Murder on Cold Street (Lady Sherlock #5) - Sherry Thomas Page 0,79

the back door and asked, in a low, anxious voice, “Have you other theories, Miss Holmes?”

Charlotte shook her head. “None worth mentioning, I’m afraid.”

Mrs. Treadles smiled gamely. “Well, there’s still time. We are still three days away from Christmas.”

She led Charlotte to Inspector Treadles’s dressing room, a neat and well-organized space, so Charlotte could see where his service revolver was usually kept.

Holmes looked down into the drawer. The only item it contained was an unopened box of cartridges, the edges of its wrapping paper still glued together.

“Mrs. Graycott said she told you about Inspector Treadles asking about items missing from the house,” said Mrs. Treadles. “I believe, as she does, that the revolver was missing from before he left on this last trip. As you can see, he didn’t take any rounds. A man intending on using a revolver would have taken rounds.”

There was a note of pleading in her voice, even though she must know that Scotland Yard would simply say he had acquired cartridges elsewhere.

Charlotte closed the drawer. “May I have the letters that he sent you when he was away recently?”

When Mrs. Treadles realized that Charlotte was not going to comment on the cartridges, her eyes dimmed, but she kept her voice even. “Inspector Brighton took the letters. I can give you the envelopes though—I’d already removed the envelopes because I didn’t want the police to see that the locations on the postmarks didn’t agree with what he’d written on the letters themselves.”

Charlotte was by the door, putting on her overcoat—she needed to leave for 31 Cold Street immediately to keep her appointment—when Mrs. Treadles came down with the envelopes. She placed them into her pocket. “Mrs. Treadles, when I spoke with Inspector Treadles this morning at Scotland Yard, he said that Sherlock Holmes would be able to help him by doing what Sherlock Holmes typically did. Would you happen to know what he meant?”

Mrs. Treadles blinked. “Surely, just that Mr. Holmes’s brilliance would prevail yet again?”

They said their goodbyes. Charlotte already had her hand on the door when she turned around and looked Mrs. Treadles in the eye. “I know the situation appears dire, Mrs. Treadles, and time is running out. But much can happen in a few days. Could you have imagined yesterday, or even this morning, when you woke up, that before the end of the day you would have at last gained control over Cousins?

“Similarly, exculpatory evidence is scant now, but it may very well be forthcoming. I may not have a viable theory today, but that doesn’t mean I won’t have one tomorrow. So I ask that you do not torment yourself with worst-case scenarios, but place your faith in those of us working to clear Inspector Treadles’s name. I never promise results ahead of time, but I have always delivered on those results.”

She inclined her head. “A good evening to you, Mrs. Treadles.”

* * *

Livia closed the door of her bedroom and leaned against it, breathing hard.

After Lady Holmes recovered from her stupefaction at having received fifty pounds from Charlotte, of all people, she’d paced in the parlor for a good half hour, pulling her hair out, convinced that Charlotte was under the protection of a man and was, sin of sins, trading her body for pin money.

But half an hour was as long as her moral quandary lasted. After that, her mind made the resolute turn toward how she ought to spend the money and enjoy herself. Dozens of ideas spouted forth from her lips, some dumbfounding Livia.

Wintering in Nice? Did Lady Holmes have any idea how much that would cost? Neither did Livia, to be sure, but she would be amazed if on that gilded aristocratic playground fifty pounds lasted longer than a two bob bit did in their little village.

She said nothing—it was not wise to puncture her mother’s daydreams at their frothiest. But eventually, Lady Holmes’s fanciful notions collapsed under their own weight. She slumped back into her chair. “But I can’t go anywhere, can I? You are still unmarried, still home, and that means I, the responsible mother, am stuck at home with you.”

Livia shot to her feet. A long tirade against her was on its way, waiting only for Lady Holmes’s resentment to escalate to anger. “I still haven’t written a Christmas card to the Openshaws. I’d best go do that right now!” she cried.

And fled.

Livia sighed, her back still against the door of the bedroom, her head in her heads. She’d escaped, for now.