Page 30 of The Hollow of Fear
“The two ladies at the site, if you remember, sir, asked to speak to me.”
He remembered very well. Lady Avery and Lady Somersby had all but grabbed the sergeant by the ear and demanded that he listen. Lord Ingram had left them to it and departed first. It would not surprise him if the ladies had spoken so much and at such a furious pace that Sergeant Ellerby’s head spun.
“Lady Avery and Lady Somersby are Society’s premier gossip historians. They must have had a great deal of useful particulars to impart.”
His words appeared neutral; they were anything but. Sergeant Ellerby might be an intelligent man who was good at his work, but he was not accustomed to the forceful personalities of the gossip ladies and might very well have been resentful of the way they attempted to educate him of everything they deemed he must know and understand.
Out of deference to their age and rank, he would have tried to suppress his irritation at being told how to do his work. But when Lord Ingram pointed out that the women were known primarily for gossiping, he gave Sergeant Ellerby the excuse he likely already wanted to dismiss their theories.
Lord Ingram knew that Lady Avery and Lady Somersby were meticulous. They knew they were meticulous. But Sergeant Ellerby did not. Between the master of this impeccable estate and two matrons of middling attractiveness who wouldn’t shut up, Lord Ingram had a very good idea whom the sergeant might believe more.
But that was true of a hypothetical county sergeant. There was always the possibility thatthisman had listened closely to the gossip ladies and realized what an invaluable source of information he had stumbled across. He might also view the master of this impeccable estate with commensurate suspicion, because a man whose home was perfect to the last detail was unlikely to give anything of himself away, except by design.
“Ah, no wonder they went on and on,” said Sergeant Ellerby, clarifying for Lord Ingram where he stood on the spectrum, which was not very far from where Lord Ingram preferred him to be.
“I have heard from my staff that since their arrival, they have been inquiring into my wife’s whereabouts—and the details of the night of her birthday ball, when she was last seen.”
On that night, he had confronted her—and told her to leave. And then he had waited twenty-four hours before informing Bancroft of her crimes, so that she would have time to run far, far away.
Not far away enough, as it turned out.
“Did the ladies’ meddling disturb you?” asked the sergeant.
“Yes, but not for reasons they would consider likely.” Lord Ingram downed another drought of whisky. “I had hoped the truth would never come to light, because what happened to me is something I would not wish on my worst enemy.”
Sergeant Ellerby had his notebook out. “And what exactly happened to you, my lord?”
“Mr. Walsh,there is a gentleman by the name of Holmes to see you, sir,” said the young footman to Stern Hollow’s steward.
Within the past hour, Mr. Walsh had fended off, on his master’s behalf, two men from two different county gazettes, a vicar and a rector, and three local ladies who had been acquainted with Lady Ingram and thought it their duty to call on her bereaved husband. Tragedy brought out the worst in people, he was now thoroughly convinced—and was very much in the mood to have the latest caller forcibly ejected from the house.
Preferably on his rear.
“And what does this Mr. Holmes want?” asked Mr. Walsh, scraping together what remained of his forbearance. “Any relation to our guest Miss Holmes?”
“I don’t know, sir. He says he’s been sent from Eastleigh Park.”
Eastleigh Park was the seat of His Grace the Duke of Wycliffe, Lord Ingram’s eldest brother. Mr. Walsh felt a tremor underfoot. Had the duke sent an emissary to berate his brother? Surely, tonight could not possibly be the time for it.
And how long could Mr. Walsh stall the emissary, if it came to that? How long could he protect Lord Ingram from this wrath from above?
“Where is he now? Still in the waiting room?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Have tea sent to my office immediately.”
Mr. Walsh put on his haughtiest mien and marched into the waiting room. If the duke had sent a flinty-eyed agent, let him see that Lord Ingram was not without foot soldiers of his own, willing to brave the front lines.
The young man in the waiting room sported a thick but well-groomed beard, topped off with a meticulously pomaded handlebar mustache, the ends of which curled up nearly an inch.
At Mr. Walsh’s entrance, he rose. “Mr. Walsh, I presume? Sherrinford Holmes. I take it from your steely expression that you believe His Grace sent me.”
Mr. Walsh blinked. “Do you mean to imply, Mr. Holmes, that you haven’t been sent by His Grace?”
“No.” The young man smiled slightly. “Not to say he won’t dispatch someone, or perhaps even himself, in the coming days. But I have been tasked by Her Grace the Duchess of Wycliffe to see to Lord Ingram. Difficult days are ahead and she believes that he should have an ally at his side.”
Relief and gratitude inundated Mr. Walsh.
