Page 76 of A Study in Scarlet Women
Mrs. Marbleton recoiled at this answer. Charlotte smiled again at the clerk. “It’s possible we might need to retrieve some heavy items. Won’t you be so kind as to send a pair of your stoutest porters?”
She didn’t anticipate an ambush but it didn’t hurt to be careful.
“Of course, Miss. I will have the porters wait outside the room. It might be a minute or two before they arrive.”
Charlotte guided a stricken-looking Mrs. Marbleton and a pale Mrs. Watson to a chaise. After a few minutes, she shepherded them to their destination. The porters were in the passage when they arrived, standing with their backs to the walls and tugging respectfully on their caps.
Charlotte turned the key and opened the door slowly. The sitting room was empty. But Mrs. Marbleton gasped, rushed toward the mantel, and clutched a fountain pen that had been left behind.
They searched the rest of the suite, but no more of Mr. Marbleton’s belongings were found. Charlotte tipped and dismissed the porters, then took out her magnifying glass and examined the entire suite square inch by square inch.
“I gave this pen to Mr. Marbleton as an engagement present. He wrote all his letters with it,” said Mrs. Marbleton to no one in particular.
The rooms had been cleaned thoroughly, probably by the maids in the morning. When Charlotte had satisfied herself that she would not learn of anything else—other than the fact that no one had slept in the suite overnight—she whispered to Mrs. Watson to keep aneye on their client, while she went down to the lobby and spoke with a different clerk.
“The gentleman who stayed in this suite last night”—she showed him the note with the number on it. “I might have found something that belongs to him. Do you know if he has already left?”
“Let me check for you, miss,” said the clerk, an older man with a portly figure. He pored over the columns of the registry. “Let’s see. You are in luck, miss. Mr. Marbleton will be with us for another several days.”
Seventeen
“How perfectly diabolical,” murmured Mrs. Marbleton, when Charlotte told her that the suite in which they stood was registered to a Mr. Marbleton.
“You don’t seem terribly surprised by this particular twist of events,” said Charlotte.
“Only because I now have an idea who might be behind it. And it isn’t anyone from Mr. Marbleton’s past, but my own.” Mrs. Marbleton smiled grimly. “Thank you, Miss Holmes. And you, too, Mrs. Watson, for your company. But I’m afraid there isn’t anything else you can do.”
“Surely we haven’t exhausted all avenues of inquiry. Mr. York’s movements can be traced. The steamers have passenger manifests and—”
“I understand, Miss Holmes. But you are assuming it isn’t a false trail that has been laid for me.”
“Even if that should turn out to be the case, the account on this room probably hasn’t been settled yet. Not to m—”
“No!” The syllable ricocheted around the room. Mrs. Marbleton took a deep breath, a deathly pallor to her cheeks and a near-frantic look in her eyes. “Please listen to me, Miss Holmes. You do not wishto go anywhere near this man. You simply do not. Do you understand?”
Mrs. Watson gripped Charlotte’s arm and answered for them. “Yes, we understand.”
With flawless courtesy, Mrs. Marbleton saw them out. Charlotte and Mrs. Watson remained silent as they made their way to Albemarle Street. But as soon as they got into a hansom cab, Mrs. Watson blurted out, “Heavens, what is going to happen to that woman?”
Charlotte had no good answer for her.
The rest of Inspector Treadles’s afternoon was spent at Scotland Yard, conferring with Sergeant MacDonald and Superintendent Croft, Treadles’s superior. Sergeant MacDonald had made little headway in discovering the purpose of Mr. Sackville’s London trips. But now, with Superintendent Croft’s blessing, they would publish the dead man’s picture in the papers, ask for help from the public, and hope that those who came forth would offer useful information.
“And we’ll have to verify Lady Sheridan’s claims of her whereabouts, too,” he said to his wife, when he was at last back home.
They would be verifying a great deal more than that. His latest conjecture was that Lord and Lady Sheridan might each have been plotting against Mr. Sackville, without the other’s knowledge. And they each had an accomplice at Curry House—though the possibility existed that they counted on the same person.
This dual-conspiracy scenario would explain the usage of both arsenic and chloral: One of the Sheridans might have opted for a slow poisoning, the other, a rapid one. Neither of them needed to be in Stanwell Moot to carry out their schemes. And their accomplices could honestly state that no one at Curry House wanted Mr. Sackville harmed.
“Have you arranged to see Mr. Holmes again?” asked Alice. “Or to be in the next room, at least, while the great man remains shrouded in mystery?”
“No, I haven’t.” He leaned in and kissed her on her jawline. “Sometimes I’d rather spend more time in my wife’s company than that of any man’s, however great.”
What he didn’t say was that he was reluctant to consult Sherlock Holmes again so soon. He couldn’t quite explain this reticence—after all, he’d been desperate to speak with the man only days before.
A rare instance of proprietary sentiments regarding his own case, perhaps. He was a thorough and competent investigator and ought to be able to handle the rest of the work without constantly leaning on someone else.
Alice returned him a kiss on the cheek. “Ha! And here I was hoping that I might receive more madeleines, if you would but pay another visit to Upper Baker Street.”
