The Hollow of Fear

by Sherry Thomas

  “I will not stoop to speculations. But I will tell you this, Chief Inspector. That young lady knows everything. I’ve known her since she was a little girl—her father is my cousin—and it was the most disconcerting thing to hear her tell people things about them that she couldn’t possibly have known in advance.”

  “What things, if you don’t mind my asking?”

  “Once she told the late Duchess of Wycliffe, Lord Ingram’s mother, that she was sorry about the news from the doctor. Her Grace had just learned that she had a tumor—the tumor that would kill her—and she hadn’t informed anyone. Not a soul, because she refused to believe it herself.”

  “Hmm,” said Fowler.

  “Precisely. Later she learned not to say such unsettling things to people—or at least to do so less frequently. But trust me when I tell you that her powers did not disappear when she came of age. If Lord Ingram killed his wife, then he could never again appear before Miss Holmes. Even if no one else ever knew, she would. And I don’t think she would countenance a cold-blooded murder, not even on the part of a very good friend.”

  * * *

  The policemen asked to see Lord Ingram again and were received in the library. This time, Lord Ingram was alone, the heavily disguised Miss Holmes nowhere to be seen.

  Chief Inspector Fowler got to the point. “You mentioned, my lord, that Lady Ingram consulted Mr. Sherlock Holmes. We should like to speak with the detective as soon as possible.”

  Lord Ingram nodded. “Naturally. I will ask his brother to send a message.”

  “Excellent,” said Fowler. “There is someone else we would like to see—Miss Charlotte Holmes.”

  “I’m afraid I have no idea how to get word to Miss Holmes,” answered Lord Ingram, without any change in tone or expression.

  He looked at Fowler, but Treadles felt himself at the center of Lord Ingram’s attention.

  He didn’t know whether Lord Ingram and Miss Holmes had expected him as an emissary of Scotland Yard. Nor could he be sure whether Miss Holmes had been aware the exact moment he had seen through her disguise. But when Lord Ingram had made it known that Sherrinford Holmes was brother to Sherlock Holmes, who, as a fictional character, could have no flesh-and-blood brothers, he had announced to Treadles loud and clear that Miss Holmes was among them.

  Had, in effect, asked him, out of friendship, not to inform anyone of her presence.

  Because Chief Inspector Fowler was not the only one conducting a murder investigation at Stern Hollow.

  Miss Holmes, despite Treadles’s unease at her unchaperoned attendance, was not there to engage in an illicit affair with Lord Ingram—or at least not only that—but to find out the truth of what had happened to Lady Ingram.

  For her work to continue unhindered, there could not be any challenge to Sherrinford Holmes’s identity.

  But this went against everything Treadles believed about how a man and an officer of the Criminal Investigation Department ought to conduct himself. He would be breaking so many rules that he might as well set Buckingham Palace on fire, too, while he was at it.

  Not to mention, by allowing Lord Ingram to get away with this massive lie, he would open himself up to accusations of criminal misconduct, of a magnitude to end his career with the C.I.D.

  “Are you sure about that, my lord?” he heard himself ask. “That you have no means of reaching Miss Holmes?”

  Lord Ingram looked him in the eye. “I am sure.”

  If Lord Ingram killed his wife, then he could never again appear before Miss Holmes.

  Treadles said nothing else.

  Fowler sighed. “I do wish that were otherwise.”

  A knock came at the door. When Lord Ingram gave his assent, Miss Olivia Holmes walked in.

  Her gaze landed on Lord Ingram first, a look full of concern and sympathy. Upon seeing Chief Inspector Fowler, her expression turned wary. When she realized Treadles was also present, her features twisted with loathing.

  He had never done this woman any harm, never done anything except speak factually of her sister’s misdeeds.

  It should not matter that Miss Olivia Holmes detested him. Yet her animosity was like a bludgeon across the cheek and something inside him cracked with a flash of searing bewilderment.

  She, who had never set a foot wrong, was now saddled with near-certain spinsterhood, because of her sister’s reckless amorality. She should be angry at that sister—should blaze in the dark with the heat of her outrage. Yet if she could cause it with the force of her will, at this moment it was Treadles who would be flying out of the window in a spray of glass and wood splinter.

  And she was not alone in her devotion to Charlotte Holmes.

  Standing beside her in comradeship was Lord Ingram, a man of otherwise incorruptible virtues. A man who would, Treadles was beginning to see, never, ever repudiate Charlotte Holmes.

  Not to his last breath.

  Not even if that last breath was drawn with a noose around his neck.

  “Ah, Miss Holmes,” said Fowler, “just the person we wished to see.”

  “How may I be of assistance, Chief Inspector?” said Miss Olivia Holmes, her tone cautious—and more than a little prickly.

  “We find ourselves in need to speak to Miss Charlotte Holmes and we were hoping you could help us.”

  “But I already told you that Charlotte has nothing to do with any of this.”

  “Nevertheless, we would like to ask her some questions.”

  Miss Olivia Holmes looked toward Lord Ingram, her gaze beseeching, as if a word from him would send the policemen packing.

  “At this moment, it would be best if Fowler could speak directly to Miss Charlotte,” Lord Ingram said with great gentleness. “I can offer no advice on how to locate her. If you can, it would be of help to me.”

  Still, Miss Olivia Holmes hesitated.

  “Miss Holmes,” said Fowler, his tone grave to the point of heaviness, “may I remind you that—”

  “I know you are the law, sir. But I have no idea where my sister is. It is our agreement that I remain ignorant on the matter, so that I cannot inadvertently inform my parents of her whereabouts.”

  “I see,” said Fowler, frowning.

  “But before she left home, Charlotte told me that if I needed to contact her, I can put a notice in the paper, in a simple code of her devising. I will give you the cipher. Is there anything else you need from me?”

  Fowler took a step in her direction. “You are not leaving, are you, Miss Holmes?”

  “We are here because of an unfortunate mishap at Mrs. Newell’s house. Now that her place is habitable again, Mrs. Newell has invited me to return there.”

  “And the other guests?”

  “Most of them will leave directly from Stern Hollow to their next destination. Mrs. Newell expressed the wish that I should remain with her a little longer, and I will.”

  “Very good. We were hoping you will remain in the vicinity for some more time, in case we need to speak with you again.”

  Miss Olivia Holmes smiled, a smile at once brittle and icy. “I will, of course, render every assistance.”

  When she had left the room, Fowler said, “A very spirited young lady. Is her sister at all like her?”

  The question was addressed to Lord Ingram, who said, almost as if amused, “I shouldn’t think so.”

  “How would you describe Miss Charlotte Holmes, then?”

  “She . . . rather defies description.”

  Fowler would not take that for an answer. “Lady Avery and Lady Somersby characterize her as odd, grandly odd. What do you think?”

  Lord Ingram picked up a paperweight from his desk and turned it around in his hand. “If I were to think of it at all, I would be struck by how grandly and inhospitably strange the world must appear to Charlotte Holmes.”

  * * *


  Charlotte had originally planned to inquire at nearby railway stations as to whether any coffins had recently arrived. But by the time she reached the village, she had changed her mind.

  A coffin coming to a small community invited questions. Who was inside? Where would the burial take place? How was this person related to local residents? All inquiries that those transporting murder victims on the sly would not want to answer.

  She next thought to check with station porters for trunks that weighed more than a hundred pounds. But those might appear suspicious, too. Worse, they might prove memorable.

  Crates, then. People expected crates to be heavy. Not to mention, so many things were shipped in crates they would arouse no more curiosity than a . . .

  “Sir? Sir? May I help you?”

  She started, but it was only the station agent. She realized that she had been standing four feet away from his window for several minutes, caught in her own thoughts. She stamped her feet—the train shed shielded the platform from the rain tapping at the roof, but not from the cold, which seeped in patiently, inexorably—and approached the man.

  “Yes, you may, my good man.”

  “Excellent. Where are you headed? Miserable day to be out, isn’t it?”

  Perhaps he was loquacious by nature; perhaps sitting inside a small brick box all day long, on this not-at-all-busy platform, had given him a hunger for conversation. In either case, he was exactly what Charlotte was hoping for.

  “Miserable day, indeed,” Charlotte agreed heartily. “I wouldn’t mind sitting by a fire with a hot toddy in hand, I tell you. Anyway, Sherrinford Holmes, at your service.”

  “Wally Walpole, at yours.”

  “I just came from Stern Hollow. You’ve heard what happened?”

  Wally Walpole’s eyes widened with both dismay and the anticipation of gossip. “Terrible, terrible thing. And she such a beautiful young woman, too.”

  “A tragedy, no doubt. But now we must find out what happened. I’ve been tasked by Lord Ingram’s family to investigate on his behalf. I understand that some crates headed for Stern Hollow came through here recently.”

  Wally Walpole blinked, not quite seeing the connection between crates and Lady Ingram’s sensational death. But that did not prevent him from answering Charlotte’s query. “Yes, two large crates. I had to sign for them, since they were put into the station’s care. But that really wasn’t necessary. Lord Ingram’s lads were already here, waiting.”

  “How did they know to come?”

  “From what I understand, the London agent of the company that sells the equipment sends a note around and tells Lord Ingram when his orders are expected to arrive.”

  “So the lads show up and you have a chat.”

  “Not too long, since they do have work to do.” Wally Walpole sighed with regret. “But yes, a bit of a chat.”

  Since he seemed in dire need of company, Charlotte related some of what had been going on at Stern Hollow, nothing any of the servants wouldn’t have been able to tell him, had they come through the railway station. He listened with his mouth half open, his throat emitting occasional gurgles of disbelief.

  When she judged that she’d given him enough, she paused, as if remembering something. “By the way, the two crates you mentioned, were those the only ones that came for Lord Ingram recently?”

  Wally Walpole’s eyes lit up. “Funny you should ask.”

  * * *

  One of the reasons Chief Inspector Fowler, the Bloodhound of the Yard, had come by that moniker was his legendary ability to sniff out a valuable witness from a mere bystander.

  That ferocious instinct was on display when he and Treadles interviewed the outdoor staff. As he had done with the indoor staff and the guests, Fowler spoke to them in groups. This time, however, when he had seen everyone, he asked to see one particular gardener again.

  The young man trudged back inside the blue-and-white parlor, and immediately glanced at Treadles, as if seeking reassurance. He appeared scared and, Treadles had to admit, guilty.

  Of something.

  “Mr. Keeling,” said Fowler coldly, “I don’t think you’ve told us everything you know.”

  Keeling looked to Treadles again.“Best answer the chief inspector’s question,” Treadles said. “No use trying to hide anything.”

  “I’m not. I don’t know anything about how Lady Ingram died.”

  “Maybe not,” said Fowler. “But you know something. And that something you know might prove useful to us.”

  Keeling, perspiration already beading on the tip of his nose, mulishly shook his head.

  Fowler rapped his knuckles against the arm of his chair and looked meaningfully at Treadles. Treadles grimaced inwardly. Everyone always said he had a kind, trustworthy face, which meant that when hardnosed old coppers wanted someone to ease a witness into compliance, Treadles was their man.

  He leaned forward in his seat. “A woman who hasn’t been seen for months turns up dead on her husband’s property. Whom would you suspect, Mr. Keeling?”

  “I don’t think it’s Lord Ingram.”

  “I don’t think it’s him either. I know the man—we’ve been friends for years. But this isn’t looking good for him. If you know of something that might help . . .”

  “I don’t know anything that’d help. At least, I can’t think how it would help. I only know something strange.”

  “Something odd would be a good place to start.”

  “But if I tell you, I’ll get into trouble.”

  “I’m sure Lord Ingram will compensate you for that trouble, should it come to that.”

  Still Keeling hesitated. “I’m not the only person who’ll get in trouble.”

  Treadles was beginning to understand his reluctance. “If something were to happen to Lord Ingram, his children would go to live with a guardian, and this place will most likely be shuttered until Master Carlisle comes of age. In which case, most of the staff will be let go. Have you thought of that?”

  Keeling shrank. “Will that really happen?”

  “I’m hoping to prevent that. You like it here?”

  “I do.”

  “And you would like for things to stay as they are?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then let me hear what you’re holding back. I promise you won’t regret it. And I promise to protect the other person who is involved in this story from any and all repercussions.”

  “That’s a real promise?”

  “A real promise.”

  “What about—the chief inspector over there?”

  “My father was in service. I understand it’s a difficult life,” said the “chief inspector over there.” “I am not here for you or whatever minor infractions you might have committed. I am here to find out what happened to Lady Ingram. That’s it.”

  Keeling swallowed. “There is—someone who works in the house. We try to see each other, but it’s not easy. Used to be I snuck into the house. It’s a big house and most of the time, most of the rooms don’t have anyone in them.

  “But the last time we met in the house we were almost discovered. She said no more. I was scared witless myself, so I agreed. But then, one day, Finney came to see Mr. Dean, the head gardener.”

  “Finney being the kitchen helper who first discovered Lady Ingram?”

  “That’s him. There was going to be a dinner in the big house that night and he needed to get into the icehouse. But the French cook gave him the wrong key. He was afraid of the French cook, so he came to Mr. Dean to ask for his copy. Mr. Dean didn’t know Finney—he’d just started that week—so he gave the key to me and I went with Finney to the icehouse and showed him how to chisel out ice.

  “Later, I started to think that the icehouse would make for a good place to meet. The outermost chamber didn’t feel any colder than outside.”
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  “Still pretty uncomfortable in this weather for disrobing,” Fowler pointed out.

  Keeler flushed. “We don’t disrobe.”

  “Ah,” said Fowler.

  “No, I meant, we don’t do anything of the sort. We just want to be alone and talk.”

  “What do you talk about?”

  “She can paint beautiful miniature portraits from people’s photographs. And I—” He flushed again. “I write poems. We talk about the day when we can have a small studio. The portraits would be the main draw, of course, but I can write a few lines of verse for each picture, something the clients won’t be able to get anywhere else. Those would make for one-of-a-kind engagement gifts.”

  Treadles smiled. Most of the time, a revelation such as Keeling’s did not involve aspirations that were almost adorable in their wholesomeness. “I like that plan. Now go on, about the icehouse.”

  Keeling relaxed a little. “Day before yesterday, we were supposed to meet there after tea.”

  Not a bad time. Keeling’s own work would have finished by then. Assuming that his sweetheart was a housemaid, her work would be behind her, too. And the work in the kitchen would be in full swing, any foodstuffs needed from the icehouse fetched hours ago.

  “I always go to the icehouse first, to make sure no one is around. If it’s safe, I tie a handkerchief on the branch of a nearby tree. But that day, when I tried to unlock the door, my key wouldn’t go in. It was a bit dark by then, so I tried a few more times before I knelt down to take a good look. And it wasn’t the same lock that had always been there.”

  Treadles’s heartbeat quickened. “No?”

  “No. My uncle was a locksmith—he died when I was fourteen and his widow had to sell the business. But even if I’d never been his apprentice, I’d have known that it was a different lock. Different shape, different weight, different everything.”