Murder on Cold Street (Lady Sherlock #5) - Sherry Thomas Page 0,67
collection of those who were not openly allied with either of the other two factions; they were not cohesive enough to be considered a coterie, but not so insignificant in number that they could be ignored altogether.
Alice took the seat at the head of the table. Directly opposite her on the far end was Mr. White, Mr. Sullivan’s chief lieutenant. She was accustomed to seeing Mr. White in that position: When Mr. Sullivan had pretended to be her friend, he’d sat somewhere toward the middle of the table, allowing her to think that Mr. White was her greatest opponent.
Which he would be today.
Mrs. Watson occupied the chair to her right, the place that had once been reserved for Mr. Longstead. Behind Mrs. Watson stood two burly men. They were dressed appropriately, but still gave the impression that they had perhaps participated in a boxing match the night before—or in something a great deal more illicit.
Mrs. Watson nodded at her. Alice took a deep breath.
“Thank you all for being here.” Her voice emerged squeaky, but she forced herself to keep speaking. “Mrs. Watson, may I present my managers and supervisors. Gentlemen, this is Mrs. Watson, who will serve as my adviser today.”
Still not smiling, but with a gracious expression, Mrs. Watson inclined her head at the assembled men, who nodded or half bowed in return.
“A great tragedy has befallen Cousins,” Alice continued, willing the hands that she’d placed on the table, loosely held together, not to shake. “Mr. Longstead and Mr. Sullivan are no more. Many of you have worked for years with Mr. Sullivan. Some of you have worked even longer with Mr. Longstead. We are all the poorer for the loss of these captains of men. But the work of Cousins must go on.
“Our first order of business must be a thorough audit of the company’s finances and operations. No audit has been performed in six years, which is in grave contradiction of the company’s policy of conducting one every four years. The acquisition of factories under my esteemed late brother, though increasing production capacity in an admirable manner, has left us—”
“Mrs. Treadles!”
Mr. White’s interruption came exactly when she expected it to.
And so it begins.
“Yes, Mr. White?” she said coolly, even as her throat turned dry.
“I confess I cannot believe what I am hearing, Mrs. Treadles. Mr. Sullivan and Mr. Longstead were murdered by your husband, and you sit here as if nothing has happened.”
There was a collective intake of breath, including her own. The men’s faces swiveled from Alice to Mr. White and back again.
She felt the force of his words in her solar plexus, but she would not let him see it—or hear any change in her tone. The projection of power mattered almost as much as power itself. Mrs. Watson, for all that she had told Alice not to worry about her appearance, had then proceeded to make sure that she looked as well as possible under the circumstances.
“Mr. White, Inspector Treadles has been temporarily detained by Scotland Yard for questioning. The investigation is still very much ongoing and I caution you not to assign guilt prematurely, especially when he could be released at any moment.”
Mr. White looked as if he wished to throw something. At her. “He was caught with the murder weapon in his hand.”
Members of his clique appeared excited by his aggressiveness. Several other men shifted uncomfortably.
“Appearances can be deceiving,” said Alice. “Men who are caught with murder weapons in their hands may simply be in the wrong place at the wrong time. Much as men who appear friendly and helpful may be nothing of the sort.”
An unsubtle reference to Mr. Sullivan. She was speaking ill of the dead when he was barely cold. Granted, he had been a despicable man, but she had never expected to trot out the truth before his cohorts.
A muscle worked in Mr. White’s jaw. He, too, had not expected such a thinly veiled dig. “Nevertheless, Mrs. Treadles, I had expected you to announce that you would recuse yourself from Cousins.”
She placed a hand on the notebook she had brought with her. Mrs. Watson had counseled having one or two props to give her hands something to do. “Why, pray tell?”
“Because your husband has been arrested on suspicion of murdering two of our finest!”
She wanted to shout, too. Instead, she made her reply softer, more unhurried. “And that makes Cousins Manufacturing a lesser concern for me? Or does it somehow make the firm less mine?”