A Study In Scarlet Women (11 page)

Charlotte was vaguely aware that she was drifting along the street. At some point she might have entered Mrs. Wallace's boarding home. Did someone attempt to speak to her? She had no idea. Nor could she be sure whether she had responded.

She did remember locking the door of her room before she lifted up a wide band of lace ruffle on her skirt to check the opening of the pocket. It had two buttons, both securely fastened when she'd left the house. Now one button was open, leaving more than enough room for small, nimble fingers to reach inside and extract the pound note.

Which accounted for nearly forty percent of her remaining funds.

All at once she became aware that someone was banging on her door. “Miss Holmes. Miss Holmes!”

She opened the door to Mrs. Wallace's resident sycophant. “Yes, Miss Turner?”

“Miss Holmes, are you suffering from deafness? I spoke to you downstairs—you didn't even react. And I've been knocking for at least two minutes now.”

“Is everything all right?”

“Mrs. Wallace would like a word with you in her parlor at the earliest possible moment,” said Miss Turner with a smug mysteriousness.

Why would Mrs. Wallace wish to speak with Charlotte? She was paid up until the end of next week and she had come nowhere near the house rules, let alone broken any. “Certainly. I'll be right down.”

At the far end of the corridor was a simple galley, open for two hours every afternoon, where Mrs. Wallace's boarders, who weren't allowed to do more than boil water in their rooms, might fry some sausages or heat up tinned beans to have with their tea. Today someone had scrambled eggs and the rich aroma made Charlotte's stomach tremble in longing. She had skipped both lunch and tea—an unprecedented event in her life.

Her brain was dull from hunger. When she looked at Miss Turner, she saw few of the details that usually leaped out at her, except to note that the woman, a good fifteen years older than Charlotte, was practically skipping down the stairs.

A gong went off in her head. When a woman who adored authority and revolved as close to power as she could became this excited, it was probably because authority and power were about to be put to use—to someone else's detriment.

To Charlotte's detriment.

Mrs. Wallace had a small apartment on the ground floor, consisting of a parlor, a bedroom, and most likely a private bath. This apartment was accessed via a corridor that led out from the common room. A door barred the way a few feet into the corridor. On the
wall next to the door was a bell and next to the bell a sign that read,
PRAY DO NOT RING AFTER 8 O
'CLOCK IN THE EVENIN
G, EXCEPT IN CASE OF
EMERGENCY.

The door had been left ajar. Miss Turner ushered Charlotte past to another door, which led to Mrs. Wallace's parlor.

Charlotte had stepped into the parlor once before, for her initial interview with Mrs. Wallace. She had been very ladylike and Mrs. Wallace had declared herself pleased to offer the vacancy to Miss Holmes.

But this Mrs. Wallace did not look at all pleased with Miss Holmes. Her expression was forbidding, which seemed to only further excite Miss Turner.

“I've brought Miss Holmes, ma'am,” she announced breathlessly.

“Thank you, Miss Turner,” said Mrs. Wallace. And then, after a moment, when Miss Turner showed no inclination to depart, “I will see you at supper.”

“Of course, ma'am.”

When she was gone Mrs. Wallace commanded, “Have a seat, Miss Holmes.”

Charlotte sat down—then stood up again. She walked to the door and yanked it open. Miss Turner stumbled into the parlor, unembarrassed. “Do excuse me. I wanted to ask Mrs. Wallace a question about her policy for the washings. I'll come at a more convenient time.”

Charlotte accompanied her as far as the barricading door in the middle of the corridor, which she locked before coming back into the parlor and closing the door firmly behind herself.

She did not bother to take a seat again. “Is something the matter, Mrs. Wallace?”

Mrs. Wallace considered her a minute. “Miss Holmes, you have deceived me.”

Charlotte took a deep breath. “Have I?”

“Miss Whitbread's cousin, Miss Moore, called on her this morning—and saw you leave as she came in. Miss Moore works at a Regent Street dressmaker's and told me that she had seen you more than once at Madame Mireille's.

“Unfortunately she also told me that you are not Caroline Holmes of Tunbridge, a typist newly arrived in London, but Charlotte Holmes, daughter of Sir Henry Holmes, who was recently caught in a compromising position with a married man. Do you deny that?”

How ironic. Mrs. Wallace's establishment in the West End had not been Charlotte's first choice. There was a more highly recommended place in Kensington and Charlotte had passed on it because she hadn't wanted to run into anyone she knew. West End, a relatively safe, well-maintained district, with a large population of doctors and other professionals, but with Society having decamped decades ago to more fashionable addresses further west, promised greater anonymity.

It would appear that she had chosen badly in everything.

“Well, Miss Holmes?”

“I can see that your mind is already made up, Mrs. Wallace. Any denial on my part would only lead to further accusations of dishonesty.”

“In that case I have no choice but to ask you to leave immediately. I must have a care for the reputation of my establishment. This is a house of virtue, of good Christian respectability. There is no room for you, Miss Holmes. There never was.”

“Very well. You will have no trouble from me, Mrs. Wallace. Return me the sum I've paid in advance, minus the portion deducted for the nights I've spent here, and I'll be gone within the hour.”

“I'm afraid I will be keeping your rent.” Mrs. Wallace's tone was firm. “You were plainly informed that any misrepresentation or misconduct on your part would lead to a forfeiture of rent already paid.”

Charlotte folded her hands together. “Then what about misrepresentation on your part, Mrs. Wallace?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“You said that this is a house of virtue, of good Christian respectability. But you yourself entertain, on a regular basis, a man to whom you're not married.”

Mrs. Wallace recoiled. “Where did you hear such a malicious rumor? I will have you know—how dare you—” She paused to exhale. “I will have you know there are absolutely no such shenanigans going on here!”

“I must disagree. You have a strict no-gentlemen policy for the house. Your boarders, even if they have brothers or fathers in town, are expected to meet them at tea shops and other such venues. In the common room there are no antimacassars on the furniture, yet in this, your own private parlor, I see an antimacassar on every chair except one, yours.”

“Some women do use macassar oil in their hair,” Mrs. Wallace said heatedly.

Charlotte scanned the room and made for a door to her right. Beyond the door was a small anteroom, with a mirror, an umbrella stand, a coat tree, and, of course, a doormat.

She looked back at Mrs. Wallace, who was beginning to look hunted. “True, some women do use macassar oil. But why would a woman leave muddy prints in the shape of a pair of men's shoes on the doormat just inside the private entrance to this apartment?”

Charlotte walked across the room to Mrs. Wallace's writing desk. “Furthermore, you are right-handed, but the ink blotter was on the left-hand side of the desk when I came for my interview. You had asked me to write down the name and address of my next of kin, in case of emergency. As I stood over your desk, almost directly above the wastepaper basket, what had I seen but a rectangle of discarded
blotting paper, with the words
Cordially yours, George Atwell
, in reverse, just discernable at the corner.

“I asked then whether you had any family in town or visiting regularly. You replied that your parents are no more and that your only surviving sibling, a sister, lives with her husband and daughter in India. Mr. Atwell, therefore, cannot be a father or a brother. And unless you are impersonating a man by post, a problematic activity in itself, Mr. Atwell sat here at this very desk recently and dashed out a message before he left.

“That was when I decided to look for the private entrance I knew must exist. And when I found it in the alley behind the house, what should I see, almost directly opposite, but the service door to Atwell & Dewsbury, Pharmaceutical Chemists.

“I visited the shop and met Mr. Atwell. When I mentioned that I am a new boarder at your establishment, he had nothing but the most effusive praise for you as a woman of substance and character. It really is too bad that he is already married.”

Mrs. Wallace's face turned red, then pale, then splotchy. “Unfounded accusations, one and all.”

“Perhaps. But your other boarders will no doubt be curious as to the reason behind my hasty departure. I can disseminate a great many unfounded accusations during the hour you allotted for my packing.”

“You—you would destroy my reputation as you destroyed your own?”

“To the contrary, I have no intention at all of besmirching your good name, publicly or privately—notice I kept Miss Turner of the long ear and eager tongue far away from our conversation. I know nothing of Mr. Atwell's domestic situation, but it is evident he and you have arrived at a comfortable state of affairs. There is your ongoing chess game in the corner. The bottle of Pimm's on the shelf you probably enjoy together. And I can see him reading those William
Clark Russell sea novels, should you be busy with business matters in the evening. I would not wish for anything to upset your cozy arrangement.

“But in return, I'd like you to extend a similar consideration to me. You should be able to deduce that I am in difficult circumstances. I will not blackmail you to let me remain under your roof—you do have your reputation to consider—but it is reasonable to ask for the rest of my money back.”

Mrs. Wallace's jaw worked. A second later she rose, unlocked a drawer under the writing desk, took out a cash box, and returned Charlotte her money.

Charlotte pocketed the coins carefully. “Thank you, Mrs. Wallace. Your secret is safe with me. And . . . if I were you, my next move on the chessboard would be king rook to b4—if you wish to win, that is. If you prefer to let Mr. Atwell win, put your queen rook pawn to a5.”

D
EVONSHIRE

E
ven in death, Mr. Harrington Sackville was a handsome man.

He was fifty-five, but his salt-and-pepper hair was still thick, his waist still trim, and his musculature that of a man twenty years younger. There was a bluish cast to his skin, but not so much that Inspector Treadles couldn't tell that in life he had enjoyed a hale complexion, lightly tanned from time spent outdoors.

His expression was solemn. Peaceful. Had he died of natural causes, his would have been a much-admired corpse at the funeral, eliciting genuine lament that a man of such health and vigor should have been taken so abruptly.

Dr. Merriweather, the pathologist who was frequently engaged by the coroner's district for his medical expertise, trailed behind Treadles and Sergeant MacDonald, also of the Criminal Investigation Department, as the latter two made slow circles around the body.

“As you can see, Inspector, there are no signs at all of a struggle. No bruises around the throat or anywhere else on the skin. No wounds or injuries. And since chloral was the culprit, I made a careful inspection of the entire body. There isn't a single puncture mark to
suggest the use of a syringe. Nor is there any evidence that chloral was administered rectally.”

The pathologist's tone was professional and brisk. But Treadles heard a trace of vexation—that what should have been a straightforward inquest returning a verdict of accidental overdose had been unnecessarily prolonged by the involvement of that busybody Sherlock Holmes.

And now, of Scotland Yard.

At the same time, however, Treadles discerned a hint of excitement. Dr. Merriweather, like most men, was intrigued by the possibility of a truly unusual crime, one so subtle that even someone of his considerable knowledge and experience could not identify, let alone fathom, it.

Treadles had confessed the same excitement to his wife. What he had not told her was the tremulous hope in his heart that such a closely watched case—the C.I.D. had been bombarded by reporters hounding for the latest developments—might make his name known to the public. He cared little for fame, but he wanted those friends of Alice's who had become mere nodding acquaintances after her marriage to a policeman to read about his exploits in their morning papers. They would never envy her, but perhaps someday they would no longer disdain her for her choice of mate.

He knew that she had no regrets about becoming his wife. He only wanted that she never would.

“And chloral is absolutely the culprit?” he asked.

“Absolutely,” said Mr. Smythe, the young chemical analyst for the county. He hadn't Dr. Merriweather's detachment before dead bodies, and had remained in a corner of the room as the policemen and the pathologist inspected the cadaver, but now he warmed up to his subject and launched into a detailed explanation of the tools and procedures used to ascertain that it was not chloroform or antimony
found in the tissue, but chloral hydrate and only chloral hydrate. “I performed the assays myself, each step repeated multiple times. There can be no mistake.”

“Thank you, Mr. Smythe,” said Treadles. “And thank you, Dr. Merriweather.”

Dr. Merriweather was correct: there was no trace of foul play to be seen on Mr. Sackville's body. And Treadles had no reason to doubt that the enthusiastic Mr. Smythe wasn't just as meticulous at his work. From afar it had been easy to imagine all kinds of overlooked details that, once observed, would lead clearly and triumphantly to a conclusion of criminality. But up close such had not turned out to be the case at all. In fact, Mr. Sackville's death appeared more and more what it had seemed at first glance: a simple matter of accidental overdose.

He sighed inwardly—so much for his dreams of a most publicized success.

Well, on to the house.

Per Treadles's request, a capable constable had been dispatched to Curry House—and the nearest village—to gather general information ahead of Scotland Yard's arrival. The report had been waiting for Treadles when he reached Devon, as had a copy of the official transcript from the inquest.

Mr. Sackville did not own Curry House. It belonged to a widow named Mrs. Curry, who, upon remarrying and becoming Mrs. Struthers, moved to her husband's home in Norwich and put up the house for let.

Seven years had passed since Mr. Sackville took over the lease of Curry House. No nearby squires, however, could claim anything beyond a nodding acquaintance—Mr. Sackville had been a recluse. That said, he'd enjoyed a gentlemanly reputation in the area: He might not have cultivated close ties with anyone, but he was never
too proud to acknowledge the villagers he came across on his walks, be they vicars or simple farm wives.

And though he had not participated in the civic life of the village, he could be counted upon to give generously to any and all causes, whether it was for a new altarpiece in the old Norman church, coal and windows for the village school, or funds to purchase titles for the circulating library.

He was, in other words, not beloved, but respected and admired. No one thought it particularly odd that he chose to keep to himself; the great families of the land were well-known to produce eccentric sons.

Not that the villagers knew which great family had produced Mr. Sackville—they had no copy of
Debrett's
to consult. It was simply their instinctive conclusion that his origins lay not with the gentry, but the nobility.

Curry House, too, added to that impression.

The Devon Coast was a lovely place. The cliffs that met the sea were high and dramatic—an almost startling reminder that Britain was but an island. The headlands along this stretch of the coast were a green patchwork of fields and sheep-dotted pastures. Curry House stood one and three-quarter miles outside the village of Stanwell Moot and was reached by a narrow path, hemmed in on both sides by hedges of hawthorn and field maple.

The house was relatively recent, built at the beginning of the century, with a slender, almost delicate silhouette, its stucco exterior bright white under the sun—and impossibly clean against a backdrop of limitless blue skies. The two policemen were more accustomed to the soot and grime of London, where it was easier to find a unicorn than a set of such immaculate walls. Sergeant MacDonald whistled softly.

Inside, the house was no less immaculate: clear, white-framed
windows, pastel blue walls, and thick oriental rugs adding a welcome splash of color and texture. The woman who received them could not be said to be as elegant as her surroundings: Mrs. Cornish, the housekeeper, had a ruddy complexion and a somewhat lumpy build. But her black dress had been skillfully pressed and her large, white cap perfectly starched.

Not as elegant, but certainly as spotless.

After politely inquiring into their trip, she offered them tea. Inspector Treadles accepted, but asked to see the house first, particularly the bedroom in which Mr. Sackville had drawn his last breath.

The airy refinement of the house extended to the upper story. Mr. Sackville's bedroom commanded a spectacular panorama of the coast—the house was less than half a mile from the sea and boasted one of the highest vantage points in the surrounding countryside.

“A most favorable view,” murmured Treadles.

Sergeant MacDonald nodded. “Probably why the house was set here in the first place.”

Treadles turned his attention to the room itself. “Are these the same sheets on which Mr. Sackville died?”

“No, Inspector. The sheets have been changed. But they haven't been sent out to launder yet.”

“I will need to see them. And the rest of the room has been cleaned too, I suppose?”

“Yes, Inspector. Top to bottom, on the day itself.”

Had Mr. Sackville died of natural causes, he might have been allowed to remain undisturbed on his deathbed for a while—or transported no further than the dining room table and laid out. But such had not been the circumstances and a conscientious housekeeper, faced with an unexpected death, had no doubt wished to return the house to its usual state of order and orderliness.

Treadles could not argue with the caretaker of a fine property
duly discharging her duties, no matter how much he wished the room had been better preserved.

He and Sergeant MacDonald examined the windows and asked Mrs. Cornish about the various ways one could enter the house. She was certain that Mr. Sackville's windows had been closed that night, as after dinner there had been a thunderstorm. The exterior of the house, smoothly plastered, would have been difficult, if not impossible, to climb up.

“Were the windows firmly latched?”

“Yes, Inspector. I unlatched them to air the room after Mr. Sackville was taken away.”

“And where does he keep his supply of chloral?”

Mrs. Cornish opened a nightstand drawer to reveal a small vial with two white grains inside.

“This was the quantity of chloral left the day of Mr. Sackville's death?”

“Yes, Inspector. Dr. Birch asked to see it and I remember this was how much was left inside then.”

On top of the nightstand were several very recent periodicals—everything from literary weeklies to penny dreadfuls—Mr. Sackville had a catholic taste. “Did these come by post?”

“Yes, Inspector.”

They moved to the other upstairs rooms. Besides the private facilities, there were two more bedrooms, a sitting room, a study, and the valet's room. “Mr. Hodges lives up here because we are all women below,” Mrs. Cornish explained.

Treadles nodded. “The windows in these rooms were also secured that night?”

“I unlatched them the next day—we aired out the entire house.”

Her responses were concise and to the point—Mrs. Cornish was not a talkative woman. But something in the way she held herself—a
tightness in her jaw, the hard clutch of her fingers around one another—belied her apparent composure.

She was deeply unsettled to be speaking to the police. But whether it was because the entire affair was upsetting or for some other reason, Treadles could not decide.

“And the doors?”

“I check them every night at nine.”

“Is it possible for someone to slip into the house unnoticed before nine o'clock?”

“I suppose it's
possible
.” But her tone indicated that it was so improbable, the very thought was ridiculous.

If the deaths of Mr. Sackville, Lady Amelia, and Lady Shrewsbury were related, then an outsider—or more than one outsider—must be involved. But that theory of interconnectedness appeared ever more tenuous, now that Treadles had seen for himself the isolation of the house—and of the nearest village. This was the kind of place where a stranger would be immediately noticed. Or, likewise, a local doing something out of the ordinary.

Tourists did come through the area, tramping along the edge of the coast and taking in the views. But the preliminary report listed only two sets of guests at the village pub-and-inn in the preceding week: a traveling photographer and his assistant, who had stayed overnight and left five days before Mr. Sackville died, and some friends of the vicar's brother, who'd come with the brother for a visit and slept at the pub, rather than cramming into the crowded vicarage.

Treadles and MacDonald were now back on the ground floor. “Would you mind showing us the rest of house, Mrs. Cornish?”

Kitchen complexes at large country houses were often separate from the main building, to reduce the risk of fire. Here, however, the kitchen was on the ground floor, separated from the drawing room and dining room by two sets of heavy, green baize–covered doors.
The corridor led past the larder, the pantry, and the scullery before coming to the kitchen proper.

Stairs at the end of the corridor led down to other domestic offices, as well as to the servants' hall and staff quarters. Mrs. Cornish showed Treadles where the linens from Mr. Sackville's bed had been stowed, and they might as well have been freshly laundered, given how pristine they were.