The Hollow of Fear: Book three in the Lady Sherlock Mystery Series

by Thomas, Sherry

  Lord Ingram picked up a paperweight from his desk and turned it around in his hand. “If I were to think of it at all, I would be struck by how grandly and inhospitably strange the world must appear to Charlotte Holmes.”

  Charlotte had originally planned to inquire at nearby railway stations as to whether any coffins had recently arrived. But by the time she reached the village, she had changed her mind.

  A coffin coming to a small community invited questions. Who was inside? Where would the burial take place? How was this person related to local residents? All inquiries that those transporting murder victims on the sly would not want to answer.

  She next thought to check with station porters for trunks that weighed more than a hundred pounds. But those might appear suspicious, too. Worse, they might prove memorable.

  Crates, then. People expected crates to be heavy. Not to mention, so many things were shipped in crates they would arouse no more curiosity than a . . .

  “Sir? Sir? May I help you?”

  She started, but it was only the station agent. She realized that she had been standing four feet away from his window for several minutes, caught in her own thoughts. She stamped her feet—the train shed shielded the platform from the rain tapping at the roof, but not from the cold, which seeped in patiently, inexorably—and approached the man.

  “Yes, you may, my good man.”

  “Excellent. Where are you headed? Miserable day to be out, isn’t it?”

  Perhaps he was loquacious by nature; perhaps sitting inside a small brick box all day long, on this not-at-all-busy platform, had given him a hunger for conversation. In either case, he was exactly what Charlotte was hoping for.

  “Miserable day, indeed,” Charlotte agreed heartily. “I wouldn’t mind sitting by a fire with a hot toddy in hand, I tell you. Anyway, Sherrinford Holmes, at your service.”

  “Wally Walpole, at yours.”

  “I just came from Stern Hollow. You’ve heard what happened?”

  Wally Walpole’s eyes widened with both dismay and the anticipation of gossip. “Terrible, terrible thing. And she such a beautiful young woman, too.”

  “A tragedy, no doubt. But now we must find out what happened. I’ve been tasked by Lord Ingram’s family to investigate on his behalf. I understand that some crates headed for Stern Hollow came through here recently.”

  Wally Walpole blinked, not quite seeing the connection between crates and Lady Ingram’s sensational death. But that did not prevent him from answering Charlotte’s query. “Yes, two large crates. I had to sign for them, since they were put into the station’s care. But that really wasn’t necessary. Lord Ingram’s lads were already here, waiting.”

  “How did they know to come?”

  “From what I understand, the London agent of the company that sells the equipment sends a note around and tells Lord Ingram when his orders are expected to arrive.”

  “So the lads show up and you have a chat.”

  “Not too long, since they do have work to do.” Wally Walpole sighed with regret. “But yes, a bit of a chat.”

  Since he seemed in dire need of company, Charlotte related some of what had been going on at Stern Hollow, nothing any of the servants wouldn’t have been able to tell him, had they come through the railway station. He listened with his mouth half open, his throat emitting occasional gurgles of disbelief.

  When she judged that she’d given him enough, she paused, as if remembering something. “By the way, the two crates you mentioned, were those the only ones that came for Lord Ingram recently?”

  Wally Walpole’s eyes lit up. “Funny you should ask.”

  One of the reasons Chief Inspector Fowler, the Bloodhound of the Yard, had come by that moniker was his legendary ability to sniff out a valuable witness from a mere bystander.

  That ferocious instinct was on display when he and Treadles interviewed the outdoor staff. As he had done with the indoor staff and the guests, Fowler spoke to them in groups. This time, however, when he had seen everyone, he asked to see one particular gardener again.

  The young man trudged back inside the blue-and-white parlor, and immediately glanced at Treadles, as if seeking reassurance. He appeared scared and, Treadles had to admit, guilty.

  Of something.

  “Mr. Keeling,” said Fowler coldly, “I don’t think you’ve told us everything you know.”

  Keeling looked to Treadles again.“Best answer the chief inspector’s question,” Treadles said. “No use trying to hide anything.”

  “I’m not. I don’t know anything about how Lady Ingram died.”

  “Maybe not,” said Fowler. “But you know something. And that something you know might prove useful to us.”

  Keeling, perspiration already beading on the tip of his nose, mulishly shook his head.

  Fowler rapped his knuckles against the arm of his chair and looked meaningfully at Treadles. Treadles grimaced inwardly. Everyone always said he had a kind, trustworthy face, which meant that when hardnosed old coppers wanted someone to ease a witness into compliance, Treadles was their man.

  He leaned forward in his seat. “A woman who hasn’t been seen for months turns up dead on her husband’s property. Whom would you suspect, Mr. Keeling?”

  “I don’t think it’s Lord Ingram.”

  “I don’t think it’s him either. I know the man—we’ve been friends for years. But this isn’t looking good for him. If you know of something that might help . . .”

  “I don’t know anything that’d help. At least, I can’t think how it would help. I only know something strange.”

  “Something odd would be a good place to start.”

  “But if I tell you, I’ll get into trouble.”

  “I’m sure Lord Ingram will compensate you for that trouble, should it come to that.”

  Still Keeling hesitated. “I’m not the only person who’ll get in trouble.”

  Treadles was beginning to understand his reluctance. “If something were to happen to Lord Ingram, his children would go to live with a guardian, and this place will most likely be shuttered until Master Carlisle comes of age. In which case, most of the staff will be let go. Have you thought of that?”

  Keeling shrank. “Will that really happen?”

  “I’m hoping to prevent that. You like it here?”

  “I do.”

  “And you would like for things to stay as they are?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then let me hear what you’re holding back. I promise you won’t regret it. And I promise to protect the other person who is involved in this story from any and all repercussions.”

  “That’s a real promise?”

  “A real promise.”

  “What about—the chief inspector over there?”

  “My father was in service. I understand it’s a difficult life,” said the “chief inspector over there.” “I am not here for you or whatever minor infractions you might have committed. I am here to find out what happened to Lady Ingram. That’s it.”

  Keeling swallowed. “There is—someone who works in the house. We try to see each other, but it’s not easy. Used to be I snuck into the house. It’s a big house and most of the time, most of the rooms don’t have anyone in them.

  “But the last time we met in the house we were almost discovered. She said no more. I was scared witless myself, so I agreed. But then, one day, Finney came to see Mr. Dean, the head gardener.”

  “Finney being the kitchen helper who first discovered Lady Ingram?”

  “That’s him. There was going to be a dinner in the big house that night and he needed to get into the icehouse. But the French cook gave him the wrong key. He was afraid of the French cook, so he came to Mr. Dean to ask for his copy. Mr. Dean didn’t know Finney—he’d just started that week—so he gave the key to me and I went with Finney to the icehouse and showed him how to chisel out ice.

  “Later, I started to think that the icehouse would make for a good place to meet. The outermost chamb
er didn’t feel any colder than outside.”

  “Still pretty uncomfortable in this weather for disrobing,” Fowler pointed out.

  Keeler flushed. “We don’t disrobe.”

  “Ah,” said Fowler.

  “No, I meant, we don’t do anything of the sort. We just want to be alone and talk.”

  “What do you talk about?”

  “She can paint beautiful miniature portraits from people’s photographs. And I—” He flushed again. “I write poems. We talk about the day when we can have a small studio. The portraits would be the main draw, of course, but I can write a few lines of verse for each picture, something the clients won’t be able to get anywhere else. Those would make for one-of-a-kind engagement gifts.”

  Treadles smiled. Most of the time, a revelation such as Keeling’s did not involve aspirations that were almost adorable in their wholesomeness. “I like that plan. Now go on, about the icehouse.”

  Keeling relaxed a little. “Day before yesterday, we were supposed to meet there after tea.”

  Not a bad time. Keeling’s own work would have finished by then. Assuming that his sweetheart was a housemaid, her work would be behind her, too. And the work in the kitchen would be in full swing, any foodstuffs needed from the icehouse fetched hours ago.

  “I always go to the icehouse first, to make sure no one is around. If it’s safe, I tie a handkerchief on the branch of a nearby tree. But that day, when I tried to unlock the door, my key wouldn’t go in. It was a bit dark by then, so I tried a few more times before I knelt down to take a good look. And it wasn’t the same lock that had always been there.”

  Treadles’s heartbeat quickened. “No?”

  “No. My uncle was a locksmith—he died when I was fourteen and his widow had to sell the business. But even if I’d never been his apprentice, I’d have known that it was a different lock. Different shape, different weight, different everything.”

  “Did you try to open it?”

  “No. Once I realized it was different, I got scared that we’d been discovered and this was a warning. I ran down to the tree. She was just coming then. I told her that the lock had been changed—that maybe someone knew about us. We agreed that we shouldn’t meet for some time. She went back to the house and I went to my room above the mews.”

  “And there to spend a restless night?”

  “Well, no, I saw her at supper in the servants’ hall, but we didn’t speak. And then a restless night.”

  “What did you think when you learned that Lady Ingram’s body had been found in the icehouse?”

  “I was confused. Nobody mentioned a new lock. This morning I got up early, picked the lock of the cabinet where Mr. Dean keeps his keys, and checked the copy I’d made against his. He still had the same icehouse key as from before. And I’m sure he’d have been given a new key if the lock change had been official.”

  Treadles glanced at Fowler, who did not seem remotely displeased by the news.

  Any time his superior took pleasure in a development, it could only be bad news for Lord Ingram. And now that Treadles had tacitly yet indisputably sided with Lord Ingram, Fowler’s pleasure felt like a punch in the gut.

  “Thank you, Mr. Keeling,” said Chief Inspector Fowler. “You have been most helpful.”

  13

  Sherrinford Holmes marched into the library at Stern Hollow.

  Despite the direness of his situation, Lord Ingram had to suppress an urge to smile.

  By and large Charlotte Holmes was unhurried in her ways. Unless one knew, for example, the fiendish speed at which she read or that she needed only three seconds of observation to extract all pertinent life facts from a stranger, it was easy to mistake her for a creature of languor, or even indolence.

  The character she had created in Sherrinford Holmes, however, spoke at a rapid clip and walked with a bounce in his step. And was a far more affable soul than she had ever been. In fact, if Lord Ingram didn’t know any better, he might not find the chap comical at all. A bit peculiar but obviously a man of intelligence, discretion, and unimpeachable loyalty.

  “Already back?” said Lord Ingram, rising. “I expected you to be out for longer.”

  “Come with me,” said Holmes.

  Lord Ingram did not hesitate.

  In the vestibule a footman waited with hats, overcoats, and gloves. Mr. Walsh, the house steward, was also there, alongside Sergeant Ellerby.

  “Do you remember the two crates of expedition equipment you received a few days ago?” asked Holmes, shrugging into a caped coat.

  Lord Ingram nodded.

  The crates had arrived on the day Charlotte Holmes and Mrs. Watson toured the grounds of Stern Hollow. While he and Holmes were walking about in the kitchen garden, she had asked why he hadn’t gone on any digs. And he had pointed to the lavender house, where his staff had just finished stowing the crates, which he hadn’t bothered to open and examine, archaeology being the last thing on his mind these days.

  “Well, according to the very helpful gentleman at the village station, one more crate arrived for you the next day. Do you know about that?”

  His heart thudded. “No.”

  She turned to the majordomo. “What about you, Mr. Walsh?”

  Mr. Walsh’s eyes widened. “Now that you mention it, Mr. Holmes, I do recall being informed about an additional crate. It was the day Mrs. Newell and her guests arrived. Carts and carriages were pulling up to the house one after another with guests, luggage, and food for the kitchen. When the crate came, the two men who brought it said that a mistake had been made on the part of the equipment company and that they’d forgotten to include a few items, which was why the crate was being delivered all the way to the house instead of the railway station.”

  “At what time did the delivery come?” asked Lord Ingram, his heart beating even faster.

  “Toward dusk. Or perhaps a little later. Since your lordship hadn’t wished to bother with the other two crates, I had someone show the men directly to the lavender house. I meant to inform you, but it was a bit of an uproar that evening. I did remember twice the next day, but the first time you’d taken the gentlemen out to shoot and the second you were resting and had asked not to be disturbed. And then—and then the matter with the icehouse, and I’m afraid the additional crate completely slipped my mind.” Mr. Walsh’s complexion had turned a thoroughly perturbed pink. “My apologies, sir.”

  “I would have paid no mind to the crate even if you had mentioned it,” said Lord Ingram. “No need to dwell on it further.”

  He had no idea what he would have done had he been told, but no point saying anything else to the steward. He turned to the policeman. “Sergeant, Mr. Holmes and I are headed for the lavender house. Would you care to come with us?”

  Sergeant Ellerby, in fact, had no choice but to come with them. When Lord Ingram had gone for his ride earlier, he’d discovered that henceforth either Sergeant Ellerby or one of his constables must accompany him every time he stepped out of his own front door.

  “I would be honored, sir,” answered Sergeant Ellerby, with great sincerity.

  And gratitude.

  This gave Lord Ingram pause.

  Sergeant Ellerby had been mortified when he’d informed Lord Ingram of the curtailment to his freedom. And now he was relieved that an invitation had been issued, so that he didn’t need to officially insert himself as an unwelcome minder.

  Lord Ingram supposed he could be forgiven for thinking that deep down Sergeant Ellerby believed him innocent.

  But Sergeant Ellerby didn’t know him as a person. His faith might be nothing more than a reluctance to attribute true darkness to a man who lived in an earthly Eden. Or even a tribal allegiance to the local squire, against barbarian outsiders from London.

  No matter the sergeant’s reasons, Lord Ingram found himself grateful. From the moment Lady Somersby had barred him from descending into the ice well, he had understood that he would be the prime suspect in this murder. But intellectual kno
wledge was scant preparation for the reality of the investigation.

  There was Chief Inspector Fowler, of course, all lupine ferocity behind his owlish mien. There was Inspector Treadles, radiating discomfort, vacillating between sympathy and dismay. But the worst was the collective uncertainty of his staff. More than anything else, their unspoken misgivings made the air in the house heavy and the silence oppressive.

  They still believed in him—they desperately did not want him to be the murderer—but they were beginning to wonder whether they knew him as well as they had thought they did.

  Had it been twenty-four hours since Finney, the young kitchen helper, had run screaming out of the icehouse? Already, not being a murder suspect felt like a mythical state of bliss for which Lord Ingram could only yearn in hopeless futility.

  The rain was now an inconsistent drizzle, but the temperature continued to drop. A gloom had settled over Stern Hollow. What daylight still remained suffered from a watery pallor, a grayness that stripped all vibrancy from even the gaudiest stretch of autumn foliage.

  They were halfway to the lavender house when Sergeant Ellerby at last asked, “If you don’t mind, Mr. Holmes, why are we headed out to see a crate of expedition equipment?”

  Holmes pulled down the flaps of her deerstalker cap—Lord Ingram’s deerstalker cap, in fact. It fit her well and he liked seeing it on her. “If I may be frank, Sergeant, it’s obvious that Scotland Yard suspects Lord Ingram.”

  “I’m sure it’s far too early to come to any conclusions,” protested Sergeant Ellerby. “Lady Ingram’s body was only discovered yesterday.”

  “We thank you for your impartiality, sir. And I can truthfully say that no one was more flummoxed by Lady Ingram’s untimely death than my friend here. Set aside the fact that his house swarms with investigators and the papers in London are saying goodness knows what, the whole thing has been incomprehensible from an operational point of view.

  “Lady Ingram did not return to Stern Hollow at the end of the Season. She hasn’t been here this autumn. How did her body end up in the icehouse? If we assume that she didn’t travel here under her own power while she was still alive, then somebody else had to have transported her body. How did they do it?”