Page 55 of The Hollow of Fear
Chief Inspector Fowler went on to ask the ladies who they supposed might have sent the note chiding them for not paying closer attention to Lady Ingram’s disappearance. They had no good guesses but felt that the writer was unlikely to be a member of Lord Ingram’s staff, because of its imperious tone.
“Even an upper servant, writing anonymously, wouldn’t address a ladyship in this manner. Would have been more deferent.”
Attesting to Sherrinford Holmes’s skillful insinuation, Fowler concluded by asking whether the ladies knew anyone who might wishLordIngram harm. The question surprised the ladies and made them thoughtful but yielded no useful answers.
Treadles took good notes, as he should. But it was difficult to maintain his concentration.
Lord Ingram. In love. With Miss Holmes.
It shouldn’t have shocked him. Hadn’t he sensed something between the two, from the very beginning? He hadn’t wanted to let his thoughts go down that direction, hadn’t wanted to believe that Lord Ingram, the very embodiment of manly virtues, could feel more for Miss Holmes than an exasperated friendship.
The exasperated friendship had most certainly been there. As well as a deeply frustrated protectiveness, a constant awareness, and a fierce and fiercely repressed yearning.
What did he see in her? Treadles supposed that one must admire Miss Holmes’s mind. He himself still did, however reluctantly. And he supposed there were Miss Holmes’s looks, which were not displeasing. But her femininity was only skin-deep. Underneath that...
Near the end of the Sackville case, Miss Holmes had sat calmly and unspooled one revelation after another, as he, the professional, reeled from the ugliness that came to light. The woman had no feelings. No horror at the vilest human deeds. No regrets about running away from home. No shame over the conduct that had brought her low.
And certainly no need for a man.
Lord Ingram might as well have fallen in love with a pretty dress—or an advertising poster featuring a woman with blond ringlets.
Lady Avery and Lady Somersby were leaving. Fowler rose. So did Treadles, a moment too late.
“I must confess,” said Fowler, rather conversationally, after he thanked the women, “that I’m now highly curious about this Miss Charlotte Holmes.”
Treadles’s conscience chafed again. Why was he keeping this silence? And for how much longer?
“If you find her,” replied Lady Avery in all seriousness, “please tell her we wish to speak to her.”
When they had left Fowler turned to Treadles. “Did you notice what she said?Ifwe find her, not when. We are policemen, are we not? Let us find her.”
The interviewwith the boy who first discovered Lady Ingram’s body was a great deal less interesting, notable only for the confirmation that yes, the last time he’d been sent to fetch ice was indeed a while ago. But that ice hadn’t been needed didn’t mean he didn’t visit the third antechamber, either to fetch or to store foodstuff, only that it hadn’t been necessary to proceed all the way to the ice well.
In other words, the body could have been there for weeks without anyone knowing. Anyone, that is, except Lady Ingram’s murderer.
Chief Inspector Fowler made quick work of the rest of the indoor staff, seeing them in groups. Most had little of value to impart. But the policemen did learn several interesting things.
First, there had been a minor fire in the house a little less than a month ago. Second, Lord Remington, the youngest of Lord Ingram’s three elder brothers, had visited Stern Hollow not once, but twice in the recent past, the first time apparently incognito. He’d been met at the front of the house by Lord Ingram himself. They had then sequestered themselves in the library for most of the rest of the day, emerging just before dinner for Lord Remington to take his leave.
The head footman, who had delivered tea and food into the study and therefore had a good look at this visitor, was thoroughly surprised when Lord Remington had visited again, this time as the master’s brother. Lord Remington, having lived abroad for most of his adult life, hadn’t been known to Lord Ingram’s staff. But he’d endeared himself to them when he came again.
The third oddity involved complaints from the French chef and the housekeeper. They had been asked whether they’d noticed strange goings-on in the household and had both mentioned small quantities of food going missing, for weeks on end, in a way that couldn’t be easily accounted for.
“Once I went down to the stillroom late at night and saw the light on,” said the housekeeper, Mrs. Sanborn. “I thought I’d catch the thief at last but it was only Lord Ingram, fetching himself a few extra ginger biscuits.”
“Does that happen often?” Fowler asked.
“I’m sure it does sometimes. His lordship is very considerate of the staff. Unless there are guests, we are not expected to work after dinner. Anything he needs at night, he sees to himself.”
Fowler moved on to other questions. But before he let the housekeeper return to her duties, he asked, “Does Lord Ingram like ginger biscuits?”
“Not particularly—his lordship doesn’t care for sweet things. I keep some on hand because Miss Lucinda and Master Carlisle enjoy them, but Lord Ingram doesn’t eat them very often.”
At that answer, Fowler gave Treadles a delighted look. Treadles felt his stomach twist.
They went on to interview the rest of the guests.
A few of the gentlemen had returned from Scotland recently, having enjoyed some excellent Highland shooting while there. Another fancied himself an amateur astronomer and had actually set up his telescope near the icehouse one night but saw and heard nothing remotely useful to the police.
