Murder on Cold Street (Lady Sherlock #5) - Sherry Thomas Page 0,85

were left open, accidentally or deliberately, or many more people had keys than we know about.”

Charlotte had been thinking of the same thing, especially of Mr. Longstead’s set of keys. She had meant to ask Miss Longstead this evening whether she knew where they were to be found but had forgotten to in the wake of Miss Longstead’s sobering disclosure.

“As for how many individuals visited number 33 that night,” continued Lord Ingram, “Inspector Treadles, Mr. Longstead, and Mr. Sullivan were there, by irrefutable physical evidence. Mrs. Treadles, too, by her own admission. These four we can be sure of.

“Miss Longstead saw a woman enter number 33 from the garden that night. Our problem with her account is that although we can trust her vision—as verified by Miss Holmes just now—she couldn’t tell us with any precision at what time she saw this woman. If it wasn’t Mrs. Treadles, then we have a fifth person on our hands.”

Lord Ingram paused, glanced at Charlotte, and then at Miss Redmayne. “How much do you know about Mrs. Treadles’s movements that night?”

“I went back home for a short time in the afternoon and saw my aunt. She told me what Mrs. Treadles told her this morning,” said Miss Redmayne, her tone matter-of-fact.

“In that case you know we also must think about the person who slammed a door and startled Mr. Sullivan into letting go of Mrs. Treadles. Holmes, what do you think of the chances that person was either Inspector Treadles or Mr. Longstead?”

“I thought it more likely than not,” Charlotte replied. “But I spoke to Mrs. Treadles this evening before I called at Cold Street, and Mrs. Treadles, at least, did not believe it was either. And now I’m not sure what to think.”

Lord Ingram waited for her to continue. When she didn’t, he said, “Moreover there was the person who leaped out of the window and had a scrap of a coat caught on a wrought iron fence finial below—that scrap is now in police custody. And last, but by no means least, the person who picked up Mrs. Treadles’s jeweled comb.”

Miss Redmayne made a tally on her fingers. “So four people, potentially, in addition to the victims and the Treadleses.”

Lord Ingram rubbed the pad of his thumb across his chin. “But since we don’t know when most of these events took place, it’s possible that the woman Miss Longstead saw enter the house made away with Mrs. Treadles’s ornament. It’s even possible, though somewhat improbable, that this same woman also slammed the door and jumped out of the window.”

In the bouncing light of the carriage lanterns, Miss Redmayne’s eyes gleamed. “What do you think, Miss Holmes?”

Lord Ingram shifted forward, as if to better hear Charlotte’s answer. A warm pleasure buoyed her. From the very beginning, he had listened to her—closely.

“According to Mrs. Treadles, the door-slammer was higher up in number 33, when he or she made that great noise. At that moment, Mrs. Treadles and her jeweled comb were both in the dining room, on the ground floor. She ran out, but we don’t know what Mr. Sullivan decided to do. If he went after her, then our door-slammer stood a reasonable chance of going down to investigate and coming across the jeweled comb.

“But if Mr. Sullivan instead headed upstairs to look into the source of the noise, forcing the door-slammer to leap to the pavement—it seems a desperate enough departure that I find it unlikely that this person would come back to the house again, let alone come back to find Mrs. Treadles’s jeweled comb in the dark.”

“Well,” said Miss Redmayne, rocking a little with excitement, “here’s something you may find relevant, Miss Holmes. Across the street and two houses down from number 33 lives an old lady named Mrs. Styles, a very spry, very superior woman. She told me that she would have had greater dealings with her neighbors if she didn’t find them so vapid.”

Miss Redmayne nodded, as if again amused by Mrs. Styles’s condescension. “In any case, apparently her health isn’t as good as it appears and she must take a remedy four times a day without fail. She goes to bed at nine. Her night dose, at eleven, is administered by her grandson Mr. Bosworth, who lives with her and is, according to her, a young man of unimpeachable virtues.

“The night of the party, Mr. Bosworth roused her for her eleven o’clock dose. Then he kissed her on the forehead, turned off the light, and left.