Murder on Cold Street (Lady Sherlock #5) - Sherry Thomas Page 0,78

head back there then?”

They left the park, Cockerill trailing a respectful distance behind.

“I also need to ask you a few more questions about the night of the party,” said Charlotte. “I understand that it is an unpleasant subject, but can you recount for me what exactly facilitated your escape from number 33 that night, after Mr. Sullivan accosted you?”

Mrs. Treadles coughed. She glanced back at Cockerill, who was out of earshot. Still she lowered her voice. “There was a loud noise, which startled Mr. Sullivan. That was how I got away.”

“What kind of noise? Can you be more specific?”

“Ah . . . if I must guess—please remember that I was completely distraught at the time—but if I must guess, I would say that it sounded more like a door slamming on an upper floor than anything else. The house very nearly shook with it.”

“You are certain of it?”

“As certain as I could be of anything under those circumstances.” Mrs. Treadles’s brow creased. “I have wondered more than once what—or who—could have made that noise. I do ask myself if it was my husband, as I’d gone into the house in the first place because of him. But I . . . I . . .”

“But you don’t want it to have been your husband, because that would give further credence to Inspector Brighton’s hypothesis that he killed Mr. Sullivan in a rage.”

Mrs. Treadles pulled her mackintosh tighter about her body, as if she felt cold. But her voice was firm. “In the end I don’t believe it was him. Had it been him, and had he known that it was me, he would have come and found me at Mr. Longstead’s house to make sure that I was all right.”

She was capable of great faith, this woman.

As was Lord Ingram.

Charlotte hadn’t realized this before, because she was not accustomed to thinking in such terms, but he had placed his faith in her, who did not always understand the full spectrum of human emotions.

“I’ll keep that in mind,” she said. “Was that the last you saw of Mr. Sullivan?”

“Yes.”

The relief was evident in Mrs. Treadles’s voice, even though Mr. Sullivan would never be able to prey on her again.

“And Mr. Longstead—when did you last see him?”

“After I returned to his house I came across him speaking to Mrs. Coltrane, his housekeeper—they were near the cloakroom where I hid for some time.”

“Before or after you went into the cloakroom?”

“Before. I remember thinking that I didn’t want them to see me, and they didn’t. Or at least Mr. Longstead didn’t.”

Silence fell. The heels of their boots clicked on wet pavement. A gust blew, shaking bare branches all along the street. As they walked past a house with a blazing Christmas tree by the window, someone inside began to play “Silent Night” on a piano, the notes faint yet crystalline.

Mrs. Treadles worried her upper lip, her apprehension warring with her need to know. “May I ask what your questions are about, Miss Holmes?”

“I wonder whether it was possible that the loud noise had been produced by none other than Mr. Longstead. If that were the case, I could see he and Mr. Sullivan getting into a heated argument after your departure.”

“What?” The volume of Mrs. Treadles’s voice shot up.

Hastily she glanced around before asking, in a vehement whisper, “Surely you aren’t implying that Mr. Sullivan then killed Mr. Longstead with my husband’s service revolver?”

“If Inspector Treadles didn’t kill them, and as there is no trace of anyone else who did, then we must consider that possibility,” Charlotte pointed out.

There was, of course, the scrap of fabric that had been found on the fence outside 33 Cold Street, which could have been left by the escaped murderer. But they would have a difficult time persuading Scotland Yard of that.

“But then how did Mr. Sullivan die?” Mrs. Treadles demanded, her eyes full of doubt and incomprehension.

“He could have shot himself.”

“No, not him,” said Mrs. Treadles decisively. “If he had shot Mr. Longstead, he would have tried his best to wriggle out of it, not kill himself. There was too much spite and vanity in him to let a moment’s panic bring him to suicide.”

Despite Charlotte’s assertion, the facts were on Mrs. Treadles’s side. The shot that had killed Mr. Sullivan hadn’t been a contact shot. That meant the tip of the revolver had not been pressed against his forehead, which argued much more strongly in favor of homicide.

They were now behind Mrs. Treadles’s house. She opened