Page 85 of A Study in Scarlet Women
“Don’t be such a constant killjoy. If nothing else, my association with Mrs. Watson has already made us five pounds—and we’ve clients lined up for the next fortnight.”
Five pounds! The thought never failed to make her giddy.
But he would not let go of his entrenched cynicism. “She has certainly been quick to exploit your acuity for her own gains.”
She peered at him through her veil. “What’s the matter, your lordship? Usually you are a bit more generous in your opinion of people, especially when you don’t know enough about them.”
“I can afford to be more generous when those hypothetical people aren’t essentially in control of your life, Charlotte. I still think it w—”
But she was no longer listening to him.
“What is it?” he asked softly, taking her by the hands, so that to passersby they would appear deep in conversation, a bereaved young widow and a gallant friend trying to comfort her.
“Do you see the man in the gold paisley waistcoat?” She indicated his location with a tilt of her head. “I know him.”
Lord Ingram glanced unobtrusively at the man. “Who is he?”
“The first time I went to Mrs. Watson’s place, before I arrived, she had let in another young woman, thinking she was me. But that caller turned out to have fraud in mind, claiming kinship with Mrs. Watson where none existed.”
“And?”
“And she had an accomplice, a young man.” Charlotte took one more look at Paisley Waistcoat. “That one.”
Nineteen
By the time Inspector Treadles reached the closest police station to Curry House, Mrs. Cornish had already been brought in and put into an interrogation room.
He wasted no time. “Mrs. Cornish, you said nothing about the fact that Becky Birtle is your daughter.”
Mrs. Cornish flinched, as if he’d thrown sand in her face. “That’s—that’s—”
“I wouldn’t try to deny it, not when I already have confirmation from Mrs. Birtle.”
Mrs. Cornish glanced at the door.
“I’ve dismissed the constable who stood guard outside,” said Treadles. “I gave my word to Mrs. Birtle that as much as possible, I would keep Becky’s true parentage a secret.”
Mrs. Cornish stared at her hands—she’d come to the police station in a pair of kid gloves, probably her best pair. “Surely you must understand why I couldn’t possibly bring it up, Inspector. It took years of hard work to rise to where I am.
“After Mr. Sackville passed, Mrs. Struthers wrote me and said if the next tenant at Curry House didn’t need a housekeeper, I was welcome to go work for her. But if word got out that I have anillegitimate child, she won’t want me anymore. No one will want me anymore. Respectability is everything in my line of work.”
The anxiety in her voice was overwhelming.
“Then why bring her to your place of work at all?”
“Mrs. Birtle was worried that Becky was getting too headstrong and restless. The Birtles don’t have much. Becky would have to go into service. And service can be... it can be a small, closed life. I remember how bored I was as the underhousemaid, how little there was to look forward to. I never wanted to get into trouble, but a flirtation here and there was the only cure for boredom.
“And then I fell in love with the son of the house and he promised to look after me. It’s that same old story. But when it happened to me, I thought he was special and I was special. And it turned out that neither of us was special at all.
“I didn’t want that to happen to Becky. Here I am in a position of some authority. I could look after her. But more than anything else, I felt Curry House was a safe place. Mr. Sackville never made any advances toward me or any other women in the house. And he treated Jenny Price with more care than most able-bodied folks did.”
Treadles pulled out a chair but did not sit down. “And then he proved himself not quite as above reproach as you had thought.”
Mrs. Cornish’s lips quivered. “You think... you think...”
“You failed to inform Tommy Dunn of details of Mr. Sackville’s condition that would have let a physician know that he was in need of strychnine. You said Becky requested to take the photograph when instead you stowed it among her things so that no one else would find out that she is your daughter and that you had a strong motive to protect her. Not to mention that you were, according to everyone else, desperately searching for a missing whisky decanter.”
“Are you implying there was arsenic in the whisky?” cried Mrs.Cornish, her gloved hands gripping the edge of the desk that separated them.
