know, they never met again. And now to hear him named as a responsible party for Mr. Longstead’s death?
“I poured out my shock and incredulity to Sergeant MacDonald. He was sympathetic, as he himself was no less shocked and firmly believed that Scotland Yard must have made a mistake.”
“Did he see the inspector in person today?” asked Holmes, her tone reflecting none of Mrs. Treadles’s confusion and turmoil.
“No. He said he asked to but wasn’t allowed. And he was warned to keep what he’d been told strictly to himself, except for informing me. He did have a note from the inspector. I’ve brought it, but I’m afraid it isn’t much more informative.”
She took out a piece of paper from her reticule and handed it to Holmes. Holmes scanned it. Then, after a look at Mrs. Treadles for permission, passed it to Lord Ingram.
My dearest Alice,
I’m sorry that Sergeant MacDonald will be the bearer of bad news. I’m sorry that I will cause you much worry and uncertainty. And I’m sorry that it will most likely get worse before it gets better.
I will need to rely, as always, on your strength and resilience.
Difficult days lie ahead, but I remain,
Your most
devoted husband,
Robert
P.S. I love you with all my soul, even if I do not always, or indeed often, deserve you.
Two
Mrs. Treadles gazed at her husband’s note for a while, after Lord Ingram returned it to her. “It’s true that he doesn’t proclaim his innocence in this note, but since he does seem to believe that it will get better . . .”
“Then we should take his professional opinion into account,” said Holmes.
Her client caressed the edge of the note. “After Sergeant MacDonald left, I went around to Scotland Yard. Since I knew that the arrest wasn’t yet common knowledge, I pretended to be, of all things, an admirer of Sherlock Holmes’s and asked if I could meet with Inspector Treadles to learn more about the great consulting detective. There I was told that he wasn’t expected at the Yard today.”
“So Scotland Yard doesn’t want it known that one of its own has been arrested?” murmured Lord Ingram.
“Scotland Yard had a major embarrassment recently, my lord, when they arrested you in triumph and had to later release you with full apologies,” said Holmes. “It’s understandable that they wish to keep the matter hushed for now—or for as long as they can keep it hushed. That does not, of course, help us. The first person I—the first person my brother would wish for me to speak to would be Inspector Treadles himself.”
“What will you do then?” asked Mrs. Treadles, her fingers now clutched tightly together in her lap, around a white handkerchief.
“We will try a different course of inquiry,” said Holmes calmly. “My lord, I can hear the newspaper boy’s progress on Upper Baker Street. Will you be so kind as to fetch a copy for us?”
He did and was back in the parlor in two minutes flat, still scanning the paper, an early-afternoon edition printed around noon, shortly after the daily meteorological forecasts had been received and typeset. “No accounts of sensational murders or arrested Scotland Yard inspectors. I also don’t see any mention of Mr. Longstead, Cousins Manufacturing, or indeed anything to do with Inspector Treadles’s current difficulties.”
He looked up. “But one minute, Mrs. Treadles. What is Mr. Longstead’s address in town?”
“31 Cold Street.”
At the answer, something flickered across Holmes’s face. An almost unnoticeable change, and yet for her, this counted as genuine surprise.
His fingertips tingled. “The house next door got a mention. ‘A disturbance erupted at 33 Cold Street in the early hours of the morning. The police were called for. The house was apparently unoccupied and the nature of the disturbance has not yet been disclosed. It is not known whether the events of the night had anything to do with the nuisance of fireworks in the district previously reported in these pages.’”
“What was the nature of the gathering at Mr. Longstead’s house?” inquired Holmes.
Mrs. Treadles twisted her handkerchief between her fingers. “It was a dinner, followed by a dance. A coming-out soiree for Miss Longstead, his niece.”
The London Season ran from late spring to high summer; it had no definitive beginning but ended absolutely before the first day of grouse shooting. Granted, the season was for the Upper Ten Thousand, but Lord Ingram was under the impression that the merely wealthy emulated their “betters” and set their social calendar to similar dates. Besides, the weather in May, June,