mrs. Treadles’s shoulder. Mrs. Treadles, after a moment, turned and pressed her face against the woman’s stomach.
“Mrs. Treadles, I’m sorry!” Mrs. Graycott, the housekeeper, too, had arrived. “I didn’t even have a chance to tell Mrs. Cousins that you aren’t at home to visitors.”
Mrs. Cousins, the wife of Mrs. Treadles’s late brother?
Mrs. Cousins glared at the policemen. “And who are you barbarians?”
Inspector Brighton, who had already risen when the woman entered, bowed slightly. “Inspector Brighton of Scotland Yard at your service. And this is Sergeant Howe, also of Scotland Yard. Pleased to make your acquaintance, Mrs. Cousins.”
Mrs. Cousins looked affronted at being addressed by him. She said stiffly, “Gentlemen, I am not usually so inhospitable, but I believe the time has come for you to leave. Mrs. Treadles has had a horrific day and she needs to rest. Immediately.”
“Mrs. Cousins,” Mrs. Treadles protested weakly, while holding on ever tighter to her sister-in-law, “the gentlemen are here on official business.”
“And they can return for their official business tomorrow. They already have Inspector Treadles, do they not? He is not going anywhere. And the dead are still dead, so speed is of no essence whatsoever.” She turned and