The Hollow of Fear

by Sherry Thomas

  “But why? Why would anyone put a bomb here?”

  “I know!” cried Mrs. Newell. “If I could vote I’d have cast my ballot for Mr. Gladstone, to give the Irish their Home Rule.”

  “Oh, I’m so sorry this happened, Mrs. Newell!”

  Mrs. Newell patted her on the arm. “I’ve sent someone to fetch the police. They’ll probably need to cable the Special Irish Branch to come, for all I know. But I’m afraid in the meanwhile we must decamp again.”

  And not to Stern Hollow.

  An idea came to Livia fully formed—and requiring immediate implementation. “I—I really mustn’t impose anymore. I’ve been enough trouble to you and should have gone home directly from Stern Hollow. I believe I’ll do that now.”

  “Nonsense. Come with me to the inn, my dear. I know you don’t wish to go home.”

  Livia didn’t, but sometimes one did what one must. “I’ll stay an extra week next year, if you’ll have me. You know I love it here, Mrs. Newell. But now I really must go.”

  * * *

  In the morning, Treadles almost couldn’t face his wife across the breakfast table. His cheeks kept flaming as he ate his toast and fried eggs. They had made love three times during the night and done things to and with each other that he hadn’t even known were within the realm of possibility.

  But they had not spoken, not a single word.

  She, after sorting through the early post, broke the silence first. “I didn’t expect you home so soon, Inspector. Has the case already been solved?”

  That she sounded tentative gave him some much needed courage. “No, not yet. We are in London to speak to Miss Charlotte Holmes.”

  News had come the previous day that Miss Holmes had responded to the notice the police had put in the papers. She was amenable to meeting them this morning at eleven, at the tea shop in Hounslow where she had been seen with Lord Ingram.

  Treadles had been incredulous. Lord Ingram was under house arrest, for all intents and purposes, and Miss Holmes thought it necessary to travel to London for the express purpose of meeting with the policemen? He’d tried to convince himself that perhaps at the appointed time she would present them with the all-important evidence that would clear Lord Ingram’s name but such hopes were beginning to wilt.

  “Ah, the mythical Miss Holmes.” A small frown marred Alice’s forehead. “Her name has been all over the papers—along with Lord Ingram’s. Some are portraying her as quite the Jezebel.”

  And some were saying far less kind things.

  Our fallen young lady certainly has plenty of cheek, Chief Inspector Fowler had commented, his jolly mood an agony to endure. Well, let us be on the next train bound for London.

  But if you are certain, Chief Inspector, that Lord Ingram killed his wife because she had turned up carrying another man’s child, then is there still any need to question Miss Holmes? Treadles had asked.

  He had wanted to stay behind. He might yet uncover something that would be useful to Lord Ingram—or at least give the latter some company.

  It will be a change of scenery, at least, wouldn’t you say? had been Fowler’s answer. And the implacability beneath the seeming agreeableness of his tone had told Treadles it would be useless to protest.

  “I’m more than a little curious about this Miss Charlotte Holmes,” Alice continued. She smiled a little. Was she feeling as jittery as he? “Will you still be here in the evening to give a juicy account?”

  “I was rather under the impression that we would be headed back to Stern Hollow this afternoon. But everything could change between now and then.”

  He was afraid that Fowler had left Stern Hollow to make it easier for Lord Ingram to escape. All the evidence against Lord Ingram was circumstantial. Should he take to the witness stand in his own defense, there was a chance that the jury would prefer to believe him rather than the prosecution. But if Lord Ingram ran from the police, it would automatically brand him as guilty in the eye of the public and make the trial’s outcome far less uncertain.

  Surely Lord Ingram was too intelligent to fall into that particular trap, no matter how hopeless his situation appeared at the moment?

  “And how is your work, by the way?” he asked his wife.

  Her fork stopped in midair.

  In all the months since she took over from her late brother, he had never once inquired into what she did with Cousins Manufacturing. Had no idea who served as her advisors or who opposed her ideas every step of the way. Had treated this very large part of her life as if it were something that concerned only her and was beneath his notice.

  “Are you certain you have the time for it, Inspector?” Her tone was unsure.

  She was giving him a chance to say no.

  He set down his knife and fork and said, “Yes, I have the time.”

  * * *

  After she’d left Stern Hollow, Lady Avery had put herself up at Claridge’s hotel in London.

  The calling card brought in just now announced the wishes of one Mr. Sherlock Holmes to pay his respects. Sherlock Holmes had made his name in a case involving the death of three prominent individuals; it took Lady Avery no time at all to deduce that he must be here to discuss Lady Ingram’s murder.

  But when her caller was shown into the sitting room of the suite, she proved to be a beautiful woman of similar age to Lady Avery, perhaps even a few years older.

  “I am Mrs. Hudson,” she introduced herself, “here on behalf of Sherlock Holmes. Mr. Holmes has an unfortunate condition that prevents him from departing his sickbed. His friends and family must therefore perform the legwork for him.”

  Under any other circumstances, Lady Avery would have immediately inquired as to how exactly Mrs. Hudson was related to Sherlock Holmes, whether she was a friend or a family member. But this morning she was too impatient. “Of course, Mrs. Hudson. I take it you are here on Lord Ingram’s behalf?”

  Sherlock Holmes had consulted for the police before, but Chief Inspector Fowler didn’t strike Lady Avery as the sort to tolerate much input from anyone else on his investigation.

  “Indeed. I would like you to take a look at this young woman and see if you recognize her.”

  She handed over two images which, after a second, Lady Avery realized were portions of postcards.

  “This—” She was so astonished she couldn’t speak for a moment. Postcards! And judging by the girl’s languorously flirtatious expression, what had been on the rest of the postcards would have proven too indecent for public consumption. “This girl saw to me at my hotel in Cowes, on the Isle of Wight.”

  “She was the one who recognized Lord Ingram from a photograph in the paper that she was using to wrap some mementoes you had purchased, am I correct? And who then went on to tell you about the encounter she had witnessed between Lord Ingram and Miss Charlotte Holmes at the tea shop in Hounslow, where she worked during the summer?”

  “Yes. How did you find her? And why is that germane to the case?”

  “I am not at liberty to speak further on the matter. Your confirmation is all I need for now.” The woman rose. “Thank you, my lady.”

  Lady Avery shot out of her chair. “But you must tell me more!”

  Mrs. Hudson turned around and regarded Lady Avery with pity, as if the latter had been had. “I recommend that you remain in town for a few days, ma’am, if you wish to learn more. You will hear from Sherlock Holmes again.”

  * * *

  Sergeant Ellerby rushed into the magnificent entrance hall at Stern Hollow and immediately asked to see Lord Ingram.

  “His Lordship hasn’t come down yet,” said the footman who received him. “And we aren’t to disturb him when he’s in his apartment. But I can ask Mr. Walsh if it’s all right to knock, since it’s for the police.”

  Lord Ingram didn’t strike Sergeant Ellerby as the sort to linger in his rooms, nice as
those were, until almost ten o’clock in the morning. “He hasn’t taken ill, has he?”

  “Not when I last saw him.”

  “And when was that?”

  “At half past seven. Yesterday he asked for a citron tart from the kitchen. This morning I delivered it to the apartment. He looked fine to me.”

  “Well, go ask Mr. Walsh, then. Tell him I have news for his lordship—news he’ll want to hear.”

  News that would make him downright ecstatic, in fact.

  The bomb that had been discovered at Mrs. Newell’s had looked awful enough, but was a dummy that would have never gone off—instead of saltpeter and phosphorus, it had been packed with soot and what most likely would turn out to be baking soda.

  Mr. Holmes had suspected that the cisterns had been tampered with. When they turned out not to have been, it had rather knocked a hole in his theory that someone was trying to frame Lord Ingram. But with the dummy bomb, which couldn’t possibly have been a coincidence, that theory had roared back to life.

  His mind buzzing with ideas, Sergeant Ellerby paced in the entrance hall, under the startled gaze of the constable who had been left on guard. He ought to send out a bulletin to nearby constabularies and enlist their help in locating the other missing body. He could interview all the staff members again and ask if any of them had put the original lock back on the icehouse door. If none had, then it would bolster Lord Ingram’s testimony that he had been the one to do so. He could—

  “Sergeant Ellerby.”

  The speaker was the very grand Mr. Walsh, who made Ellerby far more nervous than did his master. “Yes, Mr. Walsh?”

  “I regret to inform you that Lord Ingram is not in his chambers,” said Mr. Walsh. “Nor anywhere else in the house.”

  Sergeant Ellerby stared at the house steward, who stared back at him—and swallowed.

  It occurred to him for the first time that even Mr. Walsh could turn a nervous wreck, under the right circumstances.

  “Are you sure, sir? His lordship was given specific instructions not to leave the manor.”

  “Unfortunately, I am sure. I have spoken to the outdoor staff. Lord Ingram requested a horse saddled a little after quarter to eight this morning. And neither he nor the horse has returned.”

  But Ellerby had such good news! If only Lord Ingram had been more patient. If only he’d had more faith in the universe.

  And now he was a fugitive. If he never got caught, then perhaps he might be all right. But if he did—

  If he did, he was headed for the hangman’s noose.

  Nineteen

  Chief Inspector Fowler and Treadles arrived at the Hounslow tea shop a quarter hour before the appointed time. But Miss Holmes was already there. Treadles felt his superior’s momentary disorientation. He was a little surprised himself, because Miss Holmes, for this particular interview, had dressed with considerable simplicity.

  No excessive rows of bows on her skirt, no acreage of lace trailing from her sleeves. To him, who had only seen her in splashes of riotous color adorned by a surfeit of trimming, as if her dressmaker had been paid by how much spangle the latter could attach to a garment, her russet jacket-and-skirt set seemed as austere as a nun’s habit.

  Were he to view her from Fowler’s vantage point, however, he would see a young woman attired with tremendous propriety, her eyes clear and somber, her demeanor hinting at a gravitas well beyond her years.

  Another woman, twice her age but still ravishing, had accompanied her to the tea shop. She was dressed with greater flair but in a way that spoke of wealth rather than wildness.

  Treadles was slightly uncomfortable with sitting at a table in public with a woman—or two, for that matter. Things were changing, of course, but for men and women to dine together in public—suffice to say he had never been at the forefront of such changes.

  But it would be worth any amount of discomfort if Miss Holmes would give him a sign that all would be well. That Lord Ingram had not entrusted his fate to her in vain.

  Not a flicker of recognition, however, crossed Miss Holmes’s features—Treadles remembered that by formal rules, they had never even met. The parties presented themselves. Miss Holmes introduced the older woman as Mrs. Watson. “My patroness, for whom I serve as companion.”

  The men exchanged a look. What lady would have a fallen woman as a companion?

  Mrs. Watson smiled and said, “I was an actress and as such, not a very good fit for the very respectable young women who usually seek positions as companions. Miss Holmes and I, on the other hand, are a perfect match.”

  Miss Holmes inclined her head toward her “patroness.”

  Treadles had to marvel at the number of associates Miss Holmes could lay claim to. How did a young woman who ran away from home manage to establish a reliable network in such a short time?

  Tea, sliced cake, and finger sandwiches were swiftly served. They spoke for a few minutes about the weather, and then Fowler got to work.

  “Thank you for meeting with us, Miss Holmes. You have heard of Lady Ingram’s passing, I imagine?”

  “What the papers had to say, yes.”

  With a start, Treadles realized that until she gave this answer, he had not thought of her as Sherrinford Holmes, who had studied Lady Ingram’s body in the icehouse alongside the police.

  “You didn’t hear directly from Lord Ingram?” asked Fowler, sounding dubious.

  “He and I are not in regular contact.”

  Miss Holmes was an extraordinarily efficient liar, every word delivered with naturalness and calm conviction. Gently but firmly, she fended off Fowler’s questions.

  Yes, the meeting with Lord Ingram the past summer, at this very tea shop, had been a coincidence.

  How likely was such a coincidence? No more unlikely than that the waitress who served them should in turn serve Lady Avery at a place hundreds of miles away.

  Hostility on Lady Ingram’s part? Nothing to it. Not being liked by her was the norm—her antagonism was a broad and catholic entity, aimed at no one in particular.

  Did Miss Holmes not feel distraught that her old friend was a prime suspect in the murder of his wife? No, she had complete faith that Scotland Yard would discover the truth.

  “And if that truth should be unfavorable to Lord Ingram?”

  “Then what could anyone do?”

  Treadles could only hope this was not her true sentiment. As delivered, her words fell with a disheartening detachment.

  Fowler leaned forward an inch. “Are you aware, Miss Holmes, that Lord Ingram is in love with you?”

  Mrs. Watson sucked in a breath.

  Miss Holmes, who had known this for days—if not years, as Lord Ingram had declared—remained unmoved. “He has something of a preference for me, certainly. But love? I would have thought he’d had enough romantic love to last a lifetime.”

  Fowler sat back in his chair and regarded her, no doubt recalling Lady Avery’s comment on her oddness. Oddness, what an anodyne term for a woman who might not be entirely human.

  “You are in difficult circumstances, Miss Holmes,” Fowler began again.

  “Am I?”

  This question gave Fowler even greater pause. She did not conduct herself as a woman in trouble. That extraordinary poise, for one thing. For another, Mrs. Watson, her patroness, was clearly a little in awe of this “companion.”

  “As a result of your choices, you can no longer be part of your family.”

  “You have not met my parents, Chief Inspector. I do not know of many who would want to remain a permanent part of their household.”

  “What about your sister?”

  “You contacted me via a cipher I created for the two of us, specifically. I assume you have already met her?”

  “We have.”

  “Did you receive the impression that she blames me for wh
at happened?”

  “No, I did not.”

  “Then in what way am I in difficult circumstances, sir?”

  Fowler couldn’t answer that.

  “No doubt it will be challenging for you to understand, but my fall from grace has opened an entire new world for me. I enjoy my life far more than I ever have. I have the freedom to do as I wish. And I do not suffer from a lack of funds, thanks to dear Mrs. Watson here. Indeed, by my own estimation, I am a woman in an enviable position.”

  Fowler gave his tea a stir. “Very well, then. But would your position not become even more favorable, were you to marry Lord Ingram?”

  “How so? I do not care for Society. I have little interest in household management and even less in childbearing. I am my own mistress right now; why should I take on a lord and master in the form of a husband?”

  “Does Lord Ingram himself not present any attraction for you?”

  “He does, most assuredly. I have propositioned him three times.”

  Even Fowler’s jaw dropped. “Not proposed, but propositioned?”

  “Correct. I thought then and I think now that it would be a fine idea if he were to become my lover.”

  “But you will not marry him, the surest way to turn him into your lover?”

  “No. I want him for one thing and one thing only. That is no reason to marry a man.”

  “And Lord Ingram knows that?”

  Lord Ingram knew it emphatically, but Treadles was breathless to hear how she would answer that.

  “He knows it better than anyone else. But it’s a moot point, whether I will marry him. He will not marry me.”