Murder on Cold Street (Lady Sherlock #5) - Sherry Thomas Page 0,56

to the highest floor were narrow and steep.

“Oh, I am getting old,” mumbled Mrs. Coltrane, even as she ascended easily.

The air here nearly bounced with the pungency of essential oils in too great a concentration. Rosemary, rose, lavender, quintessentially English. But also, wormwood, spikenard, and myrrh, an olfactory tour of the Song of Songs.

And more than a hint of alcohol.

The low, narrow attic door probably could have been kicked in, except the stair landing was too small for such a maneuver. Instead, an irregular hole gaped where the in-door lock had once been. The old hasp and stable—for the padlock that had also been blown off—were blackened and twisted with the force of impact, the wood behind them splintered and blackened.

A new set of hasp and stable had been put in for a new padlock. Mrs. Coltrane unlocked the unprepossessing door.

An unexpectedly large space opened up before them.

It was raining again. And yet, the studio was not at all dim, thanks to the glazed skylights and several large mirrors. Mrs. Coltrane explained that the house was not currently connected for gas, then lit several tapers and placed them in wall sconces set before those large mirrors. All at once, the interior was bathed in a warm golden glow.

The studio was shaped somewhat like a dumbbell, with the portion immediately next to the door, having to accommodate for the space taken up by the staircase, being the narrowest, like a corridor that connected two larger spaces at either end.

Several worktables were lined up along the length of this corridor. They must have once held Miss Longstead’s equipment; but now stood sadly empty.

Holmes wandered toward the larger area in the direction of the garden, which had been set up as a sitting area. Not long ago it might have been a comfortable spot, with books on low shelves and a writing desk that would have given its occupant an excellent view of the garden.

Lord Ingram imagined his children in this studio. Come summer, with the trees outside in full foliage, they might easily believe that they were in the midst of a forest, perched high above.

But now the shelves were in pieces. The books, many of which appeared damaged from having been thrown about, stood in desolate piles on the floor. The writing desk looked as if it had been gouged—someone had wielded a poker with great force.

“It was such a charming space,” lamented Mrs. Coltrane. “I don’t think Miss Longstead can comprehend what happened here and I don’t blame her. I don’t either. You cannot imagine how much glass we swept up.”

The smells inside were weaker than in the stairwell, possibly because the windows had been opened: It was as cold as an ice well inside the studio, and everyone’s breaths vapored.

“The previous tenants didn’t leave behind the furniture, did they?” asked Holmes, testing with a fingertip the depth of a particularly large gouge mark on the desk.

“No, indeed, they didn’t. Once it was decided not to put the house up for let again, Miss Longstead had things brought over from the other house.”

Lord Ingram made his way to the other end of the studio, near the windows that looked down on the street. Here a different work area had been set up, with an ironing board placed next to a chair. Mrs. Coltrane explained that those were for Miss Longstead’s maid, who stayed with her while she worked and used the time to perform some of her own duties. And that there had been a sewing basket and a knitting basket, but the baskets were destroyed, and their contents mixed up with too much debris to salvage.

“Miss Longstead didn’t need the company but it was an empty house, after all. Both Mr. Longstead and I insisted that she not be alone here.”

The studio had been formed by removing thin walls that would have separated the space into small rooms for the servants. Not all the partitions had been removed. Near the maid’s station, one such room remained.

“It was used as a storage closet by the previous tenant. I do believe he left behind a few boxes of old art magazines. They were strewn all about yesterday morning, the boxes thrown against the walls,” said Mrs. Coltrane, opening the closet to show its empty inside to Lord Ingram and Holmes, who had by now repaired to this side of the studio. “Miss Longstead’s Christmas present from her uncle, too, was smashed to pieces. And it was such a magnificent pearl necklace.