Page 73 of A Study in Scarlet Women
And how cruel to be taught this way that she ought to be careful what she wished for.
“Inspector Treadles will apprehend real suspects in no time,” said Charlotte. “You have my assurances as a consultant to the Criminal Investigation Department.”
Livia snorted. “This reminds me. I saw the advert for Sherlock Holmes’s services. Are you really taking clients? How do you keep up the pretense?”
Charlotte explained the procedure she and Mrs. Watson had established. “I saw my first two clients this morning. We already made thirty shillings.”
“So fast?”
“Yes. And I have another client lined up for the afternoon.”
She opened her reticule, took out a small pouch, and put it in Livia’s hand. Livia didn’t have to open the pouch to know it was the jewelry and money she’d given Charlotte the night she had run away.
She gave it back. “It’s too early. You don’t know that you’ll still have clients in a week—or a month. And I still have reservations about this Mrs. Watson.”
Charlotte shook her head. “I’m more worried about you now than I am about myself. You take it. Mrs. Watson has invested her own funds to set up Sherlock Holmes’s operation, so she has every motive to keep me around and in good shape until she at least recoups her cost.”
Livia stared down at the pouch. “Oh, Charlotte, what is going to happen to all of us?”
“According to my crystal ball, Mrs. Watson will make a fortune. I will make a name. You will clear your name, as will Papa. And Mamma will feel relieved for a short while and then more aggrieved than ever.”
Oh God, if only. If only. “While we are looking through your crystal ball, can you tell me if I’ll always be stuck at home with Mamma and Papa?”
“Only if you want to be, Livia,” said Charlotte softly. “Only if you want to be.”
“Lady Sheridan, thank you for seeing me on such short notice,” said Inspector Treadles.
Lady Sheridan smiled without warmth. “Your note did not leave much room for refusal or delays, Inspector.”
She was a small, fine-featured woman, her grey hair swept back in a precise and severe chignon. But whereas her husband was hale and vigorous, Lady Sheridan reminded Treadles of nothing so muchas her town house, a once-beautiful entity made worn by time and adverse circumstances.
“I apologize for the necessity of the intrusion,” Treadles said as gently as he could. “But we have an eyewitness account of your return to Paddington Station from a Great Western train. The eyewitness, who has been interviewed by my colleague, is entirely certain that she saw you on the day Mr. Sackville died—and even produced her diary entry to bolster her claim.”
“Lady Avery kindly sent a message to that effect.” A note of irony lined her words. “I did return to London that day. I am one of the patronesses of the Young Women’s Christian Association and attended the opening of a new center in Bath, which took place before numerous witnesses. Then I got on a train the next day and came back.”
“You didn’t go to Stanwell Moot?” It would have been a fairly convenient side trip from Bath.
“I assure you, Inspector, I never set foot in Stanwell Moot.”
Unfortunately, that was probably true. Constable Perkins’s conscientious legwork had not produced a shred of evidence that either of the Sheridans had ever visited the village or its vicinities.
“I was also told that you were once very fond of Mr. Sackville. That you lamented that he had drifted away from the family. Lady Avery said you claimed not to know why he cut off contact, but there is a very real possibility that you knew and chose not to tell her, as she was liable to repeat what she learned to others.”
“An astute observation.” The expression on Lady Sheridan’s face was almost a smile.
Treadles found himself warming up to the old woman at this sign of almost approval. He had to issue a stern reminder to himself that she was still a prime suspect. “Can you elucidate us as to why Mr. Sackville drifted away from the family?”
Lady Sheridan waved a weary hand. “One of those tediousarguments between brothers about their manly honor—I can’t recall how it began.”
Her dismissal of the matter seemed genuine enough. Treadles tried a different angle. “Lord Sheridan insisted that there was no estrangement.”
“And I believe that he believed so. Until Harrington died he was probably still expecting his brother to ring the bell and admit he’d been wrong all these years.”
Could it truly be so insignificant, an argument that caused formerly affectionate brothers to become strangers?
“Mr. Sackville’s passing does not seem to have grieved you, my lady.”
“I have been brought up to never grieve in public. In any case, we lost him long ago—my husband might not have realized but I did, eventually. I already grieved.”
