A Study In Scarlet Women

by Sherry Thomas

  Nine

  Charlotte,

  You bloody fool.

  (I hope Mamma never sees this. Or it would be off with my head for such blasphemous language—if not already for writing to you behind her back. But my word, you bloody fool!)

  This morning Mamma took to her bed and Papa was abroad. I snuck out of the house to Mrs. Wallace’s boarding home, hoping to run into you—and reassure myself you were still in tolerable circumstances. Needless to say, every single one of my nightmares came true in that woman’s parlor.

  I came home to a letter that Mott had smuggled in for me—he had been calling for my letters at the Charing Cross post office, since I am watched closely. The postmark let me know without a doubt that the letter was posted after you had been evicted. But you said nothing of it. It was full of falsely cheerful observations of life at Mrs. Wallace’s!

  I am drenched in fear. Steeped, marinated, macerated in it. I beg you to please tell me what is going on. The truth cannot be worse than the dreadful scenarios barging through my head.

  Or at least tell me that you are not lying in a ditch somewhere, though how I am to believe you after all the lies I do not know.

  Livia

  P.S. Come home, Charlotte. Come home.

  Sherlock Holmes’s letter had caused a sensation. The tone of coverage suggested a willingness on the part of the newspapers—and most likely, by extension, on the part of the public—to entertain the possibility that Lady Shrewsbury’s death had been part of a sinister larger plan. Which ought to have made Livia breathe easier, as she’d rarely crossed paths with Lady Amelia and had never met Mr. Sackville.

  Had probably made things better for Livia, which explained how she could have slipped out—and discovered the reality of Charlotte’s current situation.

  My Dearest Livia,

  My apologies for not having been entirely truthful earlier. I am not lying in a ditch somewhere and things are not hopeless. Yet.

  Charlotte

  The eviction from Mrs. Wallace’s boarding home cast a long shadow.

  Charlotte felt marked. Even if her situation were to improve drastically, the danger remained that at any moment she could be recognized, her disguise stripped away, and her scandalous past brought to the fore to condemn her all over again.

  But to be banished from her place of domicile, as bad as it had been, was not as awful as the possibility that the same might happen to her at her place of employment.

  Should she ever have a place of employment, that is.

  The inside of Miss Oswald’s Employment Agency smelled of ink and overbrewed tea. The place was mentioned by two of the sources Charlotte had studied, not so much in recommending it as begrudgingly admitting its legitimacy.

  Their distaste, as far as Charlotte could discern, stemmed from the fact that Miss Oswald’s aim was less to help other women and more to make a living for herself. Charlotte had no objection to that goal. Moreover, she entertained hopes that Miss Oswald would, one, recognize that Charlotte would be a valuable worker and, two, prove more efficient than the charitable societies and registries for which greater efficacy would not bring more profits, only more work.

  Squinting behind her thick glasses, Miss Oswald perused the letter of character Charlotte had brought. Behind her, a small window set high on the wall offered a rectangular slice of what passed for clear blue sky in London.

  Livia lived for days like this. When sunlight wasn’t just warm on the skin, but seemed to have a soft, blanketlike weight. She would sit outside and turn her face up—the risk of becoming unfashionably tanned be damned—and soak in all the heat and brightness.

  Charlotte had never told her this, but she had planned to take Livia to the south of France someday. To spend a few weeks, or perhaps an entire winter, bathing daily in that lemon-colored sunshine.

  “You were . . . a typist for Broadbent, Lucas and Sons in Tunbridge,” said Miss Oswald, a hint of disbelief in her voice, as she set aside the letter of character.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  There was nothing amiss with the letter Charlotte had forged, which had been typed on proper stationery: The letterheads had been ordered from a good stationer’s, and the signature was masterful, if she did say so herself.

  Unfortunately, she had hesitated at the expense of acquiring new clothes that would have completed the illusion. The clothes wouldn’t be costly in absolute terms—they were meant to make her look like a young woman who must contribute to her own support. But compared to how little money remained to her, every price was dauntingly exorbitant.

  So she’d come to the interview in her own clothes—a jacket, a blouse, and a skirt—which, while not extravagant, were still of a level of quality and workmanship far exceeding what a typist ought to be able to afford.

  Were she observing herself, she’d draw the obvious conclusion that there was something incongruous about her, that she might not be the humble position seeker she claimed to be. Why should Miss Oswald, whose business depended on accurately judging the trustworthiness of the applicants, come to a different verdict?

  “And what is the reason you moved to London?”

  “My parents are no more and my aunt asked me to come live with her.”

  “Where does she live, your aunt?”

  “Lambeth, ma’am.”

  After losing her pound note to the girl beggar, a rundown boarding home in Lambeth was the best Charlotte could do. The district was grey, industrial, and in constant danger of flooding, but safe enough during daylight hours—and an acceptable place for a typist’s aunt to live.

  Except Charlotte wasn’t dressed like a typist at all. This was what she would have worn for a day at the Reading Room of the British Library—and no one there had ever treated her as anything but a lady.

  Miss Oswald pursed her lips. “Your typing speed, Miss Morrison?”

  “Forty-five words a minute. I’m also familiar with Pitman’s system of phonemic orthography.” An honest answer. In her former life, she had many, many hours to fill—learning shorthand was as good a way to pass time as any. “If there are employers willing to have a female secretary, I’m sure I can handle the demands.”

  “Indeed,” said Miss Oswald coolly. “I shall be astounded if you aren’t equal to the task, Miss Morrison. But first I must get in touch with Broadbent, Lucas and Sons.”

  Charlotte sucked in a breath. The reason she’d gone to the trouble to counterfeit a law firm’s stationery was so that its authenticity wouldn’t be questioned.

  “We’ve had word of a lady journalist masquerading as an applicant,” Miss Oswald continued, “trying to dig up dirt on those of us in the business of matching qualified women with reputable employers. I’m not saying that you are she—of course not—but you will understand why I have no wish to unwittingly assist in such muckraking.”

  “Naturally not.”

  “It will take me ten days or so to complete the check and to review my openings. You may return Friday of next week to see whether I have found anything appropriate to your background and skills.”

  If Miss Oswald had heard about such a lady journalist from others in the business, then no doubt she would pass along that she had encountered the very woman, one who dressed too well for an applicant and bore with her a letter of character from Broadbent, Lucas and Sons.

  Her stomach clenched, Charlotte rose, said her thank-you, and left.

  Inspector Treadles, back at his desk at Scotland Yard, scanned the papers for their coverage of the Sackville case. Speculation was rampant, as much regarding the mysterious Sherlock Holmes as concerning the identity and motives of those dastardly individuals who might have done away with Mr. Sackville, Lady Amelia Drummond, and Lady Shrewsbury.

  Theories on the deaths were wildly inventive—everything from dangerous secret societies to the testing of a new, untraceable chemical.
About Sherlock Holmes, opinions were sharply divided. Some insisted that he was no relation to Miss Olivia Holmes, the young woman who had quarreled with Lady Shrewsbury the night before the latter died—Holmes was hardly a rare surname. Others pointed out that one was far more likely to find this man by searching more obscure branches of the family tree than among the general public: Didn’t it make more sense for a kinsman, however remote, to come to the aid of the beleaguered Olivia Holmes?

  “Your post, sir,” came Sergeant MacDonald’s voice. “Something from Inspector Waller for you.”

  Before Inspector Treadles left Devonshire, he had sent a cable to Inspector Waller of the West Riding Constabulary, calling in a favor. “Excellent!” he exclaimed, accepting the letter from MacDonald. “Any further response from Lord Sheridan’s secretary?”

  “Not yet.” MacDonald pulled out his watch. “But the next post is only fifty-five minutes away.”

  He sauntered off. Treadles looked fondly at his retreating form, remembering himself as a bright-eyed young sergeant, eager to learn the tricks of the trade.

  With a wistful shake of the head, he returned his attention to Inspector Waller’s missive.

  Dear Treadles,

  Enclosed please find a transcript of my interview with Becky Birtle. Constable Small, who came with me, takes excellent shorthand. You may be certain of the accuracy of the document.

  The girl was a bit of an odd bird. Thinks very highly of herself. The parents are all right, solid, salt-of-the-earth sorts. They were befuddled by the whole affair and sought reassurance several times that their daughter wasn’t in any trouble.

  Anyway, glad to render a service—delighted, in fact. Let me know if there is anything else I can do for you.

  Waller

  Treadles picked up the transcript. Becky Birtle’s version of events didn’t accord in every detail with those given by Mrs. Cornish and Mrs. Meek—a good thing, or it would lead him to think she had been tutored in her answers. But all three women’s accounts agreed enough that minor disparities could be attributed to the vagaries of human memory.

  Her description of the twenty-four hours before also did not differ too much from everyone else’s: household duties, an afternoon spent with the vicar’s wife, who organized activities so that girls in service didn’t get into trouble on their half days and Sundays, and a return to Curry House in the evening for supper and bed. She complained about Mrs. Meek’s food, “so bland, but she’s a nice woman,” and about being locked in nightly with Jenny Price, “as if we was chickens in a coop, with weasels prowling outside.” And she’d have had more to say about Mrs. Cornish’s strictness, but Inspector Waller moved on from the subject.

  An exchange toward the end of the interview caught Treadles’s eye.

  Now most likely your Mr. Sackville died of an accidental overdose, but since we can’t be sure yet, I have to ask you this: Do you know of anyone who might wish him harm?—You mean someone killed him? I knew it. I knew it the moment I heard that letter at the inquest.

  I implied nothing of the sort. He could have committed suicide, for all we know.—Not him, not Mr. Sackville. He told me he wanted to live to a hundred twenty.

  He did? When?—Not long ago.

  Under what circumstances did he tell you that?—I took a walk one Sunday afternoon, a couple of weeks after I started working at Curry House, and he did the same. We ran into each other right above the cove. I said I was sorry that it happened, but he said not to apologize. He said of course I’d want to have a stroll on a beautiful spring day. Said he looked forward to every spring. More so now that he was older and there wouldn’t be as many springs left for him. I told him he was going to live to a hundred. And he said he much preferred carrying on another twenty years past that.

  I see. So you would swear on a Bible that he wouldn’t take his own life.—I would, Inspector. I’d swear on a stack of Bibles taller than me.

  Then do you know anyone who might have a grudge against him?—I say them what be good and generous always have people who hates them.

  Anyone specific?—His brother.

  His brother?—Yes.

  Have you met his brother?—No, his brother is some high and mighty lordship.

  Then how do you know?—Mr. Sackville told me, of course. He said his brother would be happy if he were dead.

  Ever since Treadles took on the investigation, he had been trying to arrange an interview with Lord Sheridan. And the next of kin to Lady Amelia Drummond and Lady Shrewsbury.

  The ladies’ relations flatly refused to have anything to do with the police. Lord Shrewsbury—Lady Shrewsbury’s firstborn son and the current baron—went so far as to call Sherlock Holmes “a ghoulish, depraved rumormonger” and characterized Treadles’s professional interest as “shamelessly intruding on a family’s private grief.” But after some more back-and-forth with Lord Sheridan’s secretary, Treadles did manage to gain an appointment with the man’s employer.

  The Sheridans’ address, unless Treadles was mistaken, placed their dwelling close to Lord Ingram’s, though not on the same street. Treadles had never seen Lord Ingram’s town house and found himself curious.

  But first, business.

  The Sheridan residence was third in a row of town houses, in white stone and stucco, with wrought-iron railings and a small portico above the entrance. A dour-looking footman opened the door and conducted them to a study.

  The sight of an entire wall of books, as always, was delightful. As for the rest of the room—Treadles was no expert on the furnishing of houses, but even to his relatively untrained eye, the study appeared . . . threadbare. Literally so, in places. The two padded chairs set against the far wall should have been reupholstered years ago. The curtains, too, looked sorry. The carpet, which had once probably cost a fortune, was now in its most heavily trod areas barely thicker than a tea towel.

  The footman left to fetch his master.

  Sergeant MacDonald scooted closer to Treadles. “Thought I’d be afraid to set me bum down in a place like this. But I never guessed it’d be because I don’t dare put any more wear and tear on the chairs.”

  Treadles answered in a similar whisper. “It’s the price of crops. They’ve been dropping a good long while and these old families who depend on the land for their income, well, that income has been dropping, too.”

  “Then why doesn’t his lordship sell this house and live someplace smaller and cheaper, so he can at least afford new chairs?”

  “Not so simple. The house might be entailed. In which case he can’t sell it even if he wants to, not without first petitioning Parliament or something equally complicated.”

  “Huh, fancy that. But now he won’t be as poor, not with his dead brother’s money coming his way.”

  The day before, Sergeant MacDonald had paid a visit to Mr. Sackville’s solicitors, who had confirmed for him that Mr. Sackville, despite his regular visits to London, had seldom called on his men of business. MacDonald had also obtained a copy of Mr. Sackville’s will: There were various odds-and-ends bequests, but the bulk of his fortune had gone to Lord Sheridan.

  Which meant that Lord Sheridan, unlike everyone else involved with the case so far, had a motive that passed muster. He needed a great deal of funds; and by getting rid of his brother, he would come into a great deal of funds.

  Men had killed for much less.

  The door of the study opened again and their best suspect walked in. Lord Sheridan, a man of about seventy, was short and bald, but his eyes were sharp and his movement spry. He greeted the policemen and bade them to take seats before the big desk.

  “My secretary tells me you have questions for me, concerning my brother’s death.”

  “We hope you can shed some light onto the circumstances of Mr. Sackville’s passing, sir. You have heard of the connection that has been made between his death and those of Lady Amelia
Drummond and Lady Shrewsbury?”

  “It is one of the leading topics of the day,” said Lord Sheridan with distaste. “That and the identity of this meddlesome Sherlock Holmes. Harrington retired from Society decades ago. The younger generation does not even know who he was. And now all manners of unfounded speculations circulate and multiply.

  “But no, I cannot help you. My brother and I had not spoken in many years. I am unfamiliar with what his habits and inclinations had become.”

  “Can you give us some knowledge as to why he retired from Society?”

  “No, I cannot.”

  Cannot or will not? Lord Sheridan spoke with a casual impatience that was surprisingly difficult to decipher. “And is that related to the reason the two of you became estranged?”

  “You leap to conclusions, Inspector. My brother and I were not close, but I never suggested that we were estranged.”

  This gave Treadles the opening he had been looking for. “My apologies, my lord. My perceptions might have been colored by having read a statement, made by someone in Mr. Sackville’s employ, that you would be glad if he were to drop dead.”

  Lord Sheridan’s expression did not change. “I recommend that you give no credence to such statements, Inspector. I took no delight in Harrington’s passing. I was much older than he—at one point I was his guardian—both father and brother. There is no joy to be had at the death of someone I watched growing up. Now, if you have no more questions . . .”

  His tone carried more than a hint of sternness. Treadles pressed on. “I do happen to have one more. Forgive me if the question borders on vulgar, my lord, but if I understand correctly, in families such as yours, the eldest son inherits the bulk of the family wealth. Yet the impression I receive seems to be that Mr. Sackville had been the one with the larger fortune.”