Murder on Cold Street (Lady Sherlock #5) - Sherry Thomas Page 0,72

that severely injured my brother. I’m afraid to this day similar noises still have me in a lather.”

“It’s highly understandable,” said Lord Ingram. “Shall we ring for a fresh pot of tea for you?”

“Yes, please. Thank you,” said Mrs. Cousins, smiling weakly.

Fresh tea was brought. After a cup, Mrs. Cousins rallied, apologized again, and said, “We were on the subject of Mr. Longstead, weren’t we? Mrs. Treadles spoke of him often. She was inordinately grateful that he was kind to her—the only person at Cousins who could be said to be kind. I’m very sorry that he is no more.”

Charlotte waited to see if she had more to say about Mr. Longstead, but Mrs. Cousins only looked down at her hands, one clutched onto her skirts, the other opening and closing with nervous energy.

Charlotte moved on to the subject she had come for. “I was at Mrs. Treadles’s house the other night, when she had her interview with Inspector Brighton. From your exchange, I gathered that you knew something of her dilemma concerning Mr. Sullivan. When did she tell you?”

Mrs. Cousins seemed more surprised by Charlotte’s knowledge of Mr. Sullivan than her presence at Mrs. Treadles’s. “What is it that you know, Miss Holmes?” she asked warily.

Before she called on Mrs. Cousins, Charlotte had gone back home briefly and had encountered Mrs. Watson returning from Cousins with boxes upon boxes of accounts. And Mrs. Watson had told Charlotte of Mrs. Treadles’s confession. “Everything,” she said. “I know that she was being threatened by Mr. Sullivan and I know what she encountered at number 33 the night of the party.”

“All right, then. If she’s told you, then I suppose I can talk about Mr. Sullivan.” Still Mrs. Cousins cast an uncertain glance in Lord Ingram’s direction. “Alice—Mrs. Treadles told me about Mr. Sullivan a week or so before the murders. She didn’t want to burden me with the knowledge, but eventually it became too heavy to carry all by herself. And of course, there was the fact that I’d warned her about Mr. Sullivan and she hadn’t paid sufficient attention to my warning.”

Her lips curved in a derisive smile—Charlotte had the feeling that the derision was directed at herself. “I don’t blame her. In the time she’d known me, I had probably displayed very little sound judgment. But even a clock that stands still is right about the time once every twelve hours—and I was right about Mr. Sullivan.”

“And may I ask how you learned of Mr. Sullivan’s character deficiencies, Mrs. Cousins?”

Mrs. Cousins glanced again at Lord Ingram. She hesitated. “My apologies, my lord, but I would feel more comfortable if I were to discuss this with only Miss Holmes.”

He rose immediately. “I’ll wait in the carriage. Good day, Mrs. Cousins.”

If Charlotte could blush, she would have. She’d made him come join her on the flimsiest of excuses and without considering that she would be inquiring into a highly sensitive subject.

But he had a house party to host after Christmas and must leave London soon. And after that, she didn’t know when she would see him again . . .

After he had closed the door behind himself, Charlotte gathered herself and said, “Mrs. Cousins, it behooves me to inform you that Lord Ingram is an integral part of this investigation. What you tell me today, I will most likely share with him, at least in the abstract.”

“I understand,” said Mrs. Cousins, her hand sliding back and forth across her skirts. “Given that you are an emissary of Mr. Sherlock Holmes, I do not expect that no masculine ears will ever hear my story—the pretense that we are alone is good enough.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Cousins.”

Mrs. Cousins bowed her head. Abruptly, she sprang to her feet, marched to the window, then to the opposite wall, then back to the window again. Her hand over her forehead, she said, “I’m sorry. Ever since I learned of Inspector Treadles’s arrest, I haven’t been able to sit still.”

She paced furiously another minute before she stopped behind her own chair, her hands gripping its top. “I’m so angry at him—I nearly marched down to Scotland Yard to give him a good whack. I’m so afraid for her. And I’m scared that she might have to watch him hang.”

Charlotte glanced around the room, crossed to the sideboard, and poured two fingers of a bright red liquid from a decanter—cherry brandy, by its heady aroma. She went to Mrs. Cousins and pressed the glass into her hand. “Here, have