Murder on Cold Street (Lady Sherlock #5) - Sherry Thomas Page 0,61
asked Charlotte whether Sherlock Holmes would be able to bring Inspector Treadles back home soon. Charlotte had given a noncommittal answer, as she sincerely had no idea whether she could do anything for Inspector Treadles.
Owens, however, asked a very different question.
“Yes,” said Charlotte. “Sherlock Holmes will find out who killed Mr. Longstead. And when he does, it will be thanks in part to your help, Miss Owens.”
Ten
EARLIER THAT SAME DAY
Alice Treadles was more than a little afraid of Miss Holmes. The young lady might be only conveying her brother’s insights, but her seemingly artless gaze made Alice’s gut tighten. She was sure Miss Holmes not only detected lies and omissions, but perceived the slightest bending of the truth.
She had, therefore, warily—and wearily—braced herself for this other associate of Sherlock Holmes’s.
Someone similarly omniscient, similarly cool and removed.
Miss Holmes had left to fetch Mrs. Watson from the latter’s own carriage. Alice sat with her face in her hands. Despite a full night’s sleep, she was already exhausted again by the impossibility of the situation. Yes, she would keep putting one foot down in front of the other, but what was the use of it all?
Miss Holmes returned with a woman in a jewel-blue cape. At her entrance, the interior of the carriage brightened, as if lit by an invisible halo.
“Mrs. Treadles,” said Miss Holmes, “may I present my colleague Mrs. Watson? Mrs. Watson, Mrs. Treadles, our client. I must call on Inspector Treadles now and will leave you ladies to be better acquainted. Good day, Mrs. Treadles. Good day, Mrs. Watson.”
After Miss Holmes left, Mrs. Watson sighed softly and looked at Alice. “It has just been awful, hasn’t it, my dear?”
With Miss Holmes, Alice felt as if every single one of her mistakes and shortcomings, accumulated over her twenty-eight years on earth, had been laid bare, with no place to hide and all defenses crumbled.
But with Mrs. Watson, her bewilderment, loneliness, and pain—her entire self—was seen. And not just seen, but gently, and ever so kindly, embraced.
Tears immediately stung the backs of her eyes. She covered her mouth with her handkerchief, as if by doing so she could dam the flood of need.
“I’m—I’m so besieged.”
Sympathy radiated from the older woman. “Of course you have been, my dear. It has fallen on you and you alone to preserve your marriage and look after a large enterprise—and now, to save your husband’s life. But you mustn’t despair. You are not alone anymore. We are here to help. And if I may boast a little, Mrs. Treadles, we are formidable help.”
Not just sympathy. Mrs. Watson also radiated confidence.
Alice had always known that Miss Holmes—that Sherlock Holmes would be formidable help. But not until this moment did relief wash over her, an avalanche she was glad to be buried under.
More words gushed out of her. “Ever since Sergeant MacDonald showed up at my house, I’ve felt as if I’m walking on a high wire suspended over a bottomless abyss. One false step and it would be the dreadful end.”
Mrs. Watson took her hands. They both wore gloves, yet Alice’s ice-cold fingers instantly felt warmer. “You are all right now, my dear. We are your safety net. Even if you take a wrong step, we will still catch you. We won’t let you fall.”
No one had reassured her like this in a very long time.
A nightmarish high-wire act described her life for the past few days. Before that, ever since summer, it had been as if she’d been trapped inside a large maze, with the walls closing in all around her, until she must move sideways, squeezed so tight she could barely breathe. All the while knowing that as much work as she put into each step, she was no closer to putting the struggle behind her.
Her voice broke. “I don’t know what to do anymore.”
“You don’t need to know everything, my dear. Together we will find a way out.”
Mrs. Watson moved to Alice’s seat and enfolded her in an embrace. And the tears Alice had been holding back, today, yesterday, and for months and months, fell down her cheeks into Mrs. Watson’s velvet-soft cape.
“Inspector Brighton will not let up. He’s convinced of impropriety between Mr. Sullivan and myself. And he is convinced I was there at number 33 the night of the murders.”
“I believe that there was nothing between you and Mr. Sullivan.”
Alice’s conscience burned. “I can say that nothing happened between Mr. Sullivan and myself.”
Mrs. Watson rubbed her back, the contact light yet fortifying. “My