But everything had changed in a single day. He was no longer a married man. And at any moment he could lose his freedom—and possibly his life.
He did not move again. Not because he might startle her—she had ever been imperturbable in these matters. But because he was startled. He had thought he knew everything there was to know about his desire. Had considered it, so long fettered and trammeled, as tame, or at least manageable.
When it had always been feral. Primal.
Her lips touched his nape, just above the rim of his collar. He spun around, cupped her face, and kissed her on the mouth, a kiss that he might never be able to stop.
She was the one who eased them apart—and combed her fingers through his hair. “You are welcome to stay.”
He rested his forehead against hers. He wanted to. Badly. But not with his wife’s body still in the icehouse. “Tomorrow.”
“Then get some sleep. You must be exhausted.”
He’d taken a nap in the afternoon—and had slept like the dead until he was awakened to meet a frantic Miss Olivia Holmes. Still, he found himself swaying on his feet.
“Good night,” he murmured, kissing her on the cheek. “Scotland Yard arrives in the morning.”
Her lips curved, a barely-there smile. “Let them come,” she said. “And let them do their worst.”
9
Ironic that Treadles entered Lord Ingram’s home for the first time not as a friend but a policeman.
It was also the first time that he investigated the death of someone he had met.
A few months ago, in the course of a different investigation, he had walked past Lord Ingram’s town house in London. At the same time, Lord Ingram had emerged from the house and Lady Ingram from her carriage. The greeting between the two had been so aloof that Treadles, who had never seen Lady Ingram before, had almost mistaken them for strangers who happened to cross paths. There had been none of the smoldering tension that one sometimes encountered between former lovers, only a void, a complete absence of affection.
On that day he’d understood why Lady Ingram never attended her husband’s lectures or accompanied him on his digs. On that day he’d also understood that he’d never be invited into Lord Ingram’s home, as long as Lady Ingram, who took no pleasure at all in meeting him, drew up guest lists and seating charts. Not that he’d expected or even wished for such an invitation, his station in life being so far inferior. Nor would he accuse her of any particular snobbishness; her dislike of him had been impersonal, indifferent, a mere reflection of the vast distance between her husband and herself.
It was the first and last time he saw Lady Ingram alive. He had left the encounter deeply saddened, but without the slightest premonition that tragedy would strike within months. Or that suspicions would fall squarely upon Lord Ingram.
“Lovely,” murmured Chief Inspector Fowler, when the manservant who greeted them had gone to inform the master of the house of their arrival. “As immaculate as the grounds.”
The entrance hall was white-and-gold marble. Fluted columns soared forty feet to a blue cupola. An avenue of statues led toward a grand double-return staircase.
“That is a Rubens. Those two are Rembrandts, if I’m not mistaken,” said Fowler, squinting through his wire-rimmed spectacles at paintings on distant walls. “And the three over there should all be Turners. We could be looking at a spectacular collection, Inspector.”
Although Treadles had acquired a decent education in the history of art through his wife, he ventured no opinions of his own, beyond an “I’m sure you are right, Chief Inspector.”
Fowler might appear friendly, even genial at times, but Treadles had learned not to trust that seeming affability. There was something predatory about him, a too-strong enjoyment in the nabbing of suspects. It was likely the man had no interest at all in justice, but only in the exercise of power.
And now he had Lord Ingram in his sights.
The manservant returned to lead them to his master. Beyond the entrance hall they crossed a picture gallery, three-stories high, glass-roofed, and dense with oils and sculptures. Fowler shook his head in admiration, whether at abundance of artwork or the soaring architecture Treadles couldn’t be sure. Perhaps both.
Treadles had known that Lord Ingram was well-situated in life. But well-situated could mean a prestigious title and not much else. He’d had no idea of the depth and extent of his friend’s wealth.
If he had, would that have prevented him from forming this friendship? Would he have been too conscious of his own ordinary origins?
They were brought to a two-story library that must house a collection of at least ten thousand volumes. Books lined all four walls. And the ceiling had been painted with a trompe l’oeil mural that made it seem as if the shelves reached up all the way to a bright blue sky, where chiton-clad philosophers from Classical Antiquity looked down in benign amusement.
On this cold morning, all three fireplaces in the library had been lit. By the largest fireplace stood Lord Ingram, somehow not at all dwarfed by the scale and magnificence of his home. He didn’t look very different from how Treadles remembered him, but there was a grimness to the set of his features, a resolve that implied not so much confidence as a willingness to endure.
Treadles had debated, before boarding the late train, whether he ought to cable Lord Ingram. He’d decided against it—he would be arriving at Stern Hollow in an official capacity. And Lord Ingram would have already been told to expect Scotland Yard.
As Lord Ingram’s gaze landed on him, however, he felt a rush of self-reproach, as if he had sneaked in and been discovered.
Nothing to do now but be the policeman he was.
Lord Ingram nodded with perfect correctness. “Good morning, Inspector Treadles. A pleasure to see you again.”
“Likewise, my lord. May I present Chief Inspector Fowler?”
Fowler half bowed.
“Welcome to Stern Hollow, Chief Inspector,” said Lord Ingram. He gestured at a man who had been studying what looked to be a large map of the estate when the policemen arrived. “Gentlemen, this is my friend Mr. Sherrinford Holmes. Holmes, Chief Inspector Fowler and Inspector Treadles of Scotland Yard.”
At the sound of “Holmes,” Treadles glanced sharply at the rotund, dark-haired young man, all monocle and exaggerated mustache.
Mr. Holmes bowed with a flourish.
Small talk was exchanged, on the policemen’s journey, the weather, and the general efficacy of local constables.
“A county sergeant who knows enough to immediately send for Scotland Yard is, of course, always a praiseworthy one,” said Mr. Holmes, smiling.
“Oh, I shall not disagree with that,” said Fowler, with an unforced heartiness.
Treadles, on the other hand, wondered whether he heard something in Mr. Holmes’s tone—not snide, merely amused.
Finally, Lord Ingram stated the purpose of the gathering. “I understand, gentlemen, that you would like to see the body.”
Fowler did not immediately answer. Instead, he studied Lord Ingram, who met his gaze steadily. Treadles held his breath. Mr. Holmes, however, didn’t seem the slightest bit concerned—Mr. Holmes who had never seen Chief Inspector Fowler at work.
After what seemed an interminable interval, Fowler said, “Yes, we would. Thank you.”
“I will show you to the icehouse,” said Lord Ingram with the evenness of a man with a clear conscience.
Or so it sounded to Treadles. Would Chief Inspector Fowler hear in that levelness of voice a clever murderer who had every confidence he would emerge unscathed?
“I have asked Mr. Holmes to accompany us,” Lord Ingram went on. “This is a difficult time and I find myself in need of support, both moral and practical. I hope you will indulge me in this, gentlemen.”
His words had the gloss of a request, but they were, in fact, an announcement. Mr. Holmes was coming with, and that was that.
“Certainly, my lord,” answered Fowler, with apparent ge
nerosity.
Mr. Holmes paired up with Fowler; Treadles had to walk alongside Lord Ingram. Behind them Mr. Holmes answered Fowler’s questions in a pleasantly baritone voice, though his enunciation wasn’t as clear as Treadles expected, almost as if he spoke with a piece of boiled sweet in his mouth.
Indeed, his lordship and I have been friends since we were children.
Yes, I knew her ladyship, too. What a sad and terrible fate for such a beautiful woman.
Oh, I happened to be in the neighborhood and thought I’d put myself at his lordship’s disposal. Between you and me, Chief Inspector, I suspect he’s letting me help more to be kind than because he believes I’ll be of any actual use.
There was something odd about Lord Ingram’s friend, which had little to do with his almost coxcomb-ish appearance. Something contradictory yet strangely riveting. Despite the gravity of the situation, Treadles found himself wanting to stare at Mr. Holmes until he figured out what it was about the man that snared his attention like an itch in an unscratchable place. Failing that, since Mr. Holmes was currently behind his back, he listened to the latter’s conversation with Fowler with far more attention than necessary.
Mr. Holmes began to question Fowler on the latter’s customary practices at cases out of town. Treadles became aware that he hadn’t spoken at all to Lord Ingram—and the length of his silence must border on unseemly. “My condolences, my lord,” he said hastily, reddening.
“Thank you, Inspector.”
“And the children, are they all right?”
“They are with my brother, and they have not been told yet.” Lord Ingram exhaled. “So as of the moment, they are all right. But they are living in a soap bubble, and a storm of needles is on its way.”
“I’m very sorry for their loss.”
Lord Ingram exhaled again.
What had happened? How had everything gone so wrong? Not long ago Treadles had looked upon his friend with wholehearted and limitless admiration—that is, before he had learned the truth about Sherlock Holmes.
He caught himself. So often these days his thoughts began and ended with before he had learned the truth about Sherlock Holmes. And it was only recently that he had become aware of each instance.
Sherlock Holmes was not the First Coming. No one ought to reckon their days from her emergence on the scene. Not to mention, Lord Ingram’s alienation from his wife had begun years ago. Treadles should have perceived sooner that all was not well.
But he had liked the idea that the great manors of the land housed harmonious families who embodied all the virtues that should naturally be present in lives so far removed from the strife of poverty and the narrowness of commerce.
Sometimes he needed that to be true. He encountered so much greed, stupidity, and ugliness. All that was base and tainted in human nature begged for a counterpoise in nobility and loftiness of character.
Before he had learned the truth about Sherlock Holmes, he had thought he had found such an ideal in Lord Ingram.
He winced at the direction in which his thoughts had once again strayed.
“Ah, that must be the icehouse,” said Fowler.
Treadles was not intimately involved in the management of his household, but he knew that in warmer months, ice was delivered in blocks and kept in an ice safe. His late father-in-law, though a wealthy man, had not, as was often the case of those making a fortune in the Age of Steam, acquired a country house.
He had, therefore, no firsthand knowledge of how an estate dealt with the large amounts of ice required for its operations. Even after Fowler had pointed out the proximity of the icehouse, it took Treadles a moment to realize that he meant the grassy mound they were approaching.
He understood, from speaking to Sergeant Ellerby, that the previous day had been unseasonably warm. But overnight there had been a hard frost and the turf was encased in a crystalline membrane of ice that crunched audibly underfoot.
They rounded the mound, which wasn’t the perfect hemisphere it appeared from the south, but more the shape of a pear, sliced in half along the length and tapering to the north. The entrance was located at the slenderer end, guarded by a police constable jumping in place to keep himself warm. At the approach of Scotland Yard, he saluted.
Chief Inspector Fowler didn’t enter the structure immediately but made another slow tour of the exterior, Mr. Holmes in his wake. Treadles consulted a diagram that had been provided by Lord Ingram. The icehouse was built on a gentle slope to facilitate drainage, and the surrounding earth had been raised to insulate the most critical section, a brickwork, double-walled conical shaft with an interior diameter of ten feet at the top.
According to the diagram, at the bottom, the ice well narrowed to an opening two foot across, stoppered by a reed-covered grate, through which the melt seeped into an underground channel that conducted it, past an air trap, to the estate’s own small dairy, keeping milk, cream, and butter cool.
The chamber that contained the ice well was finished with a double-walled domed roof, which was then blanketed by turf, making the icehouse appear a part of the landscape to anyone who didn’t know what to look for.
When Fowler was ready, the constable unlocked the door.
“I’ll wait for you outside,” said Lord Ingram.
“And Mr. Holmes?” asked Fowler.
“Oh, I’m coming with,” Mr. Holmes answered brightly. “Cheerio, Ash.”
The first antechamber was a small, narrow tunnel, barely high enough for a grown man to stand straight. To Treadles it didn’t feel perceptibly cooler than outside—in fact, shielded from the wind, it was more pleasant in temperature, if less fresh in the quality of its air.
The second antechamber was colder but not remarkably so.
Chief Inspector Fowler sniffed. “Doesn’t smell much like a latrine, does it?”
“No,” said Treadles.
Apparently the three ladies who had come through the icehouse all reported a foul odor in this particular antechamber—so foul that Lady Avery and Lady Somersby, while waiting for the police, had decided to wedge all the doors open to let the stench out.
The kitchen boy hadn’t reported any odors. Then again, he’d suffered from a stuffed nose and hadn’t been able to smell anything at all.
“I wonder about the reek the ladies noticed,” murmured Mr. Holmes. “Curious, isn’t it?”
When they reached the third antechamber, the cold bit into Treadles’s face. He wound his muffler tighter about his neck.
The space, which functioned as a cold larder, was both wider and higher than the two previous ones. To the left hung game birds, sides of beef, and other butchered carcasses that he, not having spent much time in the country, couldn’t readily identify. To the right, neat shelves held fruits, vegetables, and cheeses. Overhead, cured hams and sausages swayed gently from Fowler’s exploratory touches.
In the middle of the antechamber lay an overturned wheelbarrow, the handle of which had fallen in such a way as to tip over a bucket of milk. Or so Scotland Yard had been informed—Sergeant Ellerby had allowed for the spill to be cleaned up.
The entire structure was windowless. At the opening of each door they had to light tapers. Inside the domed space that held the actual ice well, several lanterns had been brought in to add to the luminosity of the wall sconce.
Treadles lit all the light sources and then hastened to put his gloves back on. The cold of the ice chamber grew denser and sharper with every passing minute.
The initial report gave that Lady Ingram was lying atop a layer of wood shavings. Treadles had expected to find her halfway down the ten-foot-deep ice well; instead she was only eighteen inches or so below floor level, a great deal closer than he had anticipated.
“This is ice from last winter? Did it not melt at all?” he marveled.
“The construction here appears superb. And the bigger the volume, the longer the ice stays frozen,” said Fowler. “Icehouses are usually built to hold enough ice for two years, in case an
y single winter is too feeble for proper replenishment.”
“You are knowledgeable about icehouses, Chief Inspector,” said Mr. Holmes.
“My father was in service, a member of the outdoor staff. It was among his duties to cut ice from the pond and resupply the icehouse.” He indicated Lady Ingram with his walking stick. “At least ten inches of wood shavings on top, I’d expect. A good thing for us, or her ladyship would be stuck to the ice and we’d have a devil of a time getting her out.
“In fact, even less ice has melted than you suppose, Inspector. Some would have been removed for use.” Fowler turned to Mr. Holmes. “Would you agree, sir?”
“I would indeed. Although recently the need for ice have been minimal. The family—and a good portion of the staff—left for London shortly after Easter. Normally, upon their return, there would be guests. But this year, given Lady Ingram’s absence, there have been none. Until now.”
Mr. Holmes gave an absent-minded pat to his ample stomach. “I spoke to the staff. Before yesterday, the last time anyone came to fetch ice was when Lord Bancroft visited, some five weeks ago.”
Treadles jotted down a reminder in his notebook to ask the servants to confirm this. Even though he wanted Lord Ingram cleared of any wrongdoing, he did not entirely trust Mr. Holmes,
“My wife enjoys perusing fancy housekeeping books,” said Fowler. “If you listened to her, you’d think that in manors like this one, iced puddings and fruit ices are served year-round.”
“It’s expected that when a dinner is given, in town or in the country, that some kind of ice—or a number of them, depending on the scale of the occasion—will be served,” answered Mr. Holmes. “And that is what ‘fancy’ housekeeping books concentrate on, those instances intended to impress others. But when people dine en famille, it’s a different matter.
“In the case of Stern Hollow, Lady Ingram grew up in a household where ices were seldom served and never developed a taste for them. Lord Ingram is in general not particular about his food. As for the children, ice cream—or ices of any kind—is an occasional treat rather than an expected item in the nursery.”
The Hollow of Fear: Book three in the Lady Sherlock Mystery Series Page 11