Murder on Cold Street (Lady Sherlock #5) - Sherry Thomas Page 0,45

that I did not kill either Mr. Longstead or Mr. Sullivan.”

Holmes nodded. “Thank you. I have no more questions. My lord?”

Lord Ingram rubbed his temple. “It behooves me to pass on Inspector Brighton’s message that he does not mean to wait long, Inspector, even though I’m sure he has already related it in person.”

“He has indeed informed me that he intends to charge me on Christmas Eve. But thank you anyway, my lord,” said Inspector Treadles quietly.

Holmes, who had not been privy to the conversation between Lord Ingram and Inspector Brighton, did not appear remotely surprised.

Lord Ingram regarded his gently uncooperative friend. “I very much hope that you and Mrs. Treadles can still come to the gathering at Stern Hollow, Inspector.”

“It is my fond hope, too.”

“If there is anything I or Sherlock Holmes can do . . .”

“What Sherlock Holmes typically does should be good enough for me. Please convey my deep gratitude,” said Inspector Treadles, looking directly at Holmes.

Holmes nodded and rose. “Good day, Inspector.”

Inspector Treadles got to his feet. “Good day, Miss Holmes. Good day, my lord. And thank you. You are both the finest of friends.”

* * *

Greater Scotland Yard was receding from the carriage window when Lord Ingram asked, “You don’t think Inspector Treadles conveyed anything in code, do you, Holmes?”

Charlotte, who had been absently patting her wig, feeling the unfamiliar texture of hair that had once been the crowning glory of another woman, shook her head. “No, not via blinking or any facial twitching.”

“Did you expect him to?”

She shook her head again. “He’s no specialist and wouldn’t have been able to manage anything more complicated than a variant of the Morse code. If what he needs to keep secret is that important, then it was wise of him not to gamble on a primitive cipher that others might see and decode.”

“Why do you think he would rather keep his silence, knowing very well that it puts his wife in a state of terrified suspense?”

“You have a fairly good idea, do you not?”

He exhaled. “I wish I didn’t.”

One possibility was that Inspector Treadles had committed such atrocities that he would be getting off lightly, being accused of only two murders. But having already eliminated this possibility at the onset, they had to contend with the likelihood that Inspector Treadles knew something. And this something was so highly dangerous that he would rather take his chances with a trial—and the hangman’s noose—than to let it be known that he was in fact in possession of this knowledge.

Lord Ingram tapped his fingers a few times against the head of his walking stick, not bothering to hide his agitation. “He believes that what he knows endangers not only himself, but his wife, doesn’t he?”

Charlotte wondered whether they would be better acquainted with Inspector Treadles’s troubles if they hadn’t been in France for most of the preceding weeks. But they had been in France and could only guess at the nature of what Inspector Treadles had unhappily learned.

Rain fell, striking solidly against the top of the carriage. It had snowed the previous week, raising hopes of a white Christmas. Now the specter of a wet Christmas loomed far larger, though the precipitation did not diminish the enthusiasm of three street musicians they drove past, playing “Joy to the World” loudly on two accordions and a violin.

“Thinking of a cup of hot cocoa and a slice of plum cake?” came his voice.

He had on a midnight blue greatcoat. She remembered this coat. Several years ago, at a winter country house party, she had emerged from the library to the sight of him striding across the cavernous entry of the stately home.

His had always been a striking physical presence, but it had never simply been a matter of height, build, or even athleticism. There was something in his skeletal alignment, a fortuitous combination of posture and fluidity, so that when he stood, he was straight yet loose-limbed, and when he moved, he did so with the lightness and muscularity of a Thoroughbred.

Standing in the shadows of a row of great pillars, she had been transfixed by the balance and mechanics of his gait, the drama of him doing something as unremarkable as traversing a large indoor space. He did not see her. She was at first glad that she could stare for as long as she liked, and imagine running her hands all over the coat. But after he left via the front door, she had spent the rest of her day