Page 91 of A Study in Scarlet Women
“Very true.” Treadles glanced at the gasogene again, still tempted. Perhaps Alice might relent if he could find a way to further reinforce those glass globes. “And if you don’t mind one last question fromme, Mr. Addison, do you have any theories as to why anyone would wish Mr. Sackville harm?”
The butler shook his head. “It’s been decades since any of us last saw him. He could have met all kinds of unsavory characters in those intervening years. All I can tell you is that his death has nothing to do with anyone in this house.”
A knock came on the door of Lord Ingram’s darkroom. “My lord,” said a footman, “Mr. Shrewsbury to see you. Are you at home to him?”
That ass. “You may show him in here.”
Shrewsbury knew enough to enter quickly, closing the door behind himself. “Oh, good. This place doesn’t stink as badly as I’d have expected.”
“It’s ventilated,” Lord Ingram said coolly, as he pinned another photograph to a cord strung across the width of the room. “What can I do for you, Mr. Shrewsbury?”
“Ah... you wouldn’t happen to have heard from Miss Holmes, would you, my lord? The rumors are growing wilder every day and I’m beginning to really worry about her.”
“Only beginning to?”
“Well, I thought she’d have come to me by now.”
“That foolish woman. What good reason could she possibly have for not seeking your aid?”
In the crimson glow of the small, red-glass-encased lightbulb, it was impossible to tell whether Shrewsbury flushed. But the scrape of his heels across the floor was quite audible.
He cleared his throat. “I’m also beginning to see that maybe she might not want to be my mistress. If you hear from her, will you please tell her that I’m offering help, plain and simple, whatever she needs, and no conditions attached. I only want to make sure she’s all—wait, who’s that?”
Lord Ingram followed the direction of Shrewsbury’s gaze. The prints had come out well. Despite the dim, reddish light, Stephen Marbleton’s features stood out in relief. “I don’t know—I’m developing someone else’s negatives. Have you seen the man before?”
“The man? No, never seen the man. But the woman looks familiar—even though I’m certain we’ve never been introduced.”
Lord Ingram unpinned a print of Frances Marbleton, taken at some seashore, and handed it to Shrewsbury so he could take a closer look. “Have you gone tramping over the summer? Perhaps you passed her in some field.”
“No, I haven’t been anywhere near Devon this summer.”
The hairs on the back of Lord Ingram’s neck rose. He exhaled carefully, so he could continue to speak with some semblance of detachment. “This is Devon?”
“There must be pebble beaches elsewhere in Britain, but this looks a good deal like the one at Westward Ho!. What a name, eh, exclamation supplied. Went there with my mates a few times when I was at university. You’ve a house somewhere in the vicinity, don’t you?”
“My place is near the Hangman Cliffs. Never been to Westward Ho!.”
“I know what you mean. Too many tourists—I mean, it’s the only reason the place exists in the first place.”
Lord Ingram was suddenly in a hurry. “Anything else I can do for you, Mr. Shrewsbury?”
“Umm, no.”
“In that case, please excuse me. I have an urgent appointment.”
Inspector Treadles was not proud of himself, but at some point his curiosity got the better of him—and he decided to burgle 18 Upper Baker Street.
It wasn’t terribly late yet. But from where he stood in the alleybehind the house, number 18 was completely dark, not a fleck of light coming from behind the curtains. He had already circled the block of buildings twice. Now he slipped into the shadows of the back door—and quickly picked the lock.
The ground floor was silent, the caretaker’s room furnished but empty of occupants. The stairs did not creak as he climbed up, not did the stair landing groan.
He was not surprised when the door of the parlor opened quietly at his touch—why should it be locked, when most likely no one lived on these premises? Still his heart pounded a little as he tiptoed to the bedroom.
He pulled on a curtain. Light from the street lamp streamed inside, illuminating a perfectly made and perfectly empty bed. He shut the curtain and lit a match. No, nothing else that a perennially bedridden man would need.
Was there even a chamber pot under the b—
A heavily bearded man stared back at him from under the bed—and yanked Treadles by the ankles. Treadles went down hard. The man scrambled out and ran, stepping over one of Treadles’s hands, causing him to yowl in pain.
