Murder on Cold Street (Lady Sherlock #5) - Sherry Thomas Page 0,75

foibles. But foibles are not the same thing as ill will. I can fault her for having made questionable choices, if I must, but I will not use her mistake to justify Mr. Sullivan’s predation.”

“I’m glad you think so.”

He glanced outside the carriage window, a pensive expression on his face, and looked back at her. “I have said this to you before: You are the reason I have questioned many things that I would otherwise have happily accepted as given. But I have not told you that I’m glad of it. I would have been a different man, a lesser one, were it not for you.”

It took Charlotte a moment to understand the strange, expansive, yet somewhat uncomfortable feeling in her heart. She was humbled.

Their gazes held. The carriage turned. The light from its lanterns swung. Somewhere on the street a hawker loudly advertised his fresh, fragrant Christmas wreaths.

She felt as if she ought to say something. But what did one say to such a monumental confession? She moistened her lips, opened her mouth, and out came, “I . . . I wonder what manner of woman is Mrs. Sullivan.”

* * *

Mrs. Sullivan was a small, plump woman who gave the impression of being easily startled, with her large, darting eyes and fingers that kept lacing and unlacing in her lap.

Mourning attire did swallow her whole. In the ornate padded chair she occupied, she seemed less like a widow than a bundle of clothes left behind.

In fact, the entire drawing room overwhelmed her, packed as it was with grandiose furnishing. Not an inch of the walls could be seen for the paintings, large and small, that had been fitted onto them like pieces of an ambitious mosaic. Nor was much of the wood used in the construction of the furniture visible, obscured by the ivory inlay, ormolu motifs, and gilded caryatids that had been heaped onto all the surfaces.

Charlotte had seen a more wildly outfitted house, which Livia had described as both “a brothel and a circus.” Mrs. Sullivan’s drawing room did not make one think of a bordello with greater aspirations, but rather the warehouse of an auction house, on the night before its biggest public sale, packed pell-mell and stuffed to the gills.

Charlotte liked it, this room, the gaudiness of which could not be entirely muted even by the black crape draped over windows and mirrors. And she could not help but think of the smile that would have animated Lord Ingram’s lips, had he been on hand to intuit her enjoyment of the décor.

Alas he had not accompanied her to this house but gone on to the next set of guests he needed to speak to, though he’d said he’d meet her on Cold Street, where she would have her last scheduled appointment of the day, if he finished soon enough.

“Thank you for seeing me, Mrs. Sullivan,” Charlotte said. “I apologize for taking up your time in your hour of grief.”

“It’s quite all right,” answered Mrs. Sullivan. She must have been in her late twenties, but her voice sounded girlish, almost childish. “They don’t let new widows do much. My sister has taken charge of my children, my mother handles the callers, and Mr. Sullivan’s cousins will be making all the arrangements for the funeral. Other than mourning—and being fitted for more mourning attire—I have no other duties in my moment of grief.”

Charlotte raised a brow—people who were this candid to strangers usually wished for a reaction. “I see,” she said, calibrating her tone to make it sound as if she was trying not to betray how taken aback she was.

Hers seemed to be the correct reaction. Mrs. Sullivan leaned forward. “So what can I do for you, Miss Holmes?”

“Ah . . . right. I am here as a representative of Mr. Sherlock Holmes, my brother, who has agreed to help Mrs. Treadles find out the truth of the case.”

“Yes, I know that. The note Mr. Holmes sent around made that very clear. I hope you will be more thorough in your work than the police. That Sergeant Howe who came barely asked any questions of anyone in the house, me least of all, as I didn’t attend the party.”

As Charlotte had thought, here was a woman who needed attention. And given her husband’s interest in other people’s wives, it seemed reasonable to assume that he hadn’t paid his own wife as much mind as she would have liked.

“Perhaps Sergeant Howe didn’t want to be indelicate at