Page 97 of A Conspiracy in Belgravia
It had been more than twelve hours and Inspector Treadles still didn’t know how he felt about the Richard Hayward murder case having been declared closed from above.
On the one hand, damned interference. On the other hand, now he no longer needed to find out whether he was a craven weasel who would lie to make himself look good.
On the third hand—clocks possessed three hands, didn’t they?—had Sherlock Holmes had something to do with this? He hadn’t seen Miss Holmes except that once in Hounslow. Nor had he heard from Lord Ingram. Yet for some reason, it had ever been a niggling doubt at the edge of his mind that as he trudged through the case, his nose to the ground, they had been investigating it on a far higher plane.
It took him some time to realize that his wife was not next to him in bed. They used to sleep snuggled together, like two kittens in a basket. But for some days now, he’d slept facing away from her, citing a persistently blocked nose that wouldn’t let him breathe if he lay in the other direction.
He sat up at the same time she came into the room, fully dressed, her hat already on, her face somber.
“Barnaby died in the night. I’m on my way to see Eleanor. And then I’ll have to stop for some mourning clothes.”
He stared at her, unwilling to understand what he had heard. “Does that mean—does that mean—Cousins Manufacturing—”
“Yes, it’ll come to me. But I can’t think of business now—there’s so much to do.” She leaned down and kissed him on his cheek. “Good day, Inspector. I’ll see you in the evening.”
He remained frozen in place for a long time, then he dropped his head into his hands. She had what she’d always wanted—and he had never felt smaller or more lonely.
Lord Ingram was not at all surprised to see Charlotte Holmes walking up the drive to his cottage on the Devon Coast. The children, who had been playing in the garden, happily greeted her. She patted them rather awkwardly and seemed relieved when they took the sweets she offered and scampered off to enjoy them in their own secret corners.
“I’m afraid all I can offer for your tea is buttered toast,” he told her.
“At one point this summer, buttered toast would have been the height of luxury, if I could have afforded any,” she said cheerfully. “I’m always happy to have buttered toast.”
He excused himself to speak with the cottage’s caretaker. When he returned, she stood at the edge of the garden, her hands on the rails, admiring the view of the Hangman cliffs.
“Beautiful panorama.”
“It is.”
She glanced at him. “How are the children?”
“They seem all right—for now.”
“What did you tell them?”
“That she fell ill and the doctors recommended that she be immediately admitted to a sanatorium in Switzerland.”
“Did they ask if they could go see her?”
“They did. But so far they have accepted that for their own safety, they shouldn’t be near her—risks of infection, et cetera.”
She nodded.
The sea soughed at the foot of the cliffs. Gulls cawed and wheeled overhead. A breeze blew, filling his senses with smells of salt, fresh grass, and wildflowers. On the far side of the small bay, sheep meandered across green headlands, tiny balls of white fluff.
She glanced at him again. “And you?”
He half shook his head. “I don’t know. Sometimes I’m glad all the deception has ended. Sometimes I wish I could have remained ignorant forever. But then I think of how she must be faring this minute...” He closed his eyes for a moment, as if that could shut away the turbulence. The guilt. “I still have my children, my brothers, my friends, all the comforts in life—I’ve lost nothing except perhaps the last of my delusions about her. But she, she had to giveup everything to retain her freedom. And who can say what kind of freedom it will be, serving a man like Moriarty.”
“A woman who has nothing left to lose can prove dangerous.”
“I’m on my guard—it’s a virtual certainty she’ll come for the children.”
She took his hand and squeezed it. But when she would have let go, he held on. “You know what I meant, don’t you, when I said that I wished I’d never met you?”
“I think so. I was the harbinger of the worst news in your life. The one who informed you that your children would lose their mother.”
She was too kind to mention that she was also the one to make him see that his wife had been responsible for the betrayal of esteemed colleagues. That in marrying her, he had committed a far greater error than he could ever have imagined.
