Twenty
Hodges, when he’d been brought into the interrogation room Mrs. Cornish recently vacated, betrayed no hint of anxiety. He nodded pleasantly at Treadles. “Evening, Inspector. Constable Perkins says you have some questions for me?”
Treadles regarded him for some time without speaking, a tactic meant to intimidate. From time to time suspects broke down under the weight of his gaze. Often they fidgeted in discomfort, eyes darting everywhere. But occasionally a suspect would stare right back at him with defiance. Or, even more rarely, with a great display of equanimity.
Hodges fell into this last category. He met Treadles’s gaze with a calm fearlessness that early Christian martyrs would have prayed for. But tranquility before an interrogator did not necessarily imply innocence: It could just as well indicate an arrogance bordering on pathology—or a complete lack of conscience.
Treadles tapped his knuckles against the cable from Scotland Yard. “Mr. Hodges, you said you didn’t know where your late employer went in London or what he did. But now we have a reliable eyewitness who placed you at exactly the same place as Mr. Sackville, asking for his purpose. How do you explain that?”
“Fairly simple,” said Hodges, as if he’d long expected the question and had the answer ready. “I was a boxer before I entered service, and lived in London for twenty years. Sometimes when Mr. Sackville went off to London, I did, too, to see old friends in the area.
“One day I saw him in Lambeth and I was curious—wouldn’t anyone be, under the circumstances? So I knocked on a few doors and asked if anyone knew what went on in the house Mr. Sackville entered. Nobody was sure but they all thought it a little dodgy. Gambling, most likely. Probably loose women, too. I was frankly disappointed. It was too . . . common. I thought Mr. Sackville would have had some more gentlemanly vices.”
Treadles didn’t believe him. “If they were truly such pedestrian sins, why did you keep them a secret?”
“Mr. Sackville can’t defend his good name anymore, so it’s up to the rest of us. Men have sinned much worse. But when they die of natural causes, nobody cares what they’ve done in their spare time. Mr. Sackville ought to be given the same privacy—he’d have wanted it.”
Treadles raised a brow. “You didn’t have as high a regard for his good name when you insinuated to Mrs. Cornish that he might be taking advantage of Becky Birtle.”
“I said no such thing.” For the first time, a note of vexation crept into Hodges’s voice. “I warned Mrs. Cornish that the girl was taking liberties with Mr. Sackville’s expensive liquor—and made up the nonsense about Mr. Sackville offering it to her. Told Mrs. Cornish she ought to have a stern word with Becky. Even an amiable gentleman wouldn’t hesitate to give the sack when his whisky is endangered.”
A former boxer. A man accustomed to dodging and counterpunching. And conditioned by years in the ring to keep a cool head under pressure. “What else have you been keeping from us, Mr. Hodges?”
“Nothing, Inspector,” said Hodges evenly. “Nothing.”
“Very well, Mr. Hodges. I will need a written statement of your whereabouts during the twenty-four hours leading to Mr. Sackville’s death.”
Hodges inclined his head. “And you’ll have it, Inspector.”
Hodges was not the only liar. Lady Sheridan’s story, too, turned out to be less than entirely truthful. The YWCA had indeed dedicated a new center, and Lady Sheridan had indeed been there—rather unexpectedly, as she had cabled her regrets only two days prior, citing ill health.
But she had not left Bath the next morning, as she’d informed Inspector Treadles. Instead, she had departed immediately after the evening reception, even though she had paid for a night’s lodging at the hotel.
“How do you explain the discrepancies, Lady Sheridan?” Treadles demanded.
He was tired: He’d returned to London on the early train. But more than that, he was frustrated. The investigation had uncovered an abundance of information that seemed promising, only to then never lead anywhere. He wanted a suspect. He wanted proper answers. He wanted the case solved so he could sleep in his own bed—and wake up with his wife in his arms.
Lady Sheridan, however, displayed no inclination to help him achieve his objectives. “What does it matter when I left Bath, Inspector? An old woman is entitled to change her mind and head home earlier.”
She was even thinner than Treadles remembered, her voice scratchy and weary. He felt an onslaught of self-reproach. She was clearly not well and he’d fallen barely short of discourtesy.
“You had every right to modify your plans, ma’am. It is not that you changed your mind that brought me back, but that you failed to disclose the truth.”
Lady Sheridan sighed. Treadles had the strange sensation that her skeleton might rattle apart even with such a miniscule motion. “The truth is I had nothing to do with Mr. Sackville’s death.”
“Then, ma’am, you can have no objection to making your itinerary known—to remove yourself from suspicion.”
Lady Sheridan regarded him with something close to approval. “Very well then. I left Bath that evening, but had a spot of discomfort along my return route. I got off at the next stop, took a room at the nearest railway inn, and continued my journey the next day, when I felt more equal to the challenge.”
“Can anyone at the inn corroborate your account?”
“I’m afraid I didn’t pay much attention to where I was. All I needed was a bed that didn’t sway—it could have been any inn at any station along the line.”
It took a great deal of cheek to give such an answer. And a great deal of dignity to endow it with even a semblance of seriousness. “Ma’am, I’m afraid I can’t take that for an answer. Why wasn’t your maid with you?”
“When I decided to leave Bath she wasn’t feeling well. I told her she could follow the next day. But of course, en route I succumbed to the same thing.”
Treadles studied this frail yet formidable woman—and asked her the same question he’d asked Hodges. “What else have you been keeping from us, Lady Sheridan?”
The answer he received was also the exact same. “Nothing, Inspector. Nothing.”
Treadles did not neglect the servants of Lord and Lady Sheridan’s household. But her maid unhesitatingly confirmed that she had stayed overnight in Bath by herself. And none of the others could tell him anything more of Lady Sheridan’s precise itinerary—the majority had never even heard of Mr. Sackville.
Only the two senior-most staff recalled the days when Mr. Sackville had been a frequent and esteemed guest. “He’d bring friends. The friends would bring their friends,” said Mrs. Gomer, the housekeeper. “I used to complain about how much more work it was when he came around. But then he didn’t come around anymore and it was never the same. A house without young people is just not the same.”
“I was still a footman in those days,” said Mr. Addison, the butler. “A very young footman.”
They stood in the butler’s pantry, a small space allotted to Mr. Addison’s use, as he cleaned the tap meant to sit on top of a gasogene.
“Everybody looked forward to Mr. Sackville’s visits,” Mr. Addison continued, “especially Miss Clara—he was more a big brother to her than an uncle. And of course her friends visited—her cousins, too. It was a lively house then, the place in the country.”
“Mr. Sackville was well-liked?”
“Oh, yes.”
“Did he have any vices that you know of?”
Mr. Addison was filling the lower globe of the gasogene with water. He paused for a moment. “Not me, Inspector. He didn’t drink too much or gamble too much. Never made unreasonable demands of the staff. Never took advantage of us, if you know what I mean.”
Treadles nodded—he did know what Mr. Addison meant. “Would you happen to know why Lord Sheridan and Mr. Sackville fell out?”
Mr. Addison
did not answer immediately, but concentrated on tapping scoops of white powder through a small funnel into the gasogene’s upper globe. “Inspector, I ought not say anything about it, but I’ll tell you because you’re looking for Mr. Sackville’s murderer in the wrong place.”
“Please do. I’ll be more than delighted to eliminate your master and mistress from the list of suspects.”
Mr. Addison peered at Treadles. When he was satisfied that Treadles had spoken in complete sincerity, he set aside the funnel. “The last time Mr. Sackville came to visit, I overheard an argument between the brothers. You probably know that Mr. Sackville was a great deal wealthier than his lordship. Well, Mr. Sackville’s advisors encouraged him to make certain investments. He passed on the suggestions to Lord Sheridan. The investments turned out badly. Mr. Sackville insisted on compensating his lordship for his losses and his lordship wouldn’t have it—said nobody forced him to put money in any ventures and he deuced well could take his losses on the chin, like a man.
“But Mr. Sackville wouldn’t let it rest. He went on insisting until his lordship exploded and told Mr. Sackville that Mr. Sackville understood the world only through the lens of his fortune. So his lordship was now poor as a church mouse, but what did it matter when his only child was dead and nothing would bring her back. Why couldn’t Mr. Sackville at least let him have his pride?”
So Lady Sheridan had not been lying when she’d characterized the spat as an argument about manly honor.
Mr. Addison carefully fitted the long-tubed tap on top of the gasogene and shook the entire apparatus for the powders—tartaric acid and bicarbonate of soda, if Treadles remembered correctly—to react with water. The contents of the gasogene bubbled, hissing faintly. “Mr. Sackville left that day itself. I always felt bad about their estrangement. It wasn’t really any kind of insurmountable dispute. But Mr. Sackville never came back. And I guess he had the last word after all, when he left his fortune to his lordship.”
Sometimes, the more you know, the less things make sense, Treadles’s father-in-law had once said. If it had been the other way around, if Lord Sheridan had insisted Mr. Sackville compensate him for soured investments and Mr. Sackville had refused, then the Sheridans would have been much more likely to hold a grudge all these years, a grudge that could have turned cancerous.
But why would anyone kill a man who wanted to make it up to them, even though strictly speaking he hadn’t been at fault and had suffered his own losses?
“I think Lord Sheridan always expected that Mr. Sackville would come striding back someday—and it would be as if there had never been a quarrel,” said Mr. Addison, setting the gasogene aside for the gas to percolate into the water. “A shame that didn’t happen—and won’t ever happen now.”
Treadles thanked the butler. And then, out of personal curiosity, he said, “I rather like that gadget, the gasogene. But the missus won’t allow one—she says too many of them explode and she has no desire to be married to a one-eyed policeman.”
Mr. Addison chuckled. “Well, gasogenes don’t come wrapped in wicker for nothing. They will explode if they aren’t handled carefully. That’s why I make the soda water myself, instead of giving the task to a footman.”
The gasogene didn’t look as if it would hold more than two quarts of water and it needed to sit for a considerable amount of time to complete the carbonation. “I can see that it makes enough for a small family, but what about when you have guests?”
“We have another one. And we can always store water that’s been carbonated in bottles for a short while. But you are right, this wouldn’t have been enough in the old days. When we used to have a house full of guests we had gas delivered in canisters—but then again, canisters have their dangers, too. Any gas under pressure does.”
“Very true.” Treadles glanced at the gasogene again, still tempted. Perhaps Alice might relent if he could find a way to further reinforce those glass globes. “And if you don’t mind one last question from me, Mr. Addison, do you have any theories as to why anyone would wish Mr. Sackville harm?”
The butler shook his head. “It’s been decades since any of us last saw him. He could have met all kinds of unsavory characters in those intervening years. All I can tell you is that his death has nothing to do with anyone in this house.”
A knock came on the door of Lord Ingram’s darkroom. “My lord,” said a footman, “Mr. Shrewsbury to see you. Are you at home to him?”
That ass. “You may show him in here.”
Shrewsbury knew enough to enter quickly, closing the door behind himself. “Oh, good. This place doesn’t stink as badly as I’d have expected.”
“It’s ventilated,” Lord Ingram said coolly, as he pinned another photograph to a cord strung across the width of the room. “What can I do for you, Mr. Shrewsbury?”
“Ah . . . you wouldn’t happen to have heard from Miss Holmes, would you, my lord? The rumors are growing wilder every day and I’m beginning to really worry about her.”
“Only beginning to?”
“Well, I thought she’d have come to me by now.”
“That foolish woman. What good reason could she possibly have for not seeking your aid?”
In the crimson glow of the small, red-glass-encased lightbulb, it was impossible to tell whether Shrewsbury flushed. But the scrape of his heels across the floor was quite audible.
He cleared his throat. “I’m also beginning to see that maybe she might not want to be my mistress. If you hear from her, will you please tell her that I’m offering help, plain and simple, whatever she needs, and no conditions attached. I only want to make sure she’s all—wait, who’s that?”
Lord Ingram followed the direction of Shrewsbury’s gaze. The prints had come out well. Despite the dim, reddish light, Stephen Marbleton’s features stood out in relief. “I don’t know—I’m developing someone else’s negatives. Have you seen the man before?”
“The man? No, never seen the man. But the woman looks familiar—even though I’m certain we’ve never been introduced.”
Lord Ingram unpinned a print of Frances Marbleton, taken at some seashore, and handed it to Shrewsbury so he could take a closer look. “Have you gone tramping over the summer? Perhaps you passed her in some field.”
“No, I haven’t been anywhere near Devon this summer.”
The hairs on the back of Lord Ingram’s neck rose. He exhaled carefully, so he could continue to speak with some semblance of detachment. “This is Devon?”
“There must be pebble beaches elsewhere in Britain, but this looks a good deal like the one at Westward Ho!. What a name, eh, exclamation supplied. Went there with my mates a few times when I was at university. You’ve a house somewhere in the vicinity, don’t you?”
“My place is near the Hangman Cliffs. Never been to Westward Ho!.”
“I know what you mean. Too many tourists—I mean, it’s the only reason the place exists in the first place.”
Lord Ingram was suddenly in a hurry. “Anything else I can do for you, Mr. Shrewsbury?”
“Umm, no.”
“In that case, please excuse me. I have an urgent appointment.”
Inspector Treadles was not proud of himself, but at some point his curiosity got the better of him—and he decided to burgle 18 Upper Baker Street.
It wasn’t terribly late yet. But from where he stood in the alley behind the house, number 18 was completely dark, not a fleck of light coming from behind the curtains. He had already circled the block of buildings twice. Now he slipped into the shadows of the back door—and quickly picked the lock.
The ground floor was silent, the caretaker’s room furnished but empty of occupants. The stairs did not creak as he climbed up, not did the stair landing groan.
He was not surprised when the door of the parlor opened quietly at his touch—why should it be locked, when most likely no one lived on thes
e premises? Still his heart pounded a little as he tiptoed to the bedroom.
He pulled on a curtain. Light from the street lamp streamed inside, illuminating a perfectly made and perfectly empty bed. He shut the curtain and lit a match. No, nothing else that a perennially bedridden man would need.
Was there even a chamber pot under the b—
A heavily bearded man stared back at him from under the bed—and yanked Treadles by the ankles. Treadles went down hard. The man scrambled out and ran, stepping over one of Treadles’s hands, causing him to yowl in pain.
Fortunately, nothing was broken. But by the time Treadles made his way down the stairs and out the back door, the man had disappeared.
“Don’t make any sounds.”
Charlotte’s heart jumped to her throat before she realized the voice, though kept to a vehement whisper, belonged to Lord Ingram. “What are you doing here? And don’t make the joke that I should be overjoyed to finally have you in my bedroom.”
She’d been out of her room only a few minutes, getting ready for bed. He was the last thing she expected to find upon her return.
“Why should I joke about how overjoyed you must b—”
“There is a tear near the knee of your right trouser leg. Bits of grass and leaves are stuck to the edges of your shoes. And what’s—” She grabbed her magnifying glass and studied his jacket, and then she knelt down to examine the wool of his trousers with the same rigor.
“You always did tell me you had perverse predilections,” he murmured.
“I’ve never told you any such thing. And I have lost all respect for you, since you think my merely being on my knees in front of you is perverse.” She pulled a pair of forceps out of a penholder and removed several small, gleaming objects that had been embedded in the fabric near his cuff and dropped them onto a table.
“I see you have been to Claridge’s again.” The bits of glass weren’t ordinary shards, but fragments of photographic plates. “There was some sort of struggle, plates shattering all over the place. And then you ran—I assume you made your way out from a service door, to avoid being recognized running through the lobby. But you were pursued. You leaped over a gate into Grosvenor Square Park. Did your trousers get caught on a finial on the gate? No, that’s not it. I see what must have happened. You looked back as you ran and tripped over a root. But eventually you shook loose your pursuer and came here. You do know, I hope, that I’m the youngest child at home and have no idea how to dress a skinned knee for anybody?”
A Study In Scarlet Women Page 27