Murder on Cold Street (Lady Sherlock #5) - Sherry Thomas Page 0,84

allowed to mimic some supposed expert’s views that my ancestors are subhuman. My uncle did not understand that it was not curiosity or concern that drove Mr. Sullivan, but malice.

“Mr. Sullivan despised my uncle because my uncle did not care for him. He despised me because I lived the life of a lady while he must still work for a living, albeit a very good living. He could do nothing about my uncle, but he had power over me. And he could flex that power and denigrate me anytime he liked, because my uncle never put a stop to his antics.”

She turned once more toward Charlotte, her gaze beseeching. “Please, please do not think that my uncle didn’t care how others treated me. He cared deeply. Any servants disrespectful to me were immediately let go. And he gave the cut direct once, to a family who was snide about my presence at a country party.

“But as I said, he had his limitations in understanding. Sometimes the evils among us are not less perfidious, but less obvious, and he did not recognize some of those less obvious evils.

“So no, I do not believe he would have been aware of Mrs. Treadles’s dilemma. He did not see what Mr. Sullivan openly did to me in front of him. He would not have perceived that Mr. Sullivan was covertly threatening to destroy Mrs. Treadles’s marriage.”

Thirteen

Charlotte did not immediately instruct her carriage to depart.

Miss Longstead’s words still weighed on her. Murders are ugly things; and even those that end up neatly solved still expose decades of cruelty and wrongdoing. But murders, the killing of individuals by individuals, are not yet the ugliest things in the world.

Evil exists on a far greater scale, so great that it can penetrate an empire from top to bottom, and integrate itself into the very fabric of society. So great that when its worst incarnation had been eradicated, its imprint still remained, more than half a century later.

And an echo of that imprint had been powerful enough to slash a chasm between Miss Longstead and her uncle.

A knock came at the carriage door. She started.

“You cannot believe how many vehicles are on the road,” said Lord Ingram cheerfully as he climbed in, took his seat, and lightly struck the top of the carriage with his walking stick. “I got out of my hansom cab half a mile away to walk. I was hoping you might take a little more time, or I would have missed you.”

His expression changed once his gaze settled on her. “Are you all right, Holmes?”

She told him of what she’d learned from Miss Longstead.

He was silent for some time. His natural father had been Jewish. Was he thinking of how he himself had been denigrated for that heritage?

She waited for him to speak, but he only leaned forward and took her hands.

They were both gloved, yet after a while, she felt his warmth. His warmth. His strength. His courage. She lifted her gaze from their hands to his face, half lit, half in shadows, and altogether beautiful.

Before she could say anything, he let go of her. “Is that Miss Redmayne?”

She half turned. Indeed it was Miss Redmayne, running after the carriage, one hand holding up her skirts.

He signaled the coachman to halt, then descended to help her up.

“I thought this was Aunt Jo’s coach!” said Miss Redmayne happily, panting a little.

“We are delighted to be able to ferry you home,” replied Lord Ingram, “after everything you have done this day.”

Miss Redmayne had volunteered to distribute Sherlock Holmes’s cards to all the houses that surrounded the garden, and in the row of houses opposite 33 Cold Street.

Abovestairs and belowstairs.

Miss Redmayne blew out a breath. “At least that’s done.”

“Thank you,” said Charlotte sincerely.

Miss Redmayne grinned. “Indeed I do believe I ought to be thanked. But before I tell you what I’ve learned, let me ask you two a question. Have we come to a conclusion yet about how many people went in and out of number 33 that night, before the police discovered Inspector Treadles in a room with the dead men?”

All eyes landed on Charlotte, who said, looking across to Lord Ingram, “What do you think, my lord?”

She wanted to hear his voice.

Lord Ingram raised a brow, but proceeded to say, “I’ll confess myself also puzzled by how everyone got into number 33. Besides Mr. Longstead, that is—he could have let himself in. But for the others, we must assume either the doors of number 33