Page 37 of The Hollow of Fear
If he had, would that have prevented him from forming this friendship? Would he have been too conscious of his own ordinary origins?
They were brought to a two-story library that must house a collection of at least ten thousand volumes. Books lined all four walls. And the ceiling had been painted with a trompe l’oeil mural that made it seem as if the shelves reached up all the way to a bright blue sky, where chiton-clad philosophers from Classical Antiquity looked down in benign amusement.
On this cold morning, all three fireplaces in the library had been lit. By the largest fireplace stood Lord Ingram, somehow not at all dwarfed by the scale and magnificence of his home. He didn’t look very different from how Treadles remembered him, but there was a grimness to the set of his features, a resolve that implied not so much confidence as a willingness to endure.
Treadles had debated, before boarding the late train, whether he ought to cable Lord Ingram. He’d decided against it—he would be arriving at Stern Hollow in an official capacity. And Lord Ingram would have already been told to expect Scotland Yard.
As Lord Ingram’s gaze landed on him, however, he felt a rush of self-reproach, as if he had sneaked in and been discovered.
Nothing to do now but be the policeman he was.
Lord Ingram nodded with perfect correctness. “Good morning, Inspector Treadles. A pleasure to see you again.”
“Likewise, my lord. May I present Chief Inspector Fowler?”
Fowler half bowed.
“Welcome to Stern Hollow, Chief Inspector,” said Lord Ingram. He gestured at a man who had been studying what looked to be a large map of the estate when the policemen arrived. “Gentlemen, this is my friend Mr. Sherrinford Holmes. Holmes, Chief Inspector Fowler and Inspector Treadles of Scotland Yard.”
At the sound of “Holmes,” Treadles glanced sharply at the rotund, dark-haired young man, all monocle and exaggerated mustache.
Mr. Holmes bowed with a flourish.
Small talk was exchanged, on the policemen’s journey, the weather, and the general efficacy of local constables.
“A county sergeant who knows enough to immediately send for Scotland Yard is, of course, always a praiseworthy one,” said Mr. Holmes, smiling.
“Oh, I shall not disagree with that,” said Fowler, with an unforced heartiness.
Treadles, on the other hand, wondered whether he heard something in Mr. Holmes’s tone—not snide, merely amused.
Finally, Lord Ingram stated the purpose of the gathering. “I understand, gentlemen, that you would like to see the body.”
Fowler did not immediately answer. Instead, he studied Lord Ingram, who met his gaze steadily. Treadles held his breath. Mr. Holmes, however, didn’t seem the slightest bit concerned—Mr. Holmes who had never seen Chief Inspector Fowler at work.
After what seemed an interminable interval, Fowler said, “Yes, we would. Thank you.”
“I will show you to the icehouse,” said Lord Ingram with the evenness of a man with a clear conscience.
Or so it sounded to Treadles. Would Chief Inspector Fowler hear in that levelness of voice a clever murderer who had every confidence he would emerge unscathed?
“I have asked Mr. Holmes to accompany us,” Lord Ingram went on. “This is a difficult time and I find myself in need of support, both moral and practical. I hope you will indulge me in this, gentlemen.”
His words had the gloss of a request, but they were, in fact, an announcement. Mr. Holmes was coming with, and that was that.
“Certainly, my lord,” answered Fowler, with apparent generosity.
Mr. Holmes paired up with Fowler; Treadles had to walk alongside Lord Ingram. Behind them Mr. Holmes answered Fowler’s questions in a pleasantly baritone voice, though his enunciation wasn’t as clear as Treadles expected, almost as if he spoke with a piece of boiled sweet in his mouth.
Indeed, his lordship and I have been friends since we were children.
Yes, I knew her ladyship, too. What a sad and terrible fate for such a beautiful woman.
Oh, I happened to be in the neighborhood and thought I’d put myself at his lordship’s disposal. Between you and me, Chief Inspector, I suspect he’s letting me help more to be kind than because he believes I’ll be of any actual use.
There was something odd about Lord Ingram’s friend, which had little to do with his almost coxcomb-ish appearance. Something contradictory yet strangely riveting. Despite the gravity of the situation, Treadles found himself wanting to stare at Mr. Holmes until he figured out what it was about the man that snared his attention like an itch in an unscratchable place. Failing that, since Mr. Holmes was currently behind his back, he listened to the latter’s conversation with Fowler with far more attention than necessary.
Mr. Holmes began to question Fowler on the latter’s customary practices at cases out of town. Treadles became aware that he hadn’t spoken at all to Lord Ingram—and the length of his silence must border on unseemly. “My condolences, my lord,” he said hastily, reddening.
