Her reply came sixteen days later—yes, he’d counted—and was almost identical to his in tone, a summary of books she had read in recent months on pedagogical theories and practices, and then the casual conclusion that she believed she would make a fine headmistress at a girls’ school.
He wrote back and told her that he’d never met any girl who made him think less of a headmistress, followed by his observations, only partially related to the subject, on how boys in a resident house organized into factions and cliques.
She admitted in her next letter that she wanted to be a headmistress less out of a desire to influence young minds than because a headmistress could command up to five hundred pounds a year. And by the way, she did not understand people as well as she ought to and found his anthropological account of the behavior of boys very helpful.
After that they wrote weekly. It had come as a minor shock, when he’d met her in person again, to realize that their regular and sometimes voluminous correspondence would not translate into conversation, that silence would still be the order of the day. But sliding back into silence had not been difficult or uncomfortable.
That correspondence continued without interruption—even when they were together, they would hand each other letters—until their quarrel over the future Lady Ingram, with Holmes warning darkly against believing in the illusion of the perfect woman. He’d stopped writing until he’d returned from his honeymoon, euphoric in the knowledge that he was about to be a father.
In subsequent years, their epistolary exchange remained regular as clockwork, but without a single reference to his inner turmoil, not through the disintegration of his marriage, and certainly not with the suddenly piercing understanding of what he felt for Holmes—what he had always felt for her.
The correspondence faltered again when she ran away from home. And after Lady Ingram’s departure. He had stared at a blank page many times, with no idea what to write, now that his hesitation was the only thing that held them back from becoming more than friends.
Now they were more than friends.
Now every hour without her was an eternity.
Wait, he told himself, staring into the night. Patience.
But he had already exhausted a lifetime’s supply of patience. Had already held himself back for ages beyond count. And he had no more restraint left, no more willpower.
Only need.
It was past midnight, when Inspector Treadles arrived in London. The house he walked into was dark, silent. Lately it had not seemed quite his own, as if it no longer belonged to him, or he it. But tonight—tonight he felt as if he’d come home.
Alice was already in bed, asleep. He laid down beside her and stared up, Charlotte Holmes’s words echoing in his ears. You have an open, amiable mien, which might lead those speaking with you to expect understanding. And yet your judgment is such a pointed, implacable thing, as if you are the personification of the larger world they have known, the one that has thwarted them at every turn.
Did this also happen to his own wife? Frustrated with her father, who, though a good man, an excellent man, had refused to ever entertain the idea of giving her the reins to Cousins Manufacturing, she had fallen in love with a man she believed to be different, only to realize that of the two, her father had, in fact, been far more broad-minded.
When had she realized that?
It struck him that she had known it for a while, for a long time, possibly since before she married him—and that was the reason she had never mentioned her erstwhile ambitions.
Then why had she married him?
She loved you, you idiot, said a voice inside him.
Perhaps she’d convinced herself that they could still be happy together. Perhaps she’d believed that since she would never helm Cousins Manufacturing, he would never see—or disapprove of—that side of her. Or perhaps she’d thought that if they dealt well for some time, he would come to trust her enough to see that ambitions or not, she was still the same woman he loved.
But she had been mistaken.
And how had she lived with his judgment, which he’d thought he’d kept to himself, but which, as Charlotte Holmes had pointed out, was anything but discreet or subtle?
His misery was like shards, cutting through every organ and nerve. He felt as if he didn’t know anything anymore—as if he’d never known anything at all.
In despair he turned to Alice and placed an arm around her.
She had her back to him. They used to sleep all entangled in each other, but as distances had grown elsewhere, the same had happened in bed, until they each slept facing a wall, a trench of empty space between their backs.
He laid his forehead against her shoulder and breathed in the scent of her skin. Alice, who had realized he was not the man she had hoped he would be, and loved him anyway.
She sighed and turned toward him.
The next moment they were kissing, as wildly as if this had been their wedding night.
And everything that followed was just as untrammeled.
Livia was an early riser. Though it was still dark outside, she’d already been at her desk for hours, wrestling with the second part of her Sherlock Holmes story.
The nameless young man’s eagerness to read her work didn’t make the work any easier. But it did make her more willing to bash her head on that particular wall a few more times.
She’d just finished a new précis of the plot when a commotion erupted on the floor below. Mrs. Newell herself came knocking on her door.
“Oh, my dear, I’m afraid that I’m once again the bearer of ill news.”
Livia’s ears rang. Lord Ingram. No! “What—what’s going on?”
“You will not believe this, but they discovered a bomb in the coal cellar.”
“A what?”
“Not to worry, we aren’t in any immediate danger. The bomb is in the kitchen’s coal cellar and that’s a fair distance from the house.”
“Oh,” said Livia, but her hands still shook.
In the past few years, Irish republicans had placed dozens of time bombs all over Britain, especially in London—explosions as a form of political expression seemed a permanent fixture of modern life. But all the ones Livia had heard of, whether they’d gone off or been defused, had targeted places of strategic importance. Military barracks, railway stations, newspaper offices, and such. In the only instance she could recall of a private home as a target, the home had belonged to a member of parliament who strenuously opposed Irish Home Rule.
“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.”
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,” sai
d 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.
19
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.
The Hollow of Fear: Book three in the Lady Sherlock Mystery Series Page 25