A Study In Scarlet Women

by Sherry Thomas

  “A great many murders have been committed because of what people do in private.”

  “But—but I didn’t do anything, this is just . . . private.”

  Her reluctance seemed deep-seated. Treadles went on to the next item on his list. “The morning you went to give Mr. Sackville his morning cocoa and found him unconscious, why didn’t you open the curtains?”

  “What does that have to do with anything?”

  “So it’s true, you didn’t open the curtains.”

  “I mayn’t have.”

  “I have been given to understand that it would be highly inappropriate for you to approach him while he lay in bed. And yet you stated this is what you did.”

  “I didn’t do anything bad. My first few weeks at Curry House I ran into him at every corner. I thought we were friends. And then I don’t see him for a good long time and I thought—I thought I’d take his hand and jiggle it. A good-morning-surprise-it’s-me. Like you would with a mate, if you went to visit them and they was still asleep.”

  “So there was nothing illicit going on between you and Mr. Sackville?”

  “No! That’d be—he must be even older than my dad and my dad is old!”

  Her incredulity seemed genuine. “Is there anyone in the house who might believe that your rapport with Mr. Sackville isn’t quite so innocent?”

  The girl recoiled. “What? Why would they think like that?”

  “Because it isn’t normal for the master of the house to develop a friendship with a young maid.”

  “But why are you asking—you think it has something to do with Mr. Sackville’s murder?”

  “A number of things could have happened if one of the other members of the household believed that something illicit went on between you and Mr. Sackville. That person might be enraged on your behalf, convinced that you’d been taken advantage of. That person might be enraged on her own behalf—what if she thought she had a romantic understanding with Mr. Sackville? It could be for monetary reasons, too. The person might believe he is to be the chief beneficiary of Mr. Sackville’s will—and didn’t want him getting close to anyone else. Do you see what I mean?”

  “I—I guess so.”

  “Then can you tell me who might have had suspicions?”

  She twisted her fingers. “Will that person become a suspect?”

  “With no obvious motives, and in a household this small, everybody already is a suspect. You wouldn’t be broadening our field of suspects, Miss Birtle, but narrowing it.”

  “I suppose that’s all right then,” she said uncertainly. “And it really wouldn’t make him a suspect, I don’t think.”

  A him. “Was it Tommy Dunn?”

  “Tommy?” she laughed. “Tommy wouldn’t care if I fell off the cliffs.”

  “I understand he was initially receptive to having another young person at Curry House. What changed?”

  “Ask him.” Amusement flashed in Becky’s eyes. And a trace of smugness.

  “I have. He refused to answer. Perhaps you could help him out—tell me why and eliminate him from suspicion.”

  This was not strictly true. Even if Tommy Dunn’s dislike of Becky had nothing to do with what went on between the latter and Mr. Sackville, he could still be an accomplice, albeit an unlikely one, for Lord or Lady Sheridan.

  “Only if you swear never to tell anyone.”

  “I can only promise that if it has nothing to do with the case.”

  “It has nothing to do with anything. I caught Tommy with Mr. Weeks, the sexton from Barton Cross, when I was out on a walk.” Her expression turned more somber. “You truly mustn’t ever tell anyone, Inspector. I teased Tommy—and told him I had a hard time keeping secrets. I didn’t mean it. But he was so scared. I was put out that he thought I would tell on him. But he must have been mad with fear—he didn’t have anywhere else to go and Mr. Weeks has children to support. He didn’t believe that I’d keep him safe.”

  Treadles couldn’t understand such goings-on between men, but he well knew the consequences of exposure. “His secret is safe with me.”

  “Thank you, Inspector,” Becky Birtle said softly.

  Treadles let a minute of silence pass. They sat, almost companionably, he drinking his tepid tea, she nibbling on a biscuit that looked rock hard.

  “So it was Mr. Hodges who noticed something about you and Mr. Sackville?”

  The girl nodded. “The next day after my horrible stomachache, Mr. Hodges asked if I’d pinched Mr. Sackville’s whisky. I asked him if he was calling me a thief. He said Mr. Sackville is careful about his tummy and don’t take more than a few sips but twice that much was gone from the decanter—and that I was the only other person to go in that room.

  “So I told him that I did drink but only because Mr. Sackville offered, and it would have been rude to refuse. Mr. Hodges scowled something mighty and said gentlemen was different than regular folk. Nobody holds them accountable and I better have a care for myself.”

  She turned her face to the side. With a start Treadles understood why she had looked oddly familiar when he met her for the first time: the picture of a young Mrs. Cornish that he had seen at Curry House. There was a good resemblance if one happened to see Becky from certain angles.

  He had considered Mrs. Cornish from the perspective of a scorned lover, an angry bystander, and opportunistic collaborator. But Mrs. Cornish as a deeply concerned kinswoman opened an entire new vista of possibilities.

  “When you left, Mrs. Cornish said you took a photograph of the staff as a memento.”

  “I didn’t leave, Mrs. Cornish dismissed me—said I was making too much of a nuisance of myself, fainting and crying.” She flattened her lips. “Maybe I was. And I never took that photograph—the only person I’d have wanted to remember was Mr. Sackville and he wasn’t in it. I found the picture in my suitcase after I came home.”

  The discrepancies made Treadles’s heart pound: having Becky hundreds of miles away—and the only image of her exiled from the house—would ensure that no one suspected any blood ties between the two. “I’d like to see the photograph. And I’ll need you to hand me the decanter of whisky.”

  Becky Birtle excused herself and returned with both items.

  Treadles examined the decanter, which still contained two inches of intoxicant. It occurred to him that Becky Birtle could have emptied and replaced the contents of the decanter. But a quick sniff was enough to let him know that the amber fluid inside was no cheap grog, but the best Scotland had to offer.

  He next turned his attention to the photograph. The captured images of Mrs. Cornish and Becky Birtle did not show much likeness, but all the same Treadles asked Becky Birtle to fetch her parents.

  Mr. Birtle, a former gamekeeper who could no longer work on account of his arthritis, was indeed old for someone with so young an only child. His wife was a square slab of a woman and possibly even older than he. Becky Birtle closed the door and left, her footsteps fading away on the squeaky floorboards.

  Treadles waited until she was out of hearing range. “Mr. Birtle, Mrs. Birtle, I understand that the questions I am about to ask will seem intrusive. I hope you will forgive me.”

  The couple looked at each other.

  “Yes, Inspector?” Mrs. Birtle sounded as if she rarely spoke, her voice resembling the rasp of rusted gears forced to rotate.

  “I must ask whether you are Becky’s natural parents.”

  Another look exchanged between the Birtles. Mrs. Birtle wiped her hand on her apron. “Why do you need to know, Inspector?”

  “I am investigating a murder. None of the suspects with the means to have committed it appear to have concrete motives. Therefore I must get to the bottom of every possible connection among all parties involved. If you are concerned the information might get someone into trouble, please consider that withholding the necessary i
ntelligence from me may result in an innocent bystander being charged with the crime.”

  Mr. Birtle placed his hand atop his wife’s. Mrs. Birtle glanced at her husband and then looked Treadles in the eye. “We took Becky in the day she was born and raised her as if she were our own.”

  Treadles let out the breath he didn’t realize he was holding. “And is Mrs. Cornish of Curry House Becky’s natural mother?”

  Mrs. Birtle nodded.

  “Thank you for your trust in me.” Treadles inclined his head. “I will do my best to keep this from becoming public knowledge.”

  It felt almost unsettling to finally have a prime suspect, but the scenario made sense. Mr. Hodges must have told Mrs. Cornish about the closer-than-necessary rapport between their employer and Becky Birtle. Mrs. Cornish would have become more and more concerned about her daughter’s involvement with Mr. Sackville. At an impressionable age, she herself had been taken advantage of by a man who refused to marry her and look after their baby—possibly an unscrupulous employer—and she was desperate for the same not to happen to her child.

  Becky Birtle returned to the parlor. Treadles had asked for her—he still had one last point he wanted to clear up. But one look at the girl’s face let him know that she had heard everything. How? The floorboards would have squeaked had she snuck back to eavesdrop.

  As if she heard his question, she pointed behind his head. He turned around to see a small, half-open window—she had eavesdropped from outside.

  “Mrs. Cornish can’t be my mother,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. “She doesn’t even like me.”

  “I can’t speak to the state of her affection, but I have no doubt she feels a tremendous sense of responsibility toward you.”

  “Enough to kill Mr. Sackville when he did nothing wrong? That can’t be.”

  “If she was the one who poisoned Mr. Sackville, she wouldn’t be the first to have attempted murder for what she perceived he did.”

  “But what could she even perceive?”

  Treadles could not have asked for a better lead-in to his question. “Perhaps unbeknownst to you, she witnessed the incident that caused Mr. Sackville to no longer be there everywhere you turned.”

  Becky Birtle squinted at him. “That’s ridiculous.”

  “Is it? I can’t tell since I don’t know what happened.”

  “Nothing happened. Nothing.”

  “It might not have been nothing to Mrs. Cornish.”

  Becky Birtle threw up her hands. “Fine. I’ll tell you. It was a few days after Mr. Sackville and I had those horrible tummy troubles. I—I had my monthly and it was an awful one. I could hardly stand, but Mrs. Cornish said it was no excuse—the other women in the house didn’t take to their beds during their time.

  “Mr. Sackville saw that I was in pain and he was worried. He thought maybe it was something I ate. So I told him the truth, that it was only my monthly.”

  Treadles could only hope he wouldn’t stammer—his face scalded with embarrassment. “That was it?”

  “That was it. Mum—my real mum, not Mrs. Cornish—always told me that men hate it when women bring up their menses. I thought it was ridiculous. They love to moan about their own aches and pains, why should they begrudge us a little complaining about ours? But Mum was right. That was the end of anything between Mr. Sackville and me.” The light dimmed in Becky Birtle’s eyes. “Guess he wasn’t a real friend after all.”

  Charlotte twisted the black handkerchief with her black kidskin-clad fingers and reminded herself that she must give the impression of frailty and forlornness. It would not do for her to swivel about, scanning the guests who moved through the lobby of Claridge’s: The widow’s veil might obscure her face, but it couldn’t completely disguise the set of her shoulders or the angle of her head.

  She glanced discreetly toward the front entrance, followed it with a sideways glimpse toward the staircase. Perhaps now she should lift the handkerchief and give it a helpless flutter. Maybe even—

  “My condolences on your loss, my dear lady.”

  Her heart thudded—Lord Ingram had materialized out of nowhere. “What are you doing here?”

  One corner of his lips lifted. Her heart thudded again: She couldn’t remember the last time he smiled—or half smiled—at her. “And I thought you’d be glad to see me, since you’re always scheming for it.”

  “Yes, when I’ve nothing better to do.”

  He sat down next to her on the chaise longue. The half smile had disappeared but no forbidding look took its place. How rare and incomprehensible: at the moment he was not actively displeased with her.

  “With your penchant for diminishing a man to little more than a shell of his former manhood, it never ceases to amaze me that you managed to receive all the proposals you did.”

  She had indeed reaped her fair share, including one from his brother, Lord Bancroft, her favorite proposal of them all.

  “It’s my décolletage—when gentlemen stare at my bosom, they don’t hear a word I say. I strongly believe that if trees sprouted breasts tomorrow, they would soon be wearing wedding rings.”

  He chortled.

  Her nerves tingled.

  Some men had that effect on women, as Mrs. Watson declared. But it was Charlotte’s obligation not to respond to said effect when she was in the middle of a surveillance mission—or at least not to respond to such a degree as to diminish her concentration. “So what are you doing here?”

  He blew out a soft breath. “You are many things, Charlotte, but terribly experienced you aren’t. It was almost too easy to predict that you’d be setting up shop at Claridge’s to see what you can find out about your Mrs. Marbleton.”

  Had he come to put a stop to it or . . . “Don’t tell me you mean to keep me company.”

  “Easier than bailing you out of trouble later.”

  She wondered whether she ought to object to his presence, but he was right that she had no experience in this sort of thing. And if he was going to take the trouble to make sure she was all right, she’d rather he sit next to her than lurk somewhere unseen.

  She smoothed her gloves. “I won’t be here for much longer. I’ve a client to meet.”

  “A less troublesome one, I hope.”

  “Don’t be such a constant killjoy. If nothing else, my association with Mrs. Watson has already made us five pounds—and we’ve clients lined up for the next fortnight.”

  Five pounds! The thought never failed to make her giddy.

  But he would not let go of his entrenched cynicism. “She has certainly been quick to exploit your acuity for her own gains.”

  She peered at him through her veil. “What’s the matter, your lordship? Usually you are a bit more generous in your opinion of people, especially when you don’t know enough about them.”

  “I can afford to be more generous when those hypothetical people aren’t essentially in control of your life, Charlotte. I still think it w—”

  But she was no longer listening to him.

  “What is it?” he asked softly, taking her by the hands, so that to passersby they would appear deep in conversation, a bereaved young widow and a gallant friend trying to comfort her.

  “Do you see the man in the gold paisley waistcoat?” She indicated his location with a tilt of her head. “I know him.”

  Lord Ingram glanced unobtrusively at the man. “Who is he?”

  “The first time I went to Mrs. Watson’s place, before I arrived, she had let in another young woman, thinking she was me. But that caller turned out to have fraud in mind, claiming kinship with Mrs. Watson where none existed.”

  “And?”

  “And she had an accomplice, a young man.” Charlotte took one more look at Paisley Waistcoat. “That one.”

  Nineteen

  By the time Inspector Treadles reached the closes
t police station to Curry House, Mrs. Cornish had already been brought in and put into an interrogation room.

  He wasted no time. “Mrs. Cornish, you said nothing about the fact that Becky Birtle is your daughter.”

  Mrs. Cornish flinched, as if he’d thrown sand in her face. “That’s—that’s—”

  “I wouldn’t try to deny it, not when I already have confirmation from Mrs. Birtle.”

  Mrs. Cornish glanced at the door.

  “I’ve dismissed the constable who stood guard outside,” said Treadles. “I gave my word to Mrs. Birtle that as much as possible, I would keep Becky’s true parentage a secret.”

  Mrs. Cornish stared at her hands—she’d come to the police station in a pair of kid gloves, probably her best pair. “Surely you must understand why I couldn’t possibly bring it up, Inspector. It took years of hard work to rise to where I am.

  “After Mr. Sackville passed, Mrs. Struthers wrote me and said if the next tenant at Curry House didn’t need a housekeeper, I was welcome to go work for her. But if word got out that I have an illegitimate child, she won’t want me anymore. No one will want me anymore. Respectability is everything in my line of work.”

  The anxiety in her voice was overwhelming.

  “Then why bring her to your place of work at all?”

  “Mrs. Birtle was worried that Becky was getting too headstrong and restless. The Birtles don’t have much. Becky would have to go into service. And service can be . . . it can be a small, closed life. I remember how bored I was as the underhousemaid, how little there was to look forward to. I never wanted to get into trouble, but a flirtation here and there was the only cure for boredom.

  “And then I fell in love with the son of the house and he promised to look after me. It’s that same old story. But when it happened to me, I thought he was special and I was special. And it turned out that neither of us was special at all.

  “I didn’t want that to happen to Becky. Here I am in a position of some authority. I could look after her. But more than anything else, I felt Curry House was a safe place. Mr. Sackville never made any advances toward me or any other women in the house. And he treated Jenny Price with more care than most able-bodied folks did.”