A Study In Scarlet Women

by Sherry Thomas

  A position as a lady’s companion offered none of what she sought to gain in employment. A lady’s companion was a professional appendage. The spare legs to walk upstairs to fetch the needlework. The extra voice to read the paper aloud in the evening. The additional body in the house so rooms didn’t echo with emptiness.

  In her specific case, however, it wasn’t this impersonal servility that concerned Charlotte, but her new employer’s lack of prior experience with other companions and her general high opinion of Charlotte’s mind. She was worried that Mrs. Watson would think it demeaned Charlotte to be asked to fetch needlework or read out loud from the paper. That she would, in the end, have too little to do.

  And Mrs. Watson—she also worried about Mrs. Watson.

  Charlotte was an acceptable conversationalist when the conversation revolved around weather, fashion, and the goings-on of the Season. But the deepest feelings of others were always a mystery to her. Not that she didn’t know what sentiments were and how to read them, but she herself didn’t seem to experience life in quite the same emotion-driven manner.

  Her days were catalogued as facts and factual observations. She sometimes thought of herself as a combination of a phonographic cylinder and a motion picture camera—which inventors were still working on—that moved through life recording everything she saw and heard.

  Sometimes she mentally annotated certain moments; most often she let them pass into memory without comments, as only sounds and moving images. It was in her adolescence that she discovered most people’s memories worked nothing like hers. For them the only indelible elements in the dossiers of a life were the emotions. They might not remember when, where, or with whom something happened—or be reliable in their recall—but by God that joy, that anguish, that stab of pure hatred, the emotions lost none of their power and potency.

  She accepted it. She couldn’t understand it viscerally, but she accepted that she was the odd man out and that in this, as in most other respects, the norm did not remotely describe her experience.

  How could someone like her comment on Mrs. Watson’s grief, if she were ever asked to? Therefore, she was more than a little relieved when Mrs. Watson made no mention of her late husband the next day.

  Mrs. Watson also gave no list of regular duties Charlotte was to perform. “It’s new to me, too, such an arrangement,” she said apologetically. “I’m sure in time we will arrive at a state of affairs that suits both of us.”

  Charlotte debated whether to mention her great willingness to fetch items—and decided to wait a day or two. Mrs. Watson did formally introduce her to the staff: Mr. Mears, the butler; Madame Gascoigne, the cook; Polly and Rosie Banning, a pair of sisters who shared housemaid and kitchen-maid duties; and Paul Lawson, Mrs. Watson’s groom and coachman.

  Mr. Mears painted in his spare time. Madame Gascoigne was Belgian, not French—and not from the French-speaking part of Belgium. And while the Banning sisters might have grown up in the same household, they were not actually related by blood.

  All of which was fine, except . . .

  “I’m not sure whether it’s my place to bring it up, Mrs. Watson,” said Charlotte when she and her employer took a walk in Regent Park, “but I’m strongly persuaded that Mr. Lawson has spent some time in a penitentiary.”

  “And so he has,” replied Mrs. Watson, not at all alarmed. “Into many lives a little irregularity must fall.”

  Considering the amount of irregularities that had fallen into her own life of late, Charlotte could only nod. “How right you are, ma’am.”

  Post-lunch Mrs. Watson took a nap, giving Charlotte plenty of time to write another letter to Livia. She also attempted to draft a letter to a different recipient, but gave up after half a dozen attempts.

  Later that afternoon, Mrs. Watson had herself and Charlotte driven to the General Post Office. In the morning Mrs. Watson had already written to the papers, instructing them to stop printing her adverts, but she expected it would be a few days before inquiries stopped arriving.

  Charlotte had nothing from Livia—her letters arrived in fits and starts, whenever she could get them to Mott and whenever Mott could post them. There was, however, something from Inspector Robert Treadles of the Metropolitan Police.

  “Miss Holmes,” asked Mrs. Watson, as their carriage rolled away from the curb, “did I hear you call for letters for a certain Sherlock Holmes?”

  There was only curiosity on Mrs. Watson’s face. Charlotte decided to tell the truth. “Yes, you did.”

  Mrs. Watson leaned forward. “Would that happen to be the same Sherlock Holmes who wrote the letter to the coroner that has all of London Society in an uproar?”

  “That’s the alias I used.”

  “You are Sherlock Holmes?” Still no censure on Mrs. Watson’s part.

  “I thought calling myself Charles Holmes would have been too obvious. Sherlock is similar enough to Charlotte without being its exact masculine equivalent.”

  Mrs. Watson leaned back in her seat. “This makes perfect sense now. You wrote the letter to lift the siege around your sister.”

  “The best way to prove her innocence is to discover the truth.”

  “Do you really believe that those three deaths are part of a larger scheme?”

  “I could not convince myself that they were all simply a coincidence.” She glanced down at the letter in her hand. “I hope Inspector Treadles has some good news for me.”

  “You know someone in Scotland Yard?”

  “I don’t know him personally, but Sherlock Holmes has consulted for him a few times, via a mutual friend.”

  “Then why don’t you read his note? You must be anxious to know what it says.”

  Charlotte did not need to be urged again.

  Dear Mr. Holmes,

  I have been looking into the Sackville case at Lord Ingram’s request. But while I have come across tantalizing clues and insights, I have unearthed nothing concrete—nothing that would convince a coroner’s jury, let alone be deployed as Crown’s evidence.

  Time is running out—the inquest reconvenes tomorrow afternoon. I need hardly state that if you have any special insights that would aid me in the investigation, sir, it would be well to convey them at your earliest convenience.

  Sincerely yours,

  Robert Treadles

  P.S. My best wishes for your speedy recovery.

  “The news is not encouraging, I take it,” said Mrs. Watson.

  Charlotte handed over the letter for Mrs. Watson to read herself.

  Mrs. Watson scanned the lines. “What will you do now?”

  Charlotte pressed a finger against her lips. “His letter is dated today, which means there is still time before the inquest reconvenes. I must arrange a meeting with him.”

  “As yourself?”

  “Not at this crucial moment, I don’t believe.” Men had a tendency to discount a woman’s thinking, even men who were otherwise open-minded. “Our mutual friend might have properties around town that I can borrow. Since he seems to have given Sherlock Holmes a condition, it would be doable to tell the inspector that Sherlock Holmes is in the next room but cannot receive him in person and that I, Miss Holmes, must be the conduit through which information passes.”

  If she started preparing this very moment—and everything went her way—she should be able to pull off the meeting, if only just. “May I have some time to make the arrangements, Mrs. Watson? Of course you must deduct—”

  “I have a better idea,” said Mrs. Watson. “I have some properties on Upper Baker Street, right behind the house. One of my tenants moved out two weeks ago. The flat has been cleaned and made ready but not yet put up for let again. What do you say that you receive your inspector right there?”

  Charlotte did not debate long with herself. “In that case, would you mind asking Mr. Lawson to stop at the nearest post offic
e? I’d like to send a cable to the inspector and ask him to meet me tonight.”

  Charlotte had accepted Mrs. Watson’s offer because she needed it—time was of the essence. But as they went about staging the flat on Upper Baker Street, she saw that she’d have done Mrs. Watson a disservice if she’d declined her help.

  Mrs. Watson had come alive.

  The flat was already furnished, but she immediately set to work to make it look lived in. Potted plants and plump seat cushions were hauled over from her own house. Books by the gross went on the shelves. Several days’ worth of newspapers and half a dozen magazines were stuffed into a canterbury next to the fireplace.

  But Mrs. Watson was far from finished: They needed to create the illusion that a man lived on the premises. She set a decanter of whisky on the sideboard, hung hats and a pair of men’s coats, and placed three walking sticks into the umbrella stand by the door.

  A tobacco pipe was lit and left to smolder in an ashtray. Cups of steaming tea were allowed to sit and cool, for their fragrance to diffuse. And then, in a moment of inspired attention to detail, she simmered water over a spirit lamp and added a few drops each of cough syrup, camphor, and linseed oil, along with a handful of dried herbs. Immediately the flat took on the smell of convalescence, of many tinctures and compounds poured out and administered to a loved one.

  She walked about the parlor, checking it from various angles, her brow furrowed. Charlotte, who had been placing a few of her own books onto the shelves, followed her line of sight. Knickknacks and souvenirs populated the top of the shelves. A vase of roses sat on the seat of the bow window that looked down onto Upper Baker Street. In the adjacent bedroom, a bolster had been placed under the cover of the fully made-up bed; the pair of men’s slippers peeking out from beneath the bedstead served as the perfect detail, for someone stealing a glance into the room with the door open a bare inch.

  “No photographs,” said Charlotte.

  “I knew it,” exclaimed Mrs. Watson. “I knew something was missing. Would you happen to have any?”

  “A few.” She had brought a small album with her. “But none of them show me with anyone who can pass for a brother.”

  “Good enough. We’ll say Sherlock Holmes has an aversion to cameras.”

  They adjourned to Mrs. Watson’s house for a late tea. Afterward, Charlotte went to her room to fetch the photographs. But as she returned to the corridor, she nearly bumped into Mrs. Watson, whose expression immediately made her ask, “What’s the matter, ma’am?”

  “I hate to tell you this, Miss Holmes, but I just learned that—that your father quarreled with Lady Amelia the evening before she died. A bad quarrel. And—and he was heard to make threats on her life.”

  Twelve

  Lord Ingram stood on the curb, studying the solidly constructed redbrick edifice with a singular concentration. Unlike Inspector Treadles, his lordship didn’t seem to approve of the place. But more surprisingly, Treadles could not detect any trace of gladness in his lordship’s countenance.

  Treadles, on the other hand, had leaped from his desk upon the arrival of Holmes’s cable, gasping with marvel.

  Mr. Sherlock Holmes will be delighted to receive you at seven tonight and discuss the Sackville Case. 18 Upper Baker Street.

  Taking advantage of Scotland Yard’s telephonic systems, he had immediately rung Lord Ingram. His lordship was not at home, but a message had come for Treadles not long after: Lord Ingram had heard from Holmes and would meet Inspector Treadles at 18 Upper Baker Street this evening.

  The two men shook hands. “My lord, you seem more concerned than pleased. But Holmes’s recovery is terrific news, is it not?”

  “I’m afraid the news is less optimistic than you believe, Inspector.”

  “So he hasn’t recovered?”

  Lord Ingram exhaled. “Not by any standards you and I would consider recovered.”

  “Then . . .”

  “We’ll know more inside.”

  They rang the bell. Treadles held his breath. Despite Lord Ingram’s less-than-sanguine words, he remained excited at the possibility of meeting the great Sherlock Holmes.

  A large, stooped woman in a starched white cap answered the door. She peered up at them through a pair of wire-rim glasses perched at the tip of her nose and said in a broad Yorkshire accent, “You’ll be the gentlemen Miss Holmes is waiting for. Come in, then.”

  Miss Holmes? Inspector Treadles mouthed to Lord Ingram, as they followed the woman’s plentiful behind up the stairs.

  The sister, Lord Ingram answered.

  This surprised Treadles. Of course Holmes was at liberty to have any number of sisters, but Treadles had always envisioned him as a solitary creature, not someone who shared a house with female relations.

  They were brought into a cozy-looking parlor, with rose-and-ivy wallpaper, chintz-covered chairs, and a grandfather clock ticking away quietly in the corner. Miss Holmes, who had been standing before the window looking out, turned around at their entrance.

  Treadles’s eyes widened—he had not expected Holmes’s sister to resemble an advertising illustrator’s idea of ideal femininity. He glanced at Lord Ingram. The latter appeared unmoved—but of course he would have met Miss Holmes before, since he was acquainted with the latter’s brother.

  Miss Holmes came forward and shook hands with her callers. “Good evening, my lord. Good evening, Inspector. A pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

  “Likewise,” said Treadles. “I’d have dearly wished for us to meet under happier circumstances but I’m nevertheless encouraged that Mr. Holmes is well enough to be consulted.”

  Miss Holmes sat down and folded her hands in her lap. “My brother’s health has long been a burden to him. This latest episode was the most terrible yet—we truly lost hope at one point. Even at the moment he is barely able to communicate.”

  “Still, thank goodness.”

  “Yes. It’s truly a miracle that he has recovered as much as he has,” said Miss Holmes with feeling. “Unfortunately he is bedridden and therefore not able to receive you in person.”

  “Oh.” Treadles hoped his disappointment didn’t show too plainly. “Then he will not be able to discuss the case with us.”

  “While Sherlock will not be able to discuss the case, he will most certainly be able to contribute—we have rigged this room in a discreet manner so that he can see and hear everything from his sickbed.”

  The woman who had opened the door for Treadles and Lord Ingram returned, carrying a tray of tea. Miss Holmes poured a cup and handed it to her. “Will you take this to my brother, Mrs. Hudson? And will you stay with him to make sure he’s comfortable?”

  “Yes, miss,” said Mrs. Hudson.

  She waddled off with the cup of tea. Lord Ingram stared after her, a strange grimace on his face.

  Miss Holmes poured for the rest of them and passed around a plate of curious-looking biscuits, fluted like seashells. “Madeleines,” she said. “They are very good. The recipe is said to come from Madame Durant herself.”

  Treadles had no idea who Madame Durant was, but the biscuits were indeed good. In fact, by his third bite, he realized they were spectacularly delicious. He looked down at the plate and wondered whether it would be possible to pilfer one undetected to take home to Alice.

  “I understand time is short,” said Miss Holmes. “We are ready to proceed whenever you care to start, Inspector.”

  Treadles glanced toward the room that held the invalid. “You are certain, Miss Holmes, that this arrangement will prevail?”

  “I have no doubt.”

  “But Mr. Holmes, if he is as indisposed as I imagine him to be—what if our discussion should prove too taxing? Out here I would not know when to stop.”

  “Mrs. Hudson would let us know if we have gone on too long for him.”

  Treadles lowered his voice, t
hough he had the impression he was only being silly, rather than discreet. “I hate to ask this, Miss Holmes, but the episode, has it affected your brother’s mind?”

  Miss Holmes smiled—was it an ironic smile? “Allow me to assure you, Inspector, that although the episode negatively affected many aspects of Sherlock Holmes’s life, it mercifully spared his mind, which remains as eccentric and intractable as ever.”

  Was Treadles imagining things or did Lord Ingram let out an almost inaudible snort?

  “You are still unsure, Inspector,” said Miss Holmes. “Would you like to know for certain that Sherlock’s powers of observation and deduction are very much intact?”

  “I would take the lady at her word,” said Lord Ingram as he studied the rim of his teacup.

  It occurred to Treadles that his lordship hadn’t looked directly at Miss Holmes since they arrived.

  “The choice is yours, Inspector,” said Miss Holmes.

  Treadles hesitated some more. “My lord, have you seen Miss Holmes’s brother face-to-face since his episode?”

  “No, I have not.”

  “Then, with all due apology, as this is a matter of public trust, I would like to be assured that Mr. Holmes’s capabilities are what they were.”

  “Of course,” said Lord Ingram.

  Oddly enough, his lordship’s voice contained no trace of annoyance, only the faintest hint of pity.

  “If you’ll excuse me for a moment.” Miss Holmes went into the next room and closed the door.

  Treadles turned to Lord Ingram. “My lord, I hope I have not given offense in following my own counsel.”

  “Not at all. Were I you, I would have made the same choice.”

  Treadles exhaled.

  But then Lord Ingram added, “And were you me, you’d have issued the same warning.”

  Miss Holmes returned with a bright smile for her visitors. She took her seat and arranged her skirts with practiced ease.