“That’s what I intend to find out. I’d like for you to forge a letter for me.”
“You can do that yourself. I’ve taught you well.”
“You are still far better than me.”
He snorted. “I’m better, but not that much better. Whom do you want this letter to be addressed to and what do you want it to say?”
It was not a promise to help but it was a step closer. “I noticed something odd about Mrs. Marbleton: Everything she wore was new. Or at least everything that was visible to the observer.
“I dearly love clothes, but I don’t remember ever going about not only in a new frock, but new gloves, new boots, a new hat, and carrying both a new reticule and a new parasol.”
“Maybe she suffered a fire at her place of domicile.”
“In my former life I happened to be a devoted browser at Harrod’s and saw many of the items she wore on offer there. This evening I made a pilgrimage to that temple of commerce and asked after the newcomer to London who had bought those items, on the pretense that she had given me a card with her address and invited me to call but I’d lost the card and was quite distraught.”
“If God doesn’t want people to lie, he shouldn’t have given the best liars such earnest and innocent faces,” murmured Lord Ingram.
For a quick second, it was almost all incandescent pleasure in her heart. She smiled into the dark. “Precisely. Since God obviously intended for me to prevaricate, to do otherwise would be to thwart His purpose. And so I’ve learned that Mrs. Marbleton currently resides at Claridge’s, as that was where her purchases were delivered.
“Here’s something else I suspect about Mrs. Marbleton: She and I might have a great deal in common. The kind of reversal of fortune she suffered, which caused her to fall from the lap of ease, if not of luxury, straight into a scullery—I can think of very few other instances. Even if she lost her parents and had no older siblings who could look after her, what about aunts and uncles and cousins and grandparents? What about family friends? What about more genteel employment as a governess or a lady’s companion?”
“You are saying that she, having been caught in a compromising position, chose to run away?”
“There can’t be too many of us. And I’ll wager someone like Lady Avery or Lady Somersby would know the circumstances surrounding every last one. If you write an anonymous letter to—since Lady Avery is already involved in the Sackville case, let’s spread the wealth and send it to Lady Somersby, and tell her that a lady who has had a tremendous fall from grace years ago has returned to London and can be found at Claridge’s. I dare say within two days we’ll have her identity.”
“No.”
His answer was quiet but implacable. Charlotte tilted her head. “Why not?”
“You’ve not thought the matter through, Charlotte. Setting Lady Somersby loose on this woman and having the former announce her true identity from the rooftops? Should Mrs. Marbleton happen to be in real danger of any kind, you will do her a great disservice.”
“Oh,” said Charlotte. She truly had not thought the matter through.
“However, there is a premiere performance at Covent Gardens. I can still make the intermission if I hurry. Since it’s a night to see and be seen, one of our Ladies of Gossip should be there.”
“Make sure you aren’t too obvious. Don’t let them realize that you’ve approached them only to ask this question.”
He scoffed. “Haven’t you deduced that these days they approach me, and not the other way around? They’re still trying to find out what happened to you, and anyone who knows you to any extent is subject to regular interrogations.”
Charlotte, for the moment, had forgotten about her own scandal altogether. “What do you tell them?”
He leaned back in his seat. Once again she felt the impact of his gaze. What did he think when he looked upon her? What did he want? What pain or pleasure unfurled in the deepest part of his heart?
“I tell them that I don’t know anything,” he said quietly. “And that I never expect to hear from you again.”
When Charlotte returned to Mrs. Watson’s house she found her business partner in the parlor, wrapped in a man’s smoking jacket and nursing a glass of claret.
“Château Haut-Brion, the ’65 vintage.” She held up the darkly scarlet liquid to the light. “My husband adored this wine. When we married, we bought four cases, with the intention of opening a bottle each year for our anniversary.”
Mrs. Watson turned around. “Would you like to have a glass, Miss Holmes?”
“Yes, thank you,” said Charlotte, sitting down.
The wine that John Watson would never taste again was velvety yet potent. Mrs. Watson refilled her own glass and took a long draught.
“I don’t usually have reason to consider myself terribly naive. But goodness how naive I’ve been, to think that this would be all fun and games.
“I keep wondering what must be going through Mrs. Marbleton’s mind,” Mrs. Watson said, her gaze focused on some distant point. “After the telegram came, informing me that my husband had been killed by a stray jezail bullet, I refused to believe it. I thought they had mistaken a different man for him, that he might be injured and lying somewhere delirious, even that he’d been captured by the Afghanis and held in a dreadful prison—but I couldn’t contemplate his death. Couldn’t accept it until men from his regiment, men who saw him die before their own eyes and laid him to rest in Kabul, came to offer their condolences.
“But at least then I knew where he was and what happened to him. Mrs. Marbleton, is it even worse for her because she doesn’t know? Is she imagining the most horrific scenarios before telling herself that all would be well, that she would see her husband in one piece again and this would all turn out to be but a stupid prank? How she must be seesawing between hope and despair—ever diminishing hope and ever proliferating despair.”
Charlotte took another sip of her wine. If she gave voice to her suspicions concerning Mrs. Marbleton, then Mrs. Watson might stop worrying about Mrs. Marbleton, but she would instead worry about Charlotte. (But it’s perfectly fine for me to worry about you? said an imaginary Lord Ingram. Yes, she replied, not only fine, but good and proper.)
“Would you—would you like to go to Kabul someday, Mrs. Watson, and visit your husband’s grave?”
Mrs. Watson sat down. “I’ve often thought about it—sometimes I wish I hadn’t left India so precipitously. That I’d made the trip while I’d remained on the subcontinent. But it’s such a long way to go to look at a headstone.”
And to be reminded of all the years that had been robbed.
“If ever again you think of going, ma’am, know that I’d be honored to accompany you.”
Mrs. Watson smiled very slightly. “And what would London do without Sherlock Holmes?”
“London has managed for millennia without me. I’m sure it can hobble on in my absence for a few months.” Charlotte set down her wineglass. “Good night, ma’am.”
As she reached the door, Mrs. Watson said, “Thank you, Miss Holmes.”
Charlotte paused briefly, then resumed walking.
Lord Ingram’s letter came the next morning, on the early post.
Dear Charlotte,
As expected, Lady Somersby and Lady Avery approached me at the opera. After demurring all knowledge of your whereabouts, I asked them, naturally enough, whether they knew of any precedents like yours, of a young woman who not only defied the rules but also the consequences.
With very little hesitation they brought up the name of Sophia Lonsdale, though they believed that she did not so much run away as was outright disowned. It has been nearly twenty-five years, but they agree that she found a position working in the refectory kitchens at Balliol College, not too far from her ancestral home. They were certain that she later married a young tutor, shortly before he lef
t the country for a post overseas.
Here they became embroiled in dispute over where the young couple had been headed. Lady Avery insisted it was Vienna; Lady Somersby would not budge from Budapest. And there was not enough time to resolve the debate before the curtains rose again.
But what they told me of Sophia Lonsdale matched closely with your description of Mrs. Marbleton.
Your servant,
Ashburton
Charlotte grabbed Mrs. Watson’s copy of Burke’s. The Lonsdales were a prominent family in Oxfordshire, the most distinguished branch being the one that produced the Earls of Montserre. Sophia Lonsdale probably came from a cadet branch of the family, but still, terribly respectable stock.
Alas, there was no time that morning to look further into the matter of Sophia Lonsdale: Charlotte had clients with whom she must meet.
By the time she had solved, for a pair of ancient spinster sisters, why their equally ancient butler didn’t seem quite himself—the man had died years ago, but one of the sisters kept forgetting the fact and becoming startled by the sight of a stranger in the house, that the new butler gave up, found a white-haired wig, and with the complicity of the other sister, began passing himself off as his predecessor—another letter arrived from Lord Ingram, much to her surprise.
He, unlike Sophia Lonsdale’s purportedly missing husband, did not write more than once a day.
Certainly not without compelling reason.
Dear Charlotte,
A message arrived from Lady Avery just now. She had checked her diary from years ago and admitted that she and her sister were both incorrect as to where the tutor Sophia Lonsdale married went for his next position. It was neither Budapest nor Vienna, but Berlin.
The far more important part, however, was buried near the end of her note: Because of the third act starting, she did not have the time to tell me that Sophia Lonsdale died more than twenty years ago while on holiday in Switzerland.
Your servant,
Ashburton
Eighteen
“Bony like a goat” was an unkind description for Becky Birtle. But she was waiflike in appearance: small and thin, with big brown eyes and surprisingly pink lips.
Not beautiful, as Mrs. Meek had said, but pretty enough with the smooth skin and good health of youth.
And oddly familiar in her features.
She sat with her shoulders hunched, her teeth clenched over her lower lip. “Is it true, Inspector, that Mr. Sackville—someone poisoned him with arsenic?”
“Yes, it’s true.”
A hollowness came into her eyes. “I thought—when it came out that he’d been murdered, I thought it had to be his brother. But arsenic—that’s someone in the house, isn’t it?”
“Most likely.”
“But why?” That question was uttered so softly it was addressed more to herself than anyone else. “He was such a nice person.”
“How was he nice?”
She looked toward a row of postcards on the mantel, which was but a length of darkened wood beam that must have been salvaged from some other structure. The Birtles’ ancient cottage was a far cry from the modern splendor of Curry House. The ceiling was so low Treadles could scarcely stand straight. The smoke-darkened walls and the scarcity of windows gave the entire interior an air of permanent gloom.
“Mr. Sackville talked to me.” Again she seemed to be speaking to herself. “He was the only one who did. Everybody else only told me to do this and that.”
“I thought young maids had no leave to speak to the master. How did you and Mr. Sackville become so friendly?”
“We met on the coast path. I took a walk one Sunday afternoon and so did he. When I saw him, I said I was sorry to be in his way. He said a young lady never needed to apologize for going about her business. Then I told him that I worked for him and that Mrs. Cornish would have my hide if she knew I spoke to him.
“He laughed and said, ‘Never mind Mrs. Cornish.’ Then he asked me if I wouldn’t walk with him for a bit and tell him about myself.”
That easy demeanor and friendly curiosity must have made a powerful impact on the girl. “What did you tell him?”
“Hardly anything. He asked ’bout where I was from. How I liked Curry House. If the others treated me proper. And I said Yorkshire, yes, sir, and yes, sir. He said then if I was too nervous to talk I didn’t need to say ought else.”
“How much distance do you think you covered?”
“A mile. Maybe a mile and a furlong.”
Around twenty-five minutes then, depending on the terrain and their walking speed. “So you said nothing else the rest of that time?”
“No. But two days later I was in the study dusting. He came in for some papers and saw me with a book in my hand. I thought he’d be angry at me for touching his things, but he only asked what book was it. I told him it was a book about Japan. He asked if I liked it.” She emitted a wistful sigh. “And we started talking.”
“Was it always questions on his side and answers on your side?”
“He let me ask him questions, too. If he read all the books in the house. If he’d ever touched an electric switch. If he remembered a time before the queen was the queen.”
“He answered everything you asked?”
“Not everything. Not when I asked him why he went to London.”
Treadles’s ears perked. “How—and when—did that come about?”
“It was my fourth week at the house. Mrs. Cornish made me clean the upstairs sitting room again. Said it weren’t done proper the first time. That was when Mr. Sackville came in. He asked me why I looked put out, I explained, and he said it looked perfectly proper to him. I said it was a right travesty”—the girl pronounced the word carefully and with relish—“that what was good enough for him weren’t good enough for Mrs. Cornish. He laughed and said that of course a housekeeper was a greater expert on the cleanliness of the house than the master and I ought to listen to her. But he was going to London that day. Was there anything that he could get for me from London, to make me feel better about having to clean the sitting room twice?
“I said I didn’t have enough money to buy anything. He said it would be a gift. So I told him that I didn’t get a good look at London when I passed through and I’d like a nice postcard—then it’d be like I got to see at least one good place. He came back with half a dozen for me. Real pretty ones.”
Treadles glanced at the mantel. “Those ones?”
“Yes, Inspector.”
Treadles moved to the fireplace and examined the postcards. They each bore puncture marks at the corners. “You had these on the wall of your room at Curry House?”
“Yes, Inspector.”
“Did Mr. Sackville acquire anything from London for anyone else?”
“I don’t reckon so. He said not to say anything to anyone or they’d all want him to fetch things.”
“Why do you suppose he did that for you?”
The girl blushed. “He said it was because he was a person to me. That to the others he was only the master of the house, the one they must serve for their wages.”
“Did he bring you back other items?”
Becky Birtle’s lips protruded. “No. He didn’t. Next time he was to go, he asked me if I wanted anything. But he didn’t go in the end—had an awful stomachache the day of. The next time he did go, but he had to get off the train at Exeter and spend the night, because he had such a horrible gastric attack.”
She gasped. “You don’t suppose those gastric attacks—don’t they say arsenic poisoning don’t look that different from bad tummy troubles?”
“Did these attacks happen before Mrs. Meek became the cook?” Treadles already knew the answer; it was the reason he hadn’t arrested Mrs. Meek.
“For sure they did.” Becky Birtle gasped again. “Stacks of Bibles! I was sick as a
dog that night. You don’t suppose, Inspector, that I got poisoned, too?”
Treadles sat up straighter. “Did Mr. Sackville eat the same food as the staff?”
“No, his food was cooked and served separate from ours. But wait—” she thought for a moment. “That was when we were still getting food from the inn. And that week there was a wedding and Mrs. Pegg was cooking for it too. I think everyone at Curry House did eat the same food that week, soup and fish pies and boiled beef.”
Mrs. Pegg was born and brought up in Stanwell Moot. By all accounts, she’d had no dealings with Mr. Sackville whatsoever.
“Was anyone else sick that day?”
“No, only me.”
“Was there anything that only you and Mr. Sackville ate?”
She hesitated.
“What was it?”
“Before he left that day, he was in a good mood. When I ferried up a scuttle of coal, he saw that my fingers were stiff cold—Mrs. Cornish loaned me to help with the wedding and I was caught in the rain coming back to Curry House. So he asked if I wanted a bit of whisky to warm up.”
Treadles’s brows shot up. “Mrs. Cornish has been looking for a whisky decanter, missing since Mr. Sackville’s death. She couldn’t find it anywhere in the house. Did you take it?”
Becky Birtle, who had a very direct gaze for a young girl and had been looking at Treadles for some time, lowered her face.
“I’ll take that as a yes. Have you drunk from it again?”
“No! I don’t even like whisky.”
“Then why did you take it?”
“Because—because he was really lovely to me that day and I wanted something to remember it by.”
“Wasn’t he always very nice to you?”
“Yes, but I didn’t see much of him after that.”
“And why is that?”
Becky Birtle flushed to the roots of her hair and shook her head.
“This is a murder investigation, Miss Birtle. Do answer my question.”
“But this is . . . private.”
A Study In Scarlet Women Page 24
