Murder on Cold Street (Lady Sherlock #5) - Sherry Thomas Page 0,32

with fairies via games of dominoes.

Had his retinas not been seared by the Christmas tree dress, her dinner gown would have been the most outlandish thing he witnessed today. It had a red redingote with enormous black dots, and the exposed skirt was black with small red dots.

A dress that would have swallowed its wearer whole, were it not for her evident enjoyment of its flamboyance.

“Hullo, Ash.”

“Hullo, Holmes. New frock?”

“Indeed. The first I’ve commissioned since I left home—with money I made off you, in fact.”

“I am delighted that my pounds sterling have gone on to support so worthy a cause, madam.”

The other two ladies were also taken aback by the new dress. “A unique and sensational confection, my dear,” declared Mrs. Watson diplomatically, after a moment of gaping. And Penelope, with evident relish, exclaimed, “It’s a ladybird beetle dress!”

“It’s actually a black widow spider dress, if we must discuss its entomological inspiration. Did you guess that, my lord?” Holmes glanced at him, looking very ravishing but not remotely arachnid.

“No, ladybird beetle for me also.”

“I see. It evidently lacks menace. I wonder if the dressmaker can do something about that.”

He thought not. No costume, however sinister on its own, could reduce the initial impression she gave of resolute darlingness. On the other hand, for those who knew her well, not even her most riotous dresses could completely alleviate the twinge of apprehension they felt in her presence.

They did not love her less, but they loved her knowing that they could keep no secrets from her.

Mr. Mears, Mrs. Watson’s butler, arrived to announce that dinner was served. They descended together, Mrs. Watson on Lord Ingram’s arm, the younger women as a pair.

All the dishes had been laid on the table. Mr. Mears ladled soup, filled wineglasses, and left, closing the door behind himself.

“Oh, Miss Charlotte, do please tell us how it was done,” said Penelope immediately. “How was it that Inspector Treadles was locked in with the dead men?”

Holmes, who had been studying the dessert, a still-warm apple Charlotte to be served with sweet custard cream, lifted her gaze rather reluctantly. “Well, either he walked in on his own power or he was carried in and left there. As for how it was done . . . what do you mean by ‘it,’ Miss Redmayne? That the door was locked from inside? If there were only two dead men in that room, the question might prove somewhat curious. But Inspector Treadles was there and he was perfectly capable of locking the door.”

“But why did he wish to lock himself in a room with two dead men?” Penelope continued with her question. “And why didn’t he open the door even when the police came?”

Holmes took a sip of her soup. “I ask myself the same.”

“And?”

“Lord Ingram and I see him tomorrow. I plan to pose these questions to him directly.”

But if Inspector Treadles had satisfactory answers to those questions, his wife would not have enlisted Sherlock Holmes’s help in a panic, would she?

Since Holmes appeared unwilling to discuss the case in much greater detail, Penelope’s questions turned to their recent Parisian adventure, during which they had burgled a French château that turned out to be Moriarty’s stronghold.

It was probably in anticipation of this very topic that Mrs. Watson had served her dinner à la française—placed on the table as if at a buffet—requiring no servants in the room.

“I still can’t believe that you were all in Paris and didn’t let me know,” said Penelope with a mock pout.

“In the beginning, it was because I didn’t want to disturb your studies. By the end, I could only be thankful that you weren’t at all involved. And that because it was a fancy dress ball, we were all masked that night.” Mrs. Watson sighed. “Perhaps it is still possible for those of us present tonight—and Miss Olivia—to spend the remainder of our lives having no further entanglements with Moriarty. But that is not an option for Mr. Marbleton. I hope he’s well. I hope Moriarty treats his own son with some compassion.”

“If he’s a person capable of compassion,” said Holmes.

A chill skidded down Lord Ingram’s spine.

“Have you had news from Miss Olivia?” Penelope asked Holmes, after a small pause. “I understand that Mr. Marbleton gave her false reasons for his departure. Is she all right?”

Holmes paused between sips of soup—a barely noticeable interval, which nevertheless told Lord Ingram that the matter had been very much on her mind. “I haven’t heard from my sister since