A Study In Scarlet Women (12 page)

“We changed the bedding frequently,” said Mrs. Cornish, not without a note of pride.

Another avenue of inquiry shut off. But Treadles was a patient man. He would find his openings.

“Will you take your tea now, Inspector, Sergeant?” Mrs. Cornish went on.

“We will,” answered Treadles. “Most kind of you, Mrs. Cornish.”

The housekeeper hesitated a moment. “Inspector, Sergeant, you are visitors to this house and by rights ought to be received abovestairs. But I wouldn't feel right sitting down in the drawing room . . .”

“We'll use the drawing room for our interviews but we'll be happy to take tea where you'll be comfortable, Mrs. Cornish,” said Treadles.

They had tea in Mrs. Cornish's small office, next to the storeroom. Two-thirds of the entire floor was below ground level, but enough light came through windows set high on the wall that the room didn't feel subterranean.

Mrs. Cornish poured tea. Treadles took the opportunity to ask some questions. From the preliminary report, he already knew that Mrs. Cornish had been at Curry House the longest, fourteen years, taking over the housekeeper's position while the former Mrs. Curry was still in residence.

Mrs. Cornish confirmed that, as well as information about the rest of the staff. The cook, Mrs. Meek, was the newest, arriving on
the Devon Coast little more than a month ago. There was also a valet, a housemaid, a kitchen maid, and a lad who looked after both the garden and the horses.

With the exception of the valet, Hodges, the servants were paid by the owner of the house, who charged higher rents for a property that came with a full implement of competent staff. Mr. Sackville's solicitors had agreed that his estate would continue to foot the lease—and Hodges's wages—until their client's death had been properly investigated.

Treadles didn't doubt the lawyers were irked when the inquest didn't immediately return a verdict of accidental overdose.

“Will you tell me something of Mr. Sackville's daily routines?” he asked Mrs. Cornish.

Mrs. Cornish did so readily. On an ordinary summer day, Mr. Sackville would have taken his morning cup of cocoa in bed at half past six. Then he bathed and dressed. At quarter past seven he rode. Breakfast was at half past eight, when he returned. He liked to spend some time in his study after breakfast. Luncheon was at one. He often went for a long walk afterward, returning home to take tea at half past four, and dinner at eight. Twice a month he traveled to London after luncheon and didn't return until tea time the next day.

Inspector Treadles knew about the London trips from the preliminary report—Constable Perkins of the Devon Constabulary had been thorough at his task. He also knew that the visits were a source of curiosity in the village. Some thought he went to visit friends, some speculated that he gambled, and a few more were of the opinion that Mr. Sackville simply wished to get away regularly—that they would, too, if they had his wealth and freedom of movement.

“Do you happen to know, Mrs. Cornish, what had been his purpose for those trips?”

“Not at all, Inspector.”

“He did not speak of them when he returned?”

She shook her head. And of course a self-respecting servant would never think to interrogate her employer on his private affairs.

“Which train did he take?”

“The 3:05 from Barton Cross.”

Barton Cross was the next nearest village. Treadles had studied the local railway timetable. The 3:05 from Barton Cross didn't arrive on a mainline until almost four o'clock in the afternoon. And even if Mr. Sackville caught the next express to London, it would be well past business hours by the time he pulled into Paddington Station.

Not the kind of itinerary a man would choose, if his primary intention was to see his agents or solicitors.

“Did he always leave on the same days?”

“The second and fourth Thursday of each month.”

The London theatrical season ran from September to the end of July. But the regularity of Mr. Sackville's visits didn't suggest the jaunts of a theater lover. It also seemed unlikely that he went to see friends—members of his social class congregated in London during the Season and spent the rest of the year in the country, where the air was far more salutary.

“You are certain London was his destination, Mrs. Cornish?”

“Mr. Hodges said so. He went through Mr. Sackville's pockets before his clothes were sent out for laundering. And he always found punched tickets issued from Paddington Station, from Mr. Sackville's return trips.”

Mrs. Cornish blushed slightly, as if embarrassed that she'd gossiped about her employer with the valet.

“I see. I understand Mr. Sackville's London trips became a little more irregular in the weeks before his passing.”

“Gastric attacks,” Mrs. Cornish replied with great authority. “They happened twice in April. Once he never left the house, the
next time he began to feel poorly while he was on the train. He got off at the next station and spent the night at the railway hotel.”

This was in accordance with what the ticket agent at the Barton Cross railway station remembered.

“A fortnight after that he did go.”

“He did, but he came back the next morning, earlier than usual. And two weeks after that he didn't go at all, even though he was well.”

“Were those two times in April the only occasions he suffered from gastric attacks?”

“No, Inspector. He'd had them for as long as I've worked for him. I think there was once before when he didn't go to London because he wasn't feeling up to it.”

Once in seven years and then twice in a month. Curious. Not curious enough to suggest outright foul play—the nature of random events was that they were random—but noteworthy, nevertheless. “Did he say anything about why he came back early that time in May?”

“No, he didn't.”

“How did he appear when he arrived back at Curry House?”

“He kept to himself that day and didn't want to be disturbed.”

“He also went to church, I understand, before he returned home that day. The vicar saw him, as well as some other villagers.”

This for a man who had never attended service the entire time he had resided at Curry House.

“I heard the same.”

“Were you surprised the Thursday a fortnight later, when he didn't head for London at all?”

“I . . . I was, but not terribly so.”

“Why not?”

“He had a resigned air about him.”

This had not been part of the village gossip. Inspector Treadles frowned slightly. “How resigned?”

Mrs. Cornish thought for a moment. “Disheartened, I'd say. Restless, too. His habits used to be regular. But in those last few weeks, he'd disappear a whole day at a time. And once he came back drenched in rain—and it'd been raining even when he left.”

The information did not bode well for Sherlock Holmes's conjecture. The relevant dates for Mr. Sackville failed to line up with Lady Amelia's sudden death, which came too late to explain his downheartedness. The most likely hypothesis would be that Mr. Sackville had a mistress in town whom he visited with clockwork regularity. And then what happened? Had she left him for greener pastures? Or perhaps accepted a proposal of marriage from another smitten man?

It was hardly unheard of for a man in the throes of heartache to be overly generous with substances that offered him a few hours of oblivion and forgetfulness.

Inspector Treadles pressed on. “Please describe for me the household activities in the twenty-four hours preceding Mr. Sackville's death.”

“There isn't much to tell, Inspector. It was a half day. I had the Anglican Women's meeting in the afternoon. Then I went to Bideford, had myself a spot of tea, walked around the shops a bit, and came back at half past seven. Everyone else returned a little before eight—except Mr. Hodges, he was out on his annual holiday.

“We had our supper in the servants' hall and then brought back the dishes from the dining room—on half days Mrs. Meek, the cook, left Mr. Sackville a cold supper. At nine I took him a cup of tea, a plate of biscuits, and the evening post and asked if there would be anything else. He said no, I might retire. And that was the last I saw him conscious.”

“Can you recall what came in the post for him?”

“A magazine or two and maybe a few pamphlets—he liked to send for those from time to time,” Mrs. Cornish said rather reluctantly, as
if finding it distasteful to admit that she'd guessed the contents of her employer's mail.

“And how did he look?”

“A bit tired, but not in a way to alarm anyone.”

Had he any idea those would be his final hours?

“You were at the inquest. You heard the letter read from Mr. Holmes, connecting Mr. Sackville's death to those of two ladies in his circle. What did you think of that?”

“I'm sure I don't know what to think of it at all,” answered Mrs. Cornish, her expression as circumspect as her words.

“Have you ever heard Mr. Sackville mention either Lady Amelia Drummond or Lady Shrewsbury?”

“No, sir.”

“Did he write to them?”

“I have never seen an envelope with either of those names.”

“Whom did he correspond with?”

“His lawyers, mostly.”

“And the morning of the discovery? Please give an account.”

Mrs. Cornish thought for a moment. “Before Mr. Hodges went on his holiday, he gave the task of Mr. Sackville's morning cocoa to Mrs. Meek. But that morning she was busy in the kitchen so Becky Birtle, the housemaid, carried it upstairs.”

“According to Becky Birtle's testimony at the inquest,” said Treadles, “she set down the tray and wished Mr. Sackville good morning. And when he didn't respond, she spoke louder. And when he still didn't respond, she shook him by the hand, only to feel that his hand was alarmingly cool.”

Mrs. Cornish nodded, her brow furrowed. “She went to Mrs. Meek—and Mrs. Meek came to me. The three of us went to Mr. Sackville's room together. He was still breathing then. Mrs. Meek said it didn't look good for him. Becky started shaking. I ran to find
Dunn in the stable. He rode to the doctor's house, but Dr. Harris wasn't home. He had to ride another four miles to Barton Cross to fetch Dr. Birch.

“When Dr. Birch finally came and examined Mr. Sackville, he asked me whether Mr. Sackville used chloral. I said I'd seen some about. He said that if he'd had a better description of Mr. Sackville's condition, he'd have brought strychnine. He and Dunn rushed off to Dr. Harris's house, raided his dispensary, and came back with strychnine. But by then it was too late. Mr. Sackville, he'd stopped breathing several minutes before.”

Mrs. Cornish's voice quavered slightly at the end of her recital.

“I have an unpleasant question that must be asked,” said Treadles. “Do you know of anyone who might wish Mr. Sackville harm?”

“No!” The housekeeper's answer was instant and fierce, the strongest reaction they'd seen from her this day. “No one. Well, certainly not anyone in these parts.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Cornish. I have no further questions for you at the moment,” said Treadles.

Mrs. Cornish inclined her head, her breaths still noticeably shallow.

“The next person I'd like to see would be Becky Birtle, the maid who found Mr. Sackville,” Treadles went on. “But Constable Perkins reported that Becky Birtle is no longer at this house. Can you elaborate on that, Mrs. Cornish?”

“The whole thing upset the girl terribly. And the letter from that Holmes man even more so. After the inquest she begged to be let go so she could return to her parents. She's still a child and I didn't have the heart to say no.”

There was a faintly mulish set to Mrs. Cornish's mouth, as if daring Inspector Treadles to question a decision she'd made out of compassion.

“Of course you were right to think of her, Mrs. Cornish,” he said mildly, rising. “Sergeant MacDonald and I will remove to the drawing room upstairs. Please inform Mrs. Meek that we would like to speak with her next.”

Mrs. Meek, the thinnest cook Inspector Treadles had ever come across, turned out to be a much more voluble witness.

“I think it was food from the pub—those two gastric attacks in April. You see Mrs. Oxley, who was cook here before me, she had to leave end of March to look after her orphaned nieces. Until I came, folks here had to make do with what the inn could supply. Now Mrs. Pegg at the inn is a fine woman and serves ample portions, but her food is a bit rough around the edges, if you know what I mean.

“But me—before I came here, I worked at Mrs. Woodlawn's Convalescent Home in Paignton. For ten years I did nothing but cook for ladies with the most worrisome digestions in the whole country. I'm proud to say that Mrs. Woodlawn's was awful sorry to see me go—I helped make the reputation of her establishment.”