Murder on Cold Street (Lady Sherlock #5) - Sherry Thomas Page 0,88

as a spirit burner. While the water heated, she looked over every inch of the envelopes. And then, as steam began issuing, she held the envelopes over the spout of the kettle, reliquefying the glue that held them together. She even steamed the stamps to come off.

But the envelopes, when spread open, revealed no secret communication along seams where flaps had gummed over one another. There was nothing written on either the back of the stamps or underneath them. The stamps themselves, too, proved absolutely ordinary, penny stamps featuring the stiff visage of the queen.

Mrs. Watson sighed. “It’s been a long day for everyone. I say we turn in, get a good night’s sleep, and carry on with the work tomorrow.”

Everyone rose.

“I will see you out, my lord,” said Holmes.

He paused in the gathering of the papers before him. She had not seen him out the evening before and he couldn’t think what she wanted to say to him. “Certainly,” he said. “Thank you.”

As it turned out, she didn’t simply see him to the door. She got into a hackney coach with him and gave a Cold Street address.

When they arrived, Holmes rang several times before the door was opened by a bespectacled and round-faced young man.

“Mr. Bosworth?” she asked.

Mr. Bosworth regarded them with a mixture of curiosity and alarm. “Yes?”

“I am Miss Holmes,” said Holmes. “And this is Lord Ingram Ashburton. My colleague Miss Hudson called on Mrs. Styles this afternoon.”

Mrs. Watson, when she was in disguise as Sherlock Holmes’s landlady or housekeeper, went by Mrs. Hudson. Miss Redmayne similarly referred to herself as Miss Hudson when she was out and about on Sherlockian business.

“Ah, yes, my grandmother mentioned it at dinner. About the . . . events next door. Miss Hudson was making inquiries for Sherlock Holmes, the detective.”

“For my brother, yes.”

“A pleasure to meet you both, but my grandmother is already abed.”

“We came to speak not to Mrs. Styles, but to you, Mr. Bosworth,” said Holmes. “May we come in for a minute?”

Mr. Bosworth hesitated another moment. “Ah, yes, of course. Do forgive me.”

He started toward the staircase that would lead them up to a drawing room, but Holmes said, “Your study would be good enough.”

Mr. Bosworth turned around in surprise. “But the study lacks sufficient chairs for all of us.”

“That would be quite all right,” Holmes reassured him. “We will not be long.”

Mr. Bosworth gazed at her, puzzled. He turned to Lord Ingram, as if looking for clarification.

“I’m only here as Miss Holmes’s assistant,” he said cheerfully.

Mr. Bosworth must have come to the conclusion that it was best not to argue with strangers who called late at night. “This way then.”

“You are a barrister,” said Holmes, after a look at the study, its lights already on. “And a very busy one at that.”

These were not mind-boggling inferences: Lord Ingram could have said the same thing. Law books lined the shelves. The desk was covered by papers and more law books, its inkwell uncapped. A half-eaten plate of biscuits and a mostly empty teacup sat on the bookshelf next to the desk.

“I see even assistants to the famed Sherlock Holmes are skilled practitioners in the art of deduction,” said Mr. Bosworth politely. “I would offer you tea but the staff have retired for the night and I am strictly forbidden even to light a cigar for myself, as I have been deemed a permanent fire hazard.”

Holmes chuckled. “Please take no trouble. We didn’t come for tea.”

“Then I’m afraid I can’t tell you much of anything. I didn’t even know about the murders until I came home the next evening and heard a paperboy shouting about murders on Cold Street.”

“I didn’t come to ask you about the night of the Longsteads’ party, Mr. Bosworth,” replied Holmes gravely, “but to see your two alarm clocks.”

Mr. Bosworth blinked. As did Lord Ingram. He recalled that Miss Longstead had said something about Mr. Bosworth waving an alarm clock before his grandmother to let the latter know that it was time for her dose.

In the shelf above the teacup and the plate of biscuits there were indeed two small alarm clocks, one facing out, the other facing the back of the bookshelf. The one facing out said twenty to eleven, more or less the correct time.

“May I see the other one?” asked Holmes.

Mr. Bosworth hesitated.

“If I’m not mistaken, that one says eleven o’clock—all the time. Because it isn’t wound daily. Or ever.”

Mr. Bosworth hesitated a little more, before handing the other alarm