But it was the woman holding on to the girl’s shoulder who made Charlotte’s chest constrict. She had seen beggars in London, but never one like this. The mother wore a black patch over one eye, her other eye the milky blue of the blind. Her face had the vacantness of a North Sea beach in the dead of winter; her arms, held close to the sides of her body, the stiffness of a marionette.
She did not look defeated. To look defeated was to suggest that one had recently strived for something. This woman was drained, whatever hope and energy she’d once possessed long ago permanently depleted.
The husk that she’d become was far more frightening than the sight of the down-on-their-luck-but-still-saucy beggars Charlotte was more accustomed to seeing, ones who accosted their passersby with a combination of pathos and bravado.
“A penny for me supper, mum?” The little girl, not yet entirely diminished by life, asked again.
Charlotte opened her reticule and pulled out not only a coin, but the two slices of toast, wrapped in brown paper. “Here’s a sixpenny bit for you. You look after your mum. Make sure she has her supper, too.”
The little girl looked with incredulity at the coin that had been dropped into her palm. She raised her face to Charlotte, let go of her mother’s hand, and wrapped her arms around her benefactor. And only then did she accept the toasts.
Charlotte walked on, feeling a little less in despair.
Her relief that she could still do something for someone evaporated before the display windows of Atwell & Dewsbury, Pharmaceutical Chemists. She had never walked so much in her entire life; her feet were in agony. She probably couldn’t afford to buy plasters for her blisters, but at least she could inquire into their prices.
She patted the hidden pocket on her skirt. In her reticule she kept only minor change, but in her pocket she had a pound note.
Mrs. Wallace’s place seemed safe enough and the lock on Charlotte’s door was sturdy. But what if the place burned down while Charlotte was out seeking employment? She didn’t want to lose all her money, along with all her other worldly possessions. The pound note in her pocket served as a crude form of insurance.
But it was not there. Through the broadcloth of her dress, she couldn’t sense the small but very real presence of that precious piece of paper, folded into a square. Surely she was mistaken. She dug her fingers harder against the fabric. Nothing. All she felt was the bulk of her petticoat—and beneath that, the form of her limb.
The little beggar girl who had embraced her. Charlotte should have known—she should have known that instant something was wrong. The girl hadn’t been anywhere near as emaciated as her face would suggest. And she hadn’t smelled of the sourness of lack of washing.
No, Charlotte should have known before then. The girl hadn’t left her mother’s hold—it had been the other way around. The mother had signaled her to go for the easy prey. The eye patch hadn’t covered some unsightly deformity: It had covered her good eye, the black cloth thin enough for her to make out something of her surroundings in good daylight.
Charlotte was vaguely aware that she was drifting along the street. At some point she might have entered Mrs. Wallace’s boarding home. Did someone attempt to speak to her? She had no idea. Nor could she be sure whether she had responded.
She did remember locking the door of her room before she lifted up a wide band of lace ruffle on her skirt to check the opening of the pocket. It had two buttons, both securely fastened when she’d left the house. Now one button was open, leaving more than enough room for small, nimble fingers to reach inside and extract the pound note.
Which accounted for nearly forty percent of her remaining funds.
All at once she became aware that someone was banging on her door. “Miss Holmes. Miss Holmes!”
She opened the door to Mrs. Wallace’s resident sycophant. “Yes, Miss Turner?”
“Miss Holmes, are you suffering from deafness? I spoke to you downstairs—you didn’t even react. And I’ve been knocking for at least two minutes now.”
“Is everything all right?”
“Mrs. Wallace would like a word with you in her parlor at the earliest possible moment,” said Miss Turner with a smug mysteriousness.
Why would Mrs. Wallace wish to speak with Charlotte? She was paid up until the end of next week and she had come nowhere near the house rules, let alone broken any. “Certainly. I’ll be right down.”
At the far end of the corridor was a simple galley, open for two hours every afternoon, where Mrs. Wallace’s boarders, who weren’t allowed to do more than boil water in their rooms, might fry some sausages or heat up tinned beans to have with their tea. Today someone had scrambled eggs and the rich aroma made Charlotte’s stomach tremble in longing. She had skipped both lunch and tea—an unprecedented event in her life.
Her brain was dull from hunger. When she looked at Miss Turner, she saw few of the details that usually leaped out at her, except to note that the woman, a good fifteen years older than Charlotte, was practically skipping down the stairs.
A gong went off in her head. When a woman who adored authority and revolved as close to power as she could became this excited, it was probably because authority and power were about to be put to use—to someone else’s detriment.
To Charlotte’s detriment.
Mrs. Wallace had a small apartment on the ground floor, consisting of a parlor, a bedroom, and most likely a private bath. This apartment was accessed via a corridor that led out from the common room. A door barred the way a few feet into the corridor. On the wall next to the door was a bell and next to the bell a sign that read, PRAY DO NOT RING AFTER 8 O’CLOCK IN THE EVENING, EXCEPT IN CASE OF EMERGENCY.
The door had been left ajar. Miss Turner ushered Charlotte past to another door, which led to Mrs. Wallace’s parlor.
Charlotte had stepped into the parlor once before, for her initial interview with Mrs. Wallace. She had been very ladylike and Mrs. Wallace had declared herself pleased to offer the vacancy to Miss Holmes.
But this Mrs. Wallace did not look at all pleased with Miss Holmes. Her expression was forbidding, which seemed to only further excite Miss Turner.
“I’ve brought Miss Holmes, ma’am,” she announced breathlessly.
“Thank you, Miss Turner,” said Mrs. Wallace. And then, after a moment, when Miss Turner showed no inclination to depart, “I will see you at supper.”
“Of course, ma’am.”
When she was gone Mrs. Wallace commanded, “Have a seat, Miss Holmes.”
Charlotte sat down—then stood up again. She walked to the door and yanked it open. Miss Turner stumbled into the parlor, unembarrassed. “Do excuse me. I wanted to ask Mrs. Wallace a question about her policy for the washings. I’ll come at a more convenient time.”
Charlotte accompanied her as far as the barricading door in the middle of the corridor, which she locked before coming back into the parlor and closing the door firmly behind herself.
She did not bother to take a seat again. “Is something the matter, Mrs. Wallace?”
Mrs. Wallace considered her a minute. “Miss Holmes, you have deceived me.”
Charlotte took a deep breath. “Have I?”
“Miss Whitbread’s cousin, Miss Moore, called on her this morning—and saw you leave as she came in. Miss Moore works at a Regent Street dressmaker’s and told me that she had seen you more than once at Madame Mireille’s.
“Unfortunately she also told me that you are not Caroline Holmes of Tunbridge, a typist newly arrived in London, but Charlotte Holmes, daughter of Sir Henry Holmes, who was recently caught in a compromising position with a married man. Do you deny that?”
How ironic. Mrs. Wallace’s establishment in the West End had not been Charlotte’s first choice. There was a more highly recommended place in Kensington and Charlotte had passed on it because she hadn’t wanted to run into anyone sh
e knew. West End, a relatively safe, well-maintained district, with a large population of doctors and other professionals, but with Society having decamped decades ago to more fashionable addresses further west, promised greater anonymity.
It would appear that she had chosen badly in everything.
“Well, Miss Holmes?”
“I can see that your mind is already made up, Mrs. Wallace. Any denial on my part would only lead to further accusations of dishonesty.”
“In that case I have no choice but to ask you to leave immediately. I must have a care for the reputation of my establishment. This is a house of virtue, of good Christian respectability. There is no room for you, Miss Holmes. There never was.”
“Very well. You will have no trouble from me, Mrs. Wallace. Return me the sum I’ve paid in advance, minus the portion deducted for the nights I’ve spent here, and I’ll be gone within the hour.”
“I’m afraid I will be keeping your rent.” Mrs. Wallace’s tone was firm. “You were plainly informed that any misrepresentation or misconduct on your part would lead to a forfeiture of rent already paid.”
Charlotte folded her hands together. “Then what about misrepresentation on your part, Mrs. Wallace?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“You said that this is a house of virtue, of good Christian respectability. But you yourself entertain, on a regular basis, a man to whom you’re not married.”
Mrs. Wallace recoiled. “Where did you hear such a malicious rumor? I will have you know—how dare you—” She paused to exhale. “I will have you know there are absolutely no such shenanigans going on here!”
“I must disagree. You have a strict no-gentlemen policy for the house. Your boarders, even if they have brothers or fathers in town, are expected to meet them at tea shops and other such venues. In the common room there are no antimacassars on the furniture, yet in this, your own private parlor, I see an antimacassar on every chair except one, yours.”
“Some women do use macassar oil in their hair,” Mrs. Wallace said heatedly.
Charlotte scanned the room and made for a door to her right. Beyond the door was a small anteroom, with a mirror, an umbrella stand, a coat tree, and, of course, a doormat.
She looked back at Mrs. Wallace, who was beginning to look hunted. “True, some women do use macassar oil. But why would a woman leave muddy prints in the shape of a pair of men’s shoes on the doormat just inside the private entrance to this apartment?”
Charlotte walked across the room to Mrs. Wallace’s writing desk. “Furthermore, you are right-handed, but the ink blotter was on the left-hand side of the desk when I came for my interview. You had asked me to write down the name and address of my next of kin, in case of emergency. As I stood over your desk, almost directly above the wastepaper basket, what had I seen but a rectangle of discarded blotting paper, with the words Cordially yours, George Atwell, in reverse, just discernable at the corner.
“I asked then whether you had any family in town or visiting regularly. You replied that your parents are no more and that your only surviving sibling, a sister, lives with her husband and daughter in India. Mr. Atwell, therefore, cannot be a father or a brother. And unless you are impersonating a man by post, a problematic activity in itself, Mr. Atwell sat here at this very desk recently and dashed out a message before he left.
“That was when I decided to look for the private entrance I knew must exist. And when I found it in the alley behind the house, what should I see, almost directly opposite, but the service door to Atwell & Dewsbury, Pharmaceutical Chemists.
“I visited the shop and met Mr. Atwell. When I mentioned that I am a new boarder at your establishment, he had nothing but the most effusive praise for you as a woman of substance and character. It really is too bad that he is already married.”
Mrs. Wallace’s face turned red, then pale, then splotchy. “Unfounded accusations, one and all.”
“Perhaps. But your other boarders will no doubt be curious as to the reason behind my hasty departure. I can disseminate a great many unfounded accusations during the hour you allotted for my packing.”
“You—you would destroy my reputation as you destroyed your own?”
“To the contrary, I have no intention at all of besmirching your good name, publicly or privately—notice I kept Miss Turner of the long ear and eager tongue far away from our conversation. I know nothing of Mr. Atwell’s domestic situation, but it is evident he and you have arrived at a comfortable state of affairs. There is your ongoing chess game in the corner. The bottle of Pimm’s on the shelf you probably enjoy together. And I can see him reading those William Clark Russell sea novels, should you be busy with business matters in the evening. I would not wish for anything to upset your cozy arrangement.
“But in return, I’d like you to extend a similar consideration to me. You should be able to deduce that I am in difficult circumstances. I will not blackmail you to let me remain under your roof—you do have your reputation to consider—but it is reasonable to ask for the rest of my money back.”
Mrs. Wallace’s jaw worked. A second later she rose, unlocked a drawer under the writing desk, took out a cash box, and returned Charlotte her money.
Charlotte pocketed the coins carefully. “Thank you, Mrs. Wallace. Your secret is safe with me. And . . . if I were you, my next move on the chessboard would be king rook to b4—if you wish to win, that is. If you prefer to let Mr. Atwell win, put your queen rook pawn to a5.”
Eight
DEVONSHIRE
Even in death, Mr. Harrington Sackville was a handsome man.
He was fifty-five, but his salt-and-pepper hair was still thick, his waist still trim, and his musculature that of a man twenty years younger. There was a bluish cast to his skin, but not so much that Inspector Treadles couldn’t tell that in life he had enjoyed a hale complexion, lightly tanned from time spent outdoors.
His expression was solemn. Peaceful. Had he died of natural causes, his would have been a much-admired corpse at the funeral, eliciting genuine lament that a man of such health and vigor should have been taken so abruptly.
Dr. Merriweather, the pathologist who was frequently engaged by the coroner’s district for his medical expertise, trailed behind Treadles and Sergeant MacDonald, also of the Criminal Investigation Department, as the latter two made slow circles around the body.
“As you can see, Inspector, there are no signs at all of a struggle. No bruises around the throat or anywhere else on the skin. No wounds or injuries. And since chloral was the culprit, I made a careful inspection of the entire body. There isn’t a single puncture mark to suggest the use of a syringe. Nor is there any evidence that chloral was administered rectally.”
The pathologist’s tone was professional and brisk. But Treadles heard a trace of vexation—that what should have been a straightforward inquest returning a verdict of accidental overdose had been unnecessarily prolonged by the involvement of that busybody Sherlock Holmes.
And now, of Scotland Yard.
At the same time, however, Treadles discerned a hint of excitement. Dr. Merriweather, like most men, was intrigued by the possibility of a truly unusual crime, one so subtle that even someone of his considerable knowledge and experience could not identify, let alone fathom, it.
Treadles had confessed the same excitement to his wife. What he had not told her was the tremulous hope in his heart that such a closely watched case—the C.I.D. had been bombarded by reporters hounding for the latest developments—might make his name known to the public. He cared little for fame, but he wanted those friends of Alice’s who had become mere nodding acquaintances after her marriage to a policeman to read about his exploits in their morning papers. They would never envy her, but perhaps someday they would no longer disdain her for her choice of mate.
He knew that she had no regrets about becoming his wife. He only wanted that she ne
ver would.
“And chloral is absolutely the culprit?” he asked.
“Absolutely,” said Mr. Smythe, the young chemical analyst for the county. He hadn’t Dr. Merriweather’s detachment before dead bodies, and had remained in a corner of the room as the policemen and the pathologist inspected the cadaver, but now he warmed up to his subject and launched into a detailed explanation of the tools and procedures used to ascertain that it was not chloroform or antimony found in the tissue, but chloral hydrate and only chloral hydrate. “I performed the assays myself, each step repeated multiple times. There can be no mistake.”
“Thank you, Mr. Smythe,” said Treadles. “And thank you, Dr. Merriweather.”
Dr. Merriweather was correct: there was no trace of foul play to be seen on Mr. Sackville’s body. And Treadles had no reason to doubt that the enthusiastic Mr. Smythe wasn’t just as meticulous at his work. From afar it had been easy to imagine all kinds of overlooked details that, once observed, would lead clearly and triumphantly to a conclusion of criminality. But up close such had not turned out to be the case at all. In fact, Mr. Sackville’s death appeared more and more what it had seemed at first glance: a simple matter of accidental overdose.
He sighed inwardly—so much for his dreams of a most publicized success.
Well, on to the house.
Per Treadles’s request, a capable constable had been dispatched to Curry House—and the nearest village—to gather general information ahead of Scotland Yard’s arrival. The report had been waiting for Treadles when he reached Devon, as had a copy of the official transcript from the inquest.
Mr. Sackville did not own Curry House. It belonged to a widow named Mrs. Curry, who, upon remarrying and becoming Mrs. Struthers, moved to her husband’s home in Norwich and put up the house for let.
Seven years had passed since Mr. Sackville took over the lease of Curry House. No nearby squires, however, could claim anything beyond a nodding acquaintance—Mr. Sackville had been a recluse. That said, he’d enjoyed a gentlemanly reputation in the area: He might not have cultivated close ties with anyone, but he was never too proud to acknowledge the villagers he came across on his walks, be they vicars or simple farm wives.
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