Page 83 of A Study in Scarlet Women
“Thank you, Inspector,” Becky Birtle said softly.
Treadles let a minute of silence pass. They sat, almost companionably, he drinking his tepid tea, she nibbling on a biscuit that looked rock hard.
“So it was Mr. Hodges who noticed something about you and Mr. Sackville?”
The girl nodded. “The next day after my horrible stomachache, Mr. Hodges asked if I’d pinched Mr. Sackville’s whisky. I asked him if he was calling me a thief. He said Mr. Sackville is careful about his tummy and don’t take more than a few sips but twice that much was gone from the decanter—and that I was the only other person to go in that room.
“So I told him that I did drink but only because Mr. Sackville offered, and it would have been rude to refuse. Mr. Hodges scowled something mighty and said gentlemen was different than regular folk. Nobody holds them accountable and I better have a care for myself.”
She turned her face to the side. With a start Treadles understood why she had looked oddly familiar when he met her for the first time: the picture of a young Mrs. Cornish that he had seen at CurryHouse. There was a good resemblance if one happened to see Becky from certain angles.
He had considered Mrs. Cornish from the perspective of a scorned lover, an angry bystander, and opportunistic collaborator. But Mrs. Cornish as a deeply concerned kinswoman opened an entire new vista of possibilities.
“When you left, Mrs. Cornish said you took a photograph of the staff as a memento.”
“I didn’t leave, Mrs. Cornish dismissed me—said I was making too much of a nuisance of myself, fainting and crying.” She flattened her lips. “Maybe I was. And I never took that photograph—the only person I’d have wanted to remember was Mr. Sackville and he wasn’t in it. I found the picture in my suitcase after I came home.”
The discrepancies made Treadles’s heart pound: having Becky hundreds of miles away—and the only image of her exiled from the house—would ensure that no one suspected any blood ties between the two. “I’d like to see the photograph. And I’ll need you to hand me the decanter of whisky.”
Becky Birtle excused herself and returned with both items.
Treadles examined the decanter, which still contained two inches of intoxicant. It occurred to him that Becky Birtle could have emptied and replaced the contents of the decanter. But a quick sniff was enough to let him know that the amber fluid inside was no cheap grog, but the best Scotland had to offer.
He next turned his attention to the photograph. The captured images of Mrs. Cornish and Becky Birtle did not show much likeness, but all the same Treadles asked Becky Birtle to fetch her parents.
Mr. Birtle, a former gamekeeper who could no longer work on account of his arthritis, was indeed old for someone with so young an only child. His wife was a square slab of a woman and possiblyeven older than he. Becky Birtle closed the door and left, her footsteps fading away on the squeaky floorboards.
Treadles waited until she was out of hearing range. “Mr. Birtle, Mrs. Birtle, I understand that the questions I am about to ask will seem intrusive. I hope you will forgive me.”
The couple looked at each other.
“Yes, Inspector?” Mrs. Birtle sounded as if she rarely spoke, her voice resembling the rasp of rusted gears forced to rotate.
“I must ask whether you are Becky’s natural parents.”
Another look exchanged between the Birtles. Mrs. Birtle wiped her hand on her apron. “Why do you need to know, Inspector?”
“I am investigating a murder. None of the suspects with the means to have committed it appear to have concrete motives. Therefore I must get to the bottom of every possible connection among all parties involved. If you are concerned the information might get someone into trouble, please consider that withholding the necessary intelligence from me may result in an innocent bystander being charged with the crime.”
Mr. Birtle placed his hand atop his wife’s. Mrs. Birtle glanced at her husband and then looked Treadles in the eye. “We took Becky in the day she was born and raised her as if she were our own.”
Treadles let out the breath he didn’t realize he was holding. “And is Mrs. Cornish of Curry House Becky’s natural mother?”
Mrs. Birtle nodded.
“Thank you for your trust in me.” Treadles inclined his head. “I will do my best to keep this from becoming public knowledge.”
It felt almost unsettling to finally have a prime suspect, but the scenario made sense. Mr. Hodges must have told Mrs. Cornish about the closer-than-necessary rapport between their employer and Becky Birtle. Mrs.Cornish would have become more and more concerned about her daughter’s involvement with Mr. Sackville. At an impressionable age, she herself had been taken advantage of by a man who refused to marry her and look after their baby—possibly an unscrupulous employer—and she was desperate for the same not to happen to her child.
Becky Birtle returned to the parlor. Treadles had asked for her—he still had one last point he wanted to clear up. But one look at the girl’s face let him know that she had heard everything. How? The floorboards would have squeaked had she snuck back to eavesdrop.
As if she heard his question, she pointed behind his head. He turned around to see a small, half-open window—she had eavesdropped from outside.
“Mrs. Cornish can’t be my mother,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. “She doesn’t even like me.”
“I can’t speak to the state of her affection, but I have no doubt she feels a tremendous sense of responsibility toward you.”
“Enough to kill Mr. Sackville when he did nothing wrong? That can’t be.”
