A Study In Scarlet Women

by Sherry Thomas

  And though he had not participated in the civic life of the village, he could be counted upon to give generously to any and all causes, whether it was for a new altarpiece in the old Norman church, coal and windows for the village school, or funds to purchase titles for the circulating library.

  He was, in other words, not beloved, but respected and admired. No one thought it particularly odd that he chose to keep to himself; the great families of the land were well-known to produce eccentric sons.

  Not that the villagers knew which great family had produced Mr. Sackville—they had no copy of Debrett’s to consult. It was simply their instinctive conclusion that his origins lay not with the gentry, but the nobility.

  Curry House, too, added to that impression.

  The Devon Coast was a lovely place. The cliffs that met the sea were high and dramatic—an almost startling reminder that Britain was but an island. The headlands along this stretch of the coast were a green patchwork of fields and sheep-dotted pastures. Curry House stood one and three-quarter miles outside the village of Stanwell Moot and was reached by a narrow path, hemmed in on both sides by hedges of hawthorn and field maple.

  The house was relatively recent, built at the beginning of the century, with a slender, almost delicate silhouette, its stucco exterior bright white under the sun—and impossibly clean against a backdrop of limitless blue skies. The two policemen were more accustomed to the soot and grime of London, where it was easier to find a unicorn than a set of such immaculate walls. Sergeant MacDonald whistled softly.

  Inside, the house was no less immaculate: clear, white-framed windows, pastel blue walls, and thick oriental rugs adding a welcome splash of color and texture. The woman who received them could not be said to be as elegant as her surroundings: Mrs. Cornish, the housekeeper, had a ruddy complexion and a somewhat lumpy build. But her black dress had been skillfully pressed and her large, white cap perfectly starched.

  Not as elegant, but certainly as spotless.

  After politely inquiring into their trip, she offered them tea. Inspector Treadles accepted, but asked to see the house first, particularly the bedroom in which Mr. Sackville had drawn his last breath.

  The airy refinement of the house extended to the upper story. Mr. Sackville’s bedroom commanded a spectacular panorama of the coast—the house was less than half a mile from the sea and boasted one of the highest vantage points in the surrounding countryside.

  “A most favorable view,” murmured Treadles.

  Sergeant MacDonald nodded. “Probably why the house was set here in the first place.”

  Treadles turned his attention to the room itself. “Are these the same sheets on which Mr. Sackville died?”

  “No, Inspector. The sheets have been changed. But they haven’t been sent out to launder yet.”

  “I will need to see them. And the rest of the room has been cleaned too, I suppose?”

  “Yes, Inspector. Top to bottom, on the day itself.”

  Had Mr. Sackville died of natural causes, he might have been allowed to remain undisturbed on his deathbed for a while—or transported no further than the dining room table and laid out. But such had not been the circumstances and a conscientious housekeeper, faced with an unexpected death, had no doubt wished to return the house to its usual state of order and orderliness.

  Treadles could not argue with the caretaker of a fine property duly discharging her duties, no matter how much he wished the room had been better preserved.

  He and Sergeant MacDonald examined the windows and asked Mrs. Cornish about the various ways one could enter the house. She was certain that Mr. Sackville’s windows had been closed that night, as after dinner there had been a thunderstorm. The exterior of the house, smoothly plastered, would have been difficult, if not impossible, to climb up.

  “Were the windows firmly latched?”

  “Yes, Inspector. I unlatched them to air the room after Mr. Sackville was taken away.”

  “And where does he keep his supply of chloral?”

  Mrs. Cornish opened a nightstand drawer to reveal a small vial with two white grains inside.

  “This was the quantity of chloral left the day of Mr. Sackville’s death?”

  “Yes, Inspector. Dr. Birch asked to see it and I remember this was how much was left inside then.”

  On top of the nightstand were several very recent periodicals—everything from literary weeklies to penny dreadfuls—Mr. Sackville had a catholic taste. “Did these come by post?”

  “Yes, Inspector.”

  They moved to the other upstairs rooms. Besides the private facilities, there were two more bedrooms, a sitting room, a study, and the valet’s room. “Mr. Hodges lives up here because we are all women below,” Mrs. Cornish explained.

  Treadles nodded. “The windows in these rooms were also secured that night?”

  “I unlatched them the next day—we aired out the entire house.”

  Her responses were concise and to the point—Mrs. Cornish was not a talkative woman. But something in the way she held herself—a tightness in her jaw, the hard clutch of her fingers around one another—belied her apparent composure.

  She was deeply unsettled to be speaking to the police. But whether it was because the entire affair was upsetting or for some other reason, Treadles could not decide.

  “And the doors?”

  “I check them every night at nine.”

  “Is it possible for someone to slip into the house unnoticed before nine o’clock?”

  “I suppose it’s possible.” But her tone indicated that it was so improbable, the very thought was ridiculous.

  If the deaths of Mr. Sackville, Lady Amelia, and Lady Shrewsbury were related, then an outsider—or more than one outsider—must be involved. But that theory of interconnectedness appeared ever more tenuous, now that Treadles had seen for himself the isolation of the house—and of the nearest village. This was the kind of place where a stranger would be immediately noticed. Or, likewise, a local doing something out of the ordinary.

  Tourists did come through the area, tramping along the edge of the coast and taking in the views. But the preliminary report listed only two sets of guests at the village pub-and-inn in the preceding week: a traveling photographer and his assistant, who had stayed overnight and left five days before Mr. Sackville died, and some friends of the vicar’s brother, who’d come with the brother for a visit and slept at the pub, rather than cramming into the crowded vicarage.

  Treadles and MacDonald were now back on the ground floor. “Would you mind showing us the rest of house, Mrs. Cornish?”

  Kitchen complexes at large country houses were often separate from the main building, to reduce the risk of fire. Here, however, the kitchen was on the ground floor, separated from the drawing room and dining room by two sets of heavy, green baize–covered doors. The corridor led past the larder, the pantry, and the scullery before coming to the kitchen proper.

  Stairs at the end of the corridor led down to other domestic offices, as well as to the servants’ hall and staff quarters. Mrs. Cornish showed Treadles where the linens from Mr. Sackville’s bed had been stowed, and they might as well have been freshly laundered, given how pristine they were.

  “We changed the bedding frequently,” said Mrs. Cornish, not without a note of pride.

  Another avenue of inquiry shut off. But Treadles was a patient man. He would find his openings.

  “Will you take your tea now, Inspector, Sergeant?” Mrs. Cornish went on.

  “We will,” answered Treadles. “Most kind of you, Mrs. Cornish.”

  The housekeeper hesitated a moment. “Inspector, Sergeant, you are visitors to this house and by rights ought to be received abovestairs. But I wouldn’t feel right sitting down in the drawing room . . .”

  “We’ll use the drawing room for our interviews but we’ll be happy to tak
e tea where you’ll be comfortable, Mrs. Cornish,” said Treadles.

  They had tea in Mrs. Cornish’s small office, next to the storeroom. Two-thirds of the entire floor was below ground level, but enough light came through windows set high on the wall that the room didn’t feel subterranean.

  Mrs. Cornish poured tea. Treadles took the opportunity to ask some questions. From the preliminary report, he already knew that Mrs. Cornish had been at Curry House the longest, fourteen years, taking over the housekeeper’s position while the former Mrs. Curry was still in residence.

  Mrs. Cornish confirmed that, as well as information about the rest of the staff. The cook, Mrs. Meek, was the newest, arriving on the Devon Coast little more than a month ago. There was also a valet, a housemaid, a kitchen maid, and a lad who looked after both the garden and the horses.

  With the exception of the valet, Hodges, the servants were paid by the owner of the house, who charged higher rents for a property that came with a full implement of competent staff. Mr. Sackville’s solicitors had agreed that his estate would continue to foot the lease—and Hodges’s wages—until their client’s death had been properly investigated.

  Treadles didn’t doubt the lawyers were irked when the inquest didn’t immediately return a verdict of accidental overdose.

  “Will you tell me something of Mr. Sackville’s daily routines?” he asked Mrs. Cornish.

  Mrs. Cornish did so readily. On an ordinary summer day, Mr. Sackville would have taken his morning cup of cocoa in bed at half past six. Then he bathed and dressed. At quarter past seven he rode. Breakfast was at half past eight, when he returned. He liked to spend some time in his study after breakfast. Luncheon was at one. He often went for a long walk afterward, returning home to take tea at half past four, and dinner at eight. Twice a month he traveled to London after luncheon and didn’t return until tea time the next day.

  Inspector Treadles knew about the London trips from the preliminary report—Constable Perkins of the Devon Constabulary had been thorough at his task. He also knew that the visits were a source of curiosity in the village. Some thought he went to visit friends, some speculated that he gambled, and a few more were of the opinion that Mr. Sackville simply wished to get away regularly—that they would, too, if they had his wealth and freedom of movement.

  “Do you happen to know, Mrs. Cornish, what had been his purpose for those trips?”

  “Not at all, Inspector.”

  “He did not speak of them when he returned?”

  She shook her head. And of course a self-respecting servant would never think to interrogate her employer on his private affairs.

  “Which train did he take?”

  “The 3:05 from Barton Cross.”

  Barton Cross was the next nearest village. Treadles had studied the local railway timetable. The 3:05 from Barton Cross didn’t arrive on a mainline until almost four o’clock in the afternoon. And even if Mr. Sackville caught the next express to London, it would be well past business hours by the time he pulled into Paddington Station.

  Not the kind of itinerary a man would choose, if his primary intention was to see his agents or solicitors.

  “Did he always leave on the same days?”

  “The second and fourth Thursday of each month.”

  The London theatrical season ran from September to the end of July. But the regularity of Mr. Sackville’s visits didn’t suggest the jaunts of a theater lover. It also seemed unlikely that he went to see friends—members of his social class congregated in London during the Season and spent the rest of the year in the country, where the air was far more salutary.

  “You are certain London was his destination, Mrs. Cornish?”

  “Mr. Hodges said so. He went through Mr. Sackville’s pockets before his clothes were sent out for laundering. And he always found punched tickets issued from Paddington Station, from Mr. Sackville’s return trips.”

  Mrs. Cornish blushed slightly, as if embarrassed that she’d gossiped about her employer with the valet.

  “I see. I understand Mr. Sackville’s London trips became a little more irregular in the weeks before his passing.”

  “Gastric attacks,” Mrs. Cornish replied with great authority. “They happened twice in April. Once he never left the house, the next time he began to feel poorly while he was on the train. He got off at the next station and spent the night at the railway hotel.”

  This was in accordance with what the ticket agent at the Barton Cross railway station remembered.

  “A fortnight after that he did go.”

  “He did, but he came back the next morning, earlier than usual. And two weeks after that he didn’t go at all, even though he was well.”

  “Were those two times in April the only occasions he suffered from gastric attacks?”

  “No, Inspector. He’d had them for as long as I’ve worked for him. I think there was once before when he didn’t go to London because he wasn’t feeling up to it.”

  Once in seven years and then twice in a month. Curious. Not curious enough to suggest outright foul play—the nature of random events was that they were random—but noteworthy, nevertheless. “Did he say anything about why he came back early that time in May?”

  “No, he didn’t.”

  “How did he appear when he arrived back at Curry House?”

  “He kept to himself that day and didn’t want to be disturbed.”

  “He also went to church, I understand, before he returned home that day. The vicar saw him, as well as some other villagers.”

  This for a man who had never attended service the entire time he had resided at Curry House.

  “I heard the same.”

  “Were you surprised the Thursday a fortnight later, when he didn’t head for London at all?”

  “I . . . I was, but not terribly so.”

  “Why not?”

  “He had a resigned air about him.”

  This had not been part of the village gossip. Inspector Treadles frowned slightly. “How resigned?”

  Mrs. Cornish thought for a moment. “Disheartened, I’d say. Restless, too. His habits used to be regular. But in those last few weeks, he’d disappear a whole day at a time. And once he came back drenched in rain—and it’d been raining even when he left.”

  The information did not bode well for Sherlock Holmes’s conjecture. The relevant dates for Mr. Sackville failed to line up with Lady Amelia’s sudden death, which came too late to explain his downheartedness. The most likely hypothesis would be that Mr. Sackville had a mistress in town whom he visited with clockwork regularity. And then what happened? Had she left him for greener pastures? Or perhaps accepted a proposal of marriage from another smitten man?

  It was hardly unheard of for a man in the throes of heartache to be overly generous with substances that offered him a few hours of oblivion and forgetfulness.

  Inspector Treadles pressed on. “Please describe for me the household activities in the twenty-four hours preceding Mr. Sackville’s death.”

  “There isn’t much to tell, Inspector. It was a half day. I had the Anglican Women’s meeting in the afternoon. Then I went to Bideford, had myself a spot of tea, walked around the shops a bit, and came back at half past seven. Everyone else returned a little before eight—except Mr. Hodges, he was out on his annual holiday.

  “We had our supper in the servants’ hall and then brought back the dishes from the dining room—on half days Mrs. Meek, the cook, left Mr. Sackville a cold supper. At nine I took him a cup of tea, a plate of biscuits, and the evening post and asked if there would be anything else. He said no, I might retire. And that was the last I saw him conscious.”

  “Can you recall what came in the post for him?”

  “A magazine or two and maybe a few pamphlets—he liked to send for those from time to time,” Mrs. Cornish said rather reluctantly, as if
finding it distasteful to admit that she’d guessed the contents of her employer’s mail.

  “And how did he look?”

  “A bit tired, but not in a way to alarm anyone.”

  Had he any idea those would be his final hours?

  “You were at the inquest. You heard the letter read from Mr. Holmes, connecting Mr. Sackville’s death to those of two ladies in his circle. What did you think of that?”

  “I’m sure I don’t know what to think of it at all,” answered Mrs. Cornish, her expression as circumspect as her words.

  “Have you ever heard Mr. Sackville mention either Lady Amelia Drummond or Lady Shrewsbury?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Did he write to them?”

  “I have never seen an envelope with either of those names.”

  “Whom did he correspond with?”

  “His lawyers, mostly.”

  “And the morning of the discovery? Please give an account.”

  Mrs. Cornish thought for a moment. “Before Mr. Hodges went on his holiday, he gave the task of Mr. Sackville’s morning cocoa to Mrs. Meek. But that morning she was busy in the kitchen so Becky Birtle, the housemaid, carried it upstairs.”

  “According to Becky Birtle’s testimony at the inquest,” said Treadles, “she set down the tray and wished Mr. Sackville good morning. And when he didn’t respond, she spoke louder. And when he still didn’t respond, she shook him by the hand, only to feel that his hand was alarmingly cool.”

  Mrs. Cornish nodded, her brow furrowed. “She went to Mrs. Meek—and Mrs. Meek came to me. The three of us went to Mr. Sackville’s room together. He was still breathing then. Mrs. Meek said it didn’t look good for him. Becky started shaking. I ran to find Dunn in the stable. He rode to the doctor’s house, but Dr. Harris wasn’t home. He had to ride another four miles to Barton Cross to fetch Dr. Birch.