Murder on Cold Street (Lady Sherlock #5) - Sherry Thomas Page 0,41
book-lined room. She should be reassured; someone without knowledge of the case walking by would have guessed him to be simply another CID inspector, at another normal day of work.
But he held himself with such agitated tension, his breaths quick, his eyes wide with fear, as if he were a roebuck that had stumbled into the middle of a pack of wolves. Her own heart slammed frantically into her rib cage.
He lifted a hand, as if trying to stretch it out in her direction, before dropping it again. “I’m sorry. So sorry.”
“It’s—it’s—”
She wanted to give more reassurances but nothing more emerged.
She dared not approach him because she trembled. Why did he not come to her and enfold her in his arms? There was a guard outside, but in here they were alone. Why was he frozen in place?
Was he keeping his distance because—because—
“No, I didn’t kill them! I didn’t!”
At the anguish in his voice, she fell against the doorjamb. “I believe you! I believe it wasn’t you. Sherlock Holmes will find out who killed them. You just tell Inspector Brighton the truth so you can come home, Robert. Come home, please.”
Her Robert only looked at her a long time and said, very softly, almost inaudibly, “I’m sorry, Alice. I’m sorry.”
* * *
Mrs. Treadles did not immediately recognize Holmes in her disguise, Lord Ingram realized. She looked uncertainly from Holmes to him and back again.
She herself appeared almost unrecognizably drained, her deathly pallor made even more alarming by a sheen of sweat.
“Mrs. Treadles,” he said quickly, “Miss Holmes and I have come to speak with Inspector Treadles. But we are glad to see you also.”
Her lips parted. Her eyes had a glazed quality. He feared she would ask outright, in her confusion, where Miss Holmes was, but she blinked and said, “Indeed, how good to see you both again. May I present Inspector Brighton of Scotland Yard? Inspector, Miss Holmes and Lord Ingram Ashburton.”
Lord Ingram immediately tensed. Mrs. Treadles’s tormentor was around forty years of age, tall and slightly portly, with strong features and a wry countenance.
After a few exchanges of pleasantries, he said, rather ruefully, “I must say, this is not what I’d envisioned when I came to uphold truth and justice in London—that I would be immediately investigating one of my own colleagues.”
If Mrs. Treadles didn’t appear so wretched—and if Lord Ingram had never been through a police investigation himself—he might have been inclined to like Inspector Brighton. But now his façade of affability only made Lord Ingram’s stomach twist: It was more difficult to gauge how much cruelty a man could wield, when that man happened to be charming.
“I’m sure everything will prove to be a misunderstanding, where Inspector Treadles is concerned,” he said. “And then you can return to policing as usual.”
“It was also my great hope. Alas, Inspector Treadles has been anything but informative.” Inspector Brighton’s expression turned calculating. “But as Sherlock Holmes is a great ally of his, perhaps you two will have better luck than I did.”
“My brother’s primary allegiance has always been to the truth. As his emissary, I hope I will not disappoint him,” said Holmes.
“We have heard of his detective prowess in faraway Manchester,” said Inspector Brighton with sharp-edged heartiness. “It will be an honor to witness his work.”
“I will convey your compliment—I’m sure Sherlock will be tickled by the idea of his burgeoning fame,” said Holmes. “In fact, let me do more than that. You must be extraordinarily busy at the moment, Inspector. Why not allow me to escort Mrs. Treadles out? I’m sure she could use the comforting presence of a woman right now.”
“Yes, indeed,” said Mrs. Treadles, a bit too fast. “You are much too kind, Miss Holmes.”
Mrs. Treadles barely took her leave of Inspector Brighton before rushing off alongside Holmes, her desire to get away from him unmistakable. Inspector Brighton watched the departing women for a moment, then he turned to Lord Ingram.
“My lord, if I may say so, Inspector Treadles is in a perilous position. If he is charged with murder and tried, he stands a high chance of being convicted. He must know this. It is therefore even more incomprehensible that he chooses to keep silent about everything that happened the night of the murder—and also about his movements in the days and weeks beforehand.
“I do not know him well—the reason I’ve been chosen for this task, I imagine. But here at Scotland Yard he has an unimpeachable reputation, as a man who is both