Murder on Cold Street, page 21
Mrs. Treadles worried her upper lip, her apprehension warring with her need to know. “May I ask what your questions are about, Miss Holmes?”
“I wonder whether it was possible that the loud noise had been produced by none other than Mr. Longstead. If that were the case, I could see he and Mr. Sullivan getting into a heated argument after your departure.”
“What?” The volume of Mrs. Treadles’s voice shot up.
Hastily she glanced around before asking, in a vehement whisper, “Surely you aren’t implying that Mr. Sullivan then killed Mr. Longstead with my husband’s service revolver?”
“If Inspector Treadles didn’t kill them, and as there is no trace of anyone else who did, then we must consider that possibility,” Charlotte pointed out.
There was, of course, the scrap of fabric that had been found on the fence outside 33 Cold Street, which could have been left by the escaped murderer. But they would have a difficult time persuading Scotland Yard of that.
“But then how did Mr. Sullivan die?” Mrs. Treadles demanded, her eyes full of doubt and incomprehension.
“He could have shot himself.”
“No, not him,” said Mrs. Treadles decisively. “If he had shot Mr. Longstead, he would have tried his best to wriggle out of it, not kill himself. There was too much spite and vanity in him to let a moment’s panic bring him to suicide.”
Despite Charlotte’s assertion, the facts were on Mrs. Treadles’s side. The shot that had killed Mr. Sullivan hadn’t been a contact shot. That meant the tip of the revolver had not been pressed against his forehead, which argued much more strongly in favor of homicide.
They were now behind Mrs. Treadles’s house. She opened the back door and asked, in a low, anxious voice, “Have you other theories, Miss Holmes?”
Charlotte shook her head. “None worth mentioning, I’m afraid.”
Mrs. Treadles smiled gamely. “Well, there’s still time. We are still three days away from Christmas.”
She led Charlotte to Inspector Treadles’s dressing room, a neat and well-organized space, so Charlotte could see where his service revolver was usually kept.
Holmes looked down into the drawer. The only item it contained was an unopened box of cartridges, the edges of its wrapping paper still glued together.
“Mrs. Graycott said she told you about Inspector Treadles asking about items missing from the house,” said Mrs. Treadles. “I believe, as she does, that the revolver was missing from before he left on this last trip. As you can see, he didn’t take any rounds. A man intending on using a revolver would have taken rounds.”
There was a note of pleading in her voice, even though she must know that Scotland Yard would simply say he had acquired cartridges elsewhere.
Charlotte closed the drawer. “May I have the letters that he sent you when he was away recently?”
When Mrs. Treadles realized that Charlotte was not going to comment on the cartridges, her eyes dimmed, but she kept her voice even. “Inspector Brighton took the letters. I can give you the envelopes though—I’d already removed the envelopes because I didn’t want the police to see that the locations on the postmarks didn’t agree with what he’d written on the letters themselves.”
Charlotte was by the door, putting on her overcoat—she needed to leave for 31 Cold Street immediately to keep her appointment—when Mrs. Treadles came down with the envelopes. She placed them into her pocket. “Mrs. Treadles, when I spoke with Inspector Treadles this morning at Scotland Yard, he said that Sherlock Holmes would be able to help him by doing what Sherlock Holmes typically did. Would you happen to know what he meant?”
Mrs. Treadles blinked. “Surely, just that Mr. Holmes’s brilliance would prevail yet again?”
They said their goodbyes. Charlotte already had her hand on the door when she turned around and looked Mrs. Treadles in the eye. “I know the situation appears dire, Mrs. Treadles, and time is running out. But much can happen in a few days. Could you have imagined yesterday, or even this morning, when you woke up, that before the end of the day you would have at last gained control over Cousins?
“Similarly, exculpatory evidence is scant now, but it may very well be forthcoming. I may not have a viable theory today, but that doesn’t mean I won’t have one tomorrow. So I ask that you do not torment yourself with worst-case scenarios, but place your faith in those of us working to clear Inspector Treadles’s name. I never promise results ahead of time, but I have always delivered on those results.”
She inclined her head. “A good evening to you, Mrs. Treadles.”
* * *
Livia closed the door of her bedroom and leaned against it, breathing hard.
After Lady Holmes recovered from her stupefaction at having received fifty pounds from Charlotte, of all people, she’d paced in the parlor for a good half hour, pulling her hair out, convinced that Charlotte was under the protection of a man and was, sin of sins, trading her body for pin money.
But half an hour was as long as her moral quandary lasted. After that, her mind made the resolute turn toward how she ought to spend the money and enjoy herself. Dozens of ideas spouted forth from her lips, some dumbfounding Livia.
Wintering in Nice? Did Lady Holmes have any idea how much that would cost? Neither did Livia, to be sure, but she would be amazed if on that gilded aristocratic playground fifty pounds lasted longer than a two bob bit did in their little village.
She said nothing—it was not wise to puncture her mother’s daydreams at their frothiest. But eventually, Lady Holmes’s fanciful notions collapsed under their own weight. She slumped back into her chair. “But I can’t go anywhere, can I? You are still unmarried, still home, and that means I, the responsible mother, am stuck at home with you.”
Livia shot to her feet. A long tirade against her was on its way, waiting only for Lady Holmes’s resentment to escalate to anger. “I still haven’t written a Christmas card to the Openshaws. I’d best go do that right now!” she cried.
And fled.
Livia sighed, her back still against the door of the bedroom, her head in her heads. She’d escaped, for now. But tomorrow the anvil of her mother’s wrath would still fall.
Perhaps she should write a letter to Charlotte. But she didn’t want to tell Charlotte about the disharmony at home that had been brought on by her kindly meant funds.
Not knowing what else to do, she crossed the room and reached into her hiding place for the notebook that contained the last quarter of her story. As she lifted it, a photograph floated down from between the pages.
It was a picture of her, one she’d never seen before. She was seated at a table with glasses of wine and a basket of sliced baguette, her face turned to the side. The lighting was insufficient, yet enough to illuminate the delight on her face.
Her heart clenched.
The week before, in Paris, she and Mr. Marbleton had been able to spend a few hours by themselves, exploring the Jardin des Tuileries and the Sacré-Coeur. He’d carried with him his detective camera, disguised as a thick but not very large book, and used it to take photographs of her.
Afterwards, they’d stopped to refresh themselves at a bistro, its air redolent with the aroma of herbs and warm, bubbling stew. She’d gazed at the crowd outside, rushing to and fro on their own business, and imagined how the boulevard would look come summer, with all the great elms along its length in their full leafy glory.
Life always seemed to abound with possibilities when he was near.
But he was no longer in her life.
His had been the passage of a legendary comet, lighting up entire skies. But comets, however brilliant and extraordinary, are only visitors. They arrive from some mysterious region in the heavens, and disappear there again, leaving behind only dazzling memories.
Yes, she should drown in woe and wistfulness, for what she’d had all too briefly. Yet as she gazed upon her own image, and remembered his mischievous laughter after he’d taken the picture, what she felt was not sadness, but a cold dread that seeped from her heart to her lungs.
Why did she need to be afraid for him? He was a comet, for goodness’ sake.
She put the photograph away and sat down at her desk. But it was a quarter of an hour before she managed to pull herself together enough to resume copying.
* * *
This time, when Miss Longstead received Charlotte, she had on her glasses, wire rimmed with tortoiseshell temples. But the glasses were quickly put into her pocket: Charlotte had come to test her vision under conditions similar to the night of the dance.
Number 31, which in mourning had shut down tightly, now had all the windows on the two lower floors ablaze with light, their curtains drawn apart. Miss Longstead, wrapped in a great black cape, stood in the garden, at the spot where she believed she had been.
Charlotte would ask her to close her eyes. When she opened her eyes again, Charlotte would have a trial ready for her. Sometimes Charlotte sent a manservant to stand before the back door of number 33, sometimes a maid, sometimes no one, and sometimes two servants at once. Miss Longstead squinted but correctly identified the gender of the person or persons at the back door, except once, when a maid and a manservant stood in a line and she thought only the maid was there, because her dress had a bigger silhouette. She also said so when no one had been sent to stand before the door.
After Charlotte was satisfied that she could trust Miss Longstead to be right about what she’d seen that night—a woman going into number 33 from the back—she thanked the servants. Mrs. Coltrane, on hand to observe the proceedings, shepherded them back into the house. Charlotte marched farther into the garden to thank Miss Longstead.
“No, Miss Holmes, I should thank you for being so thorough,” she answered. And then, with her voice lowered, even though there was no one else within earshot, “Have you made any progress?”
There was no mistaking the anxiety in her question. “You are worried for Inspector Treadles.”
Miss Longstead nodded tightly. “Mrs. Treadles is a lovely woman—I really don’t want the murderer to be her husband. And the inspector himself has been very kind, too. When we dined together, he took the time to ask about my experiments in depth.”
And if Inspector Treadles hanged for Mr. Longstead’s murder, would the two women ever be able to see each other again?
“I’ve learned some things,” said Charlotte. “But I’m not sure how they fit together. Perhaps you could help me. Do you have time to take a round in the garden?”
Miss Longstead set her hands over her heart. “Oh, I was hoping you’d say that. It has been awful, staring at the four walls of my room. I don’t know why being grief-stricken has to equate to being house-bound, but Mrs. Coltrane said it wouldn’t do for me to be abroad so soon after my uncle’s passing, even if it was only to walk in the park by myself.”
Charlotte thought the young woman might have a difficult time of it, especially with her laboratory, where she had spent significant hours of the day, destroyed on that same night. Charlotte herself, amazingly enough, had had enough tea and biscuits and needed some exercise before she felt virtuous enough for dessert at dinner.
The garden grew darker—the curtains of number 31 were again drawn, the lights in the unoccupied rooms dimming one by one.
“Miss Longstead, in your view, is there any chance that your uncle was killed because of his support for Mrs. Treadles?” asked Charlotte, as Miss Longstead guided her onto a garden path.
Miss Longstead reached inside her pocket, pulled out her glasses, and put them back on. “I can see Mr. Sullivan killed for such a reason, perhaps. But my uncle didn’t know how to play games.”
“He didn’t need to have been playing games. He could have been killed for the sincerity of his support with regard to Mrs. Treadles.”
They passed near a brilliantly lit house, its light reflecting in the lenses of Miss Longstead’s glasses. “I—I don’t think so.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t doubt the depth of his sympathy for Mrs. Treadles’s plight. Nor do I doubt the integrity of his character—he would never have supported her to her face and then stabbed her in the back. But—” She exhaled. “If I were Mrs. Treadles, I would have found his support—”
Miss Longstead’s pace slowed. Her gloved hands, held before her diaphragm, twisted together. “I don’t know how to say it without sounding as if I disapprove in some way of this wonderful man who raised me with all the diligence and attention I could have asked of a father. But you see, my uncle, he was a very successful man. He worked hard and was properly rewarded for his hard work. Life was fair for him and so he believed that it is fair for everyone—that if they would do as he did, they would achieve the same satisfying results.
“Persist, he told Mrs. Treadles. Have patience. Good things will come. His advice was not wrong. But he failed to consider that when he’d worked hard, he’d had old Mr. Cousins for his partner, old Mr. Cousins who had been a vigorously honorable man, keen on making sure my uncle received his rightful share of the profits. Mrs. Treadles, on the other hand, had to work with Mr. Sullivan and his cohorts.”
She said this last sentence in the same tone another person might have used to say, Mrs. Treadles, on the other hand, fell into a pit of vipers. Charlotte was already under the impression that she didn’t care for this cousin. But it seemed that Miss Longstead didn’t merely dislike Mr. Sullivan—she despised him.
“So, in your opinion, Mr. Longstead’s support of Mrs. Treadles, while genuine, was insufficient,” said Charlotte.
“Yes, but not by intention.” Miss Longstead rearranged her cape around her shoulders, as if it was causing her to be uncomfortable. “He didn’t understand his own position of power—the reverence with which he was regarded both inside and outside of Cousins. Mrs. Treadles didn’t want to dismiss all the men who opposed her, because she was worried about what that would do to the company, especially given that she is a woman. But if he’d stood by her and done the sacking with her, she would have been shielded from most of the consequences.
“That didn’t happen because he saw himself only as an old retiree who no longer had shares in the company, someone who ought not to agitate for major changes. He was genuinely kind to Mrs. Treadles, but he never gave her the kind of support that would get him killed.”
She tried to keep her voice uninflected, but Charlotte heard the frustration she must have felt. Charlotte recalled that the Longsteads had dined with the Treadleses twice in the past month. It would appear that after dinner, when the ladies customarily withdrew to the drawing room, leaving the gentlemen behind to enjoy a glass of port, the two women had engaged in discussions having to do with Mrs. Treadles’s situation.
The path wended around a cluster of trees. “There!” said Miss Longstead. “That’s my uncle’s favorite spot in the garden.”
Charlotte could make out the ground swelling into a small knoll.
“You probably can’t see it,” continued Miss Longstead, “but there is a bench on top of the rise, and he loved to sit on it in summer. Some of our neighbors were equally keen to occupy that seat. And there was eventually a meeting held among its devotees on how to equitably divide time on the bench.
“That was seven years ago. Afterwards I called the gathering the bench conclave. My uncle enjoyed that name so much that he adopted it, too, and we began to refer to the bench conclave as if it were a watershed event in our lives. ‘Do you remember when that happened?’ I’d ask him about something. And he’d say, ‘Oh, that was a good fifteen years before the bench conclave.’”
She laughed softly to herself, but the last note of her laughter sounded like a sob.
Charlotte looked down at the path and waited until it turned. “Mrs. Treadles has told me that Mr. Sullivan was a false friend to her. He pretended to be sympathetic, but was in fact actively undermining her efforts at taking control of her own company. Do you think it was possible that your uncle learned about this, and confronted Mr. Sullivan?”
“And Mr. Sullivan killed him?”
“Let’s set aside who killed whom for now. We are still trying to find an understandable motive for why your uncle and his nephew have both been shot dead. Are you aware of any tension between Mr. Sullivan and Mr. Longstead, old or new?”
“My uncle was indifferent to Mr. Sullivan,” said Miss Longstead, still sounding mystified at the direction of Charlotte’s inquiries. “I believe Mr. Sullivan resented him for that, but that had long been the case.”
“Why did Mr. Longstead not like Mr. Sullivan?”
“Mr. Sullivan, as a young man, tried to flatter my uncle. My uncle did not care for flattery; he considered it an offshoot of chicanery.”
Charlotte pressed her point. “Since your uncle already did not like Mr. Sullivan, what was to prevent that casual dislike from sharpening into loathing, should he learn of what happened between Mr. Sullivan and Mrs. Treadles?”
Miss Longstead stopped. “Did Mrs. Treadles tell my uncle anything?”
“No, she said that she never told anyone anything until the police started asking questions. But your uncle could have perceived it, no?”
Miss Longstead shook her head vigorously. “My uncle was a simple man. It was his great virtue. But it was also . . . his great limitation. He was such a decent man, and life had been so decent to him, that he often did not perceive things, even if they were blindingly obvious to others.”
“Such as?”
Miss Longstead resumed walking, but did not answer Charlotte’s question. They covered nearly half the length of the garden before Miss Longstead said, “I think—I think I can trust you, Miss Holmes. I don’t know you very well but I feel that you are not a person given to . . . preconceived notions.”
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