Murder on Cold Street (Lady Sherlock #5) - Sherry Thomas Page 0,86

Mrs. Styles normally goes back to sleep fairly easily, but that night she didn’t. So she got up and used the water closet. Upon returning to her room she realized that there was a party going on—some guests at Mr. Longstead’s had opened a window for air, and music was temporarily audible from where she stood. She pulled back the curtains for a look and indulged in fond recollections of the dances of her own youth.

“And then, just as she was drawing the curtain shut again, a movement caught her eye. She thought she saw someone leap from number 33.”

Lord Ingram sucked in a breath. Even Charlotte sat up straighter. Satisfied with their reactions, Miss Redmaye carried on. “The sight startled Mrs. Styles so much that she shut the curtains, then stood for a moment before opening the curtains again to make sure that she hadn’t been imagining things. But of course by that time the street below was empty again.”

Lord Ingram frowned. “She is positive that this happened shortly after eleven?”

“She declared her grandson unfailingly punctual in the matter of her night dose. He always waves a small alarm clock before her when he comes to give her that medicine. And that night was no exception. She had no doubt that she saw the man jump from the house within a quarter hour afterwards.”

Charlotte remembered what Mrs. Treadles’s groom had said about having berthed his carriage several streets over. She looked to Lord Ingram. “My lord, when you spoke with the guests, did you also speak with their coachmen?”

“I did, but they were directed to park their vehicles on Cascade Lane, so none of them would have been on Cold Street at that time to corroborate Mrs. Styles’s account.”

Charlotte turned toward Miss Redmayne. “Did Mrs. Styles notice anything about the man?”

“She said he seemed like a ruffian.” Miss Redmayne chortled. “It seems to me that she saw him for only a fraction of a second. It also seems to me that Mrs. Styles is the sort to consider a large segment of the male population to be ruffians.”

“At half past twelve, Mr. Sullivan and Mr. Longstead were still very much alive.” Lord Ingram set his knuckles against his chin. “I was sure the jumper was the murderer. But if he leaped off more than an hour before the men were killed, then—”

He slapped a hand on his seat. “I’ve been so taken with the thought that the person whose jacket was caught on the finial was the murderer, that I’ve failed to ask myself why Inspector Treadles voluntarily locked himself in a room with the two dead men. He must have felt himself in danger—and of course the sleeve of his coat had been slashed through by a sharp implement. In which case, it’s possible, perhaps even highly likely, that the person who wounded him was also in the house.”

Silence. It was raining again. The streets felt quieter, emptier. Their town coach drove by a household receiving its Christmas fir, much to the joy of children crowded at the door. Past the next intersection, Charlotte’s nose twitched at the unmistakable scent of a great many freshly baked gingerbread biscuits coming out of ovens.

“Poor Inspector Treadles,” murmured Miss Redmayne. “I do wonder what he was doing in that house in the first place.”

* * *

Lord Ingram parted ways from the ladies to see his children to bed. When he had done that and arrived once again at Mrs. Watson’s, he encountered Holmes and Penelope returning from Fleet Street, where they had each visited the offices of three newspapers.

Their objective had been twofold: to inquire into the identity of the person who placed the roses-are-red-violets-are-blue message, and to place small notices of their own. The second goal had been easily enough achieved, but alas, no one had come in person to place the malicious message in question. Its text had been sent in by post and paid for with a postal order.

They found Mrs. Watson in the dining room, moving papers from the dining table, where she’d spread out the Cousins accounts, to make room for dinner.

With all the dishes again served à la française, and Mr. Mears off to his own dinner in the servants’ hall, Penelope asked, “Did you spot any nefarious malfeasance, Auntie Jo?”

“Unfortunately, nothing so obvious,” said Mrs. Watson, frowning slightly—only to remember herself and smooth her brow.

For as long as Lord Ingram had known Mrs. Watson, the lady had been on a not terribly serious, but