Page 67 of Murder on Cold Street
Charlotte was by the door, putting on her overcoat—she needed to leave for 31 Cold Street immediately to keep her appointment—when Mrs. Treadles came down with the envelopes. She placed them into her pocket. “Mrs. Treadles, when I spoke with Inspector Treadles this morning at Scotland Yard, he said that Sherlock Holmes would be able to help him by doing what Sherlock Holmes typically did. Would you happen to know what he meant?”
Mrs. Treadles blinked. “Surely, just that Mr. Holmes’s brilliance would prevail yet again?”
They said their goodbyes. Charlotte already had her hand on the door when she turned around and looked Mrs. Treadles in the eye. “I know the situation appears dire, Mrs. Treadles, and time is running out. But much can happen in a few days. Could you have imagined yesterday, or even this morning, when you woke up, that before the end of the day you would have at last gained control over Cousins?
“Similarly, exculpatory evidence is scant now, but it may very well be forthcoming. I may not have a viable theory today, but that doesn’t mean I won’t have one tomorrow. So I ask that you do not torment yourself with worst-case scenarios, but place your faith in those of us working to clear Inspector Treadles’s name. I never promise results ahead of time, but I have always delivered on those results.”
She inclined her head. “A good evening to you, Mrs. Treadles.”
Livia closed the door of her bedroom and leaned against it, breathing hard.
After Lady Holmes recovered from her stupefaction at having received fifty pounds from Charlotte, of all people, she’d paced in the parlor for a good half hour, pulling her hair out, convinced that Charlotte was under the protection of a man and was, sin of sins, trading her body for pin money.
But half an hour was as long as her moral quandary lasted. After that, her mind made the resolute turn toward how she ought to spend the money and enjoy herself. Dozens of ideas spouted forth from her lips, some dumbfounding Livia.
Wintering in Nice? Did Lady Holmes have any idea how much that would cost? Neither did Livia, to be sure, but she would be amazed if on that gilded aristocratic playground fifty pounds lasted longer than a two bob bit did in their little village.
She said nothing—it was not wise to puncture her mother’s daydreams at their frothiest. But eventually, Lady Holmes’s fanciful notions collapsed under their own weight. She slumped back into her chair. “But I can’t go anywhere, can I? You are still unmarried,still home, and that means I, the responsible mother, am stuck at home with you.”
Livia shot to her feet. A long tirade against her was on its way, waiting only for Lady Holmes’s resentment to escalate to anger. “I still haven’t written a Christmas card to the Openshaws. I’d best go do that right now!” she cried.
And fled.
Livia sighed, her back still against the door of the bedroom, her head in her heads. She’d escaped, for now. But tomorrow the anvil of her mother’s wrath would still fall.
Perhaps she should write a letter to Charlotte. But she didn’t want to tell Charlotte about the disharmony at home that had been brought on by her kindly meant funds.
Not knowing what else to do, she crossed the room and reached into her hiding place for the notebook that contained the last quarter of her story. As she lifted it, a photograph floated down from between the pages.
It was a picture of her, one she’d never seen before. She was seated at a table with glasses of wine and a basket of sliced baguette, her face turned to the side. The lighting was insufficient, yet enough to illuminate the delight on her face.
Her heart clenched.
The week before, in Paris, she and Mr. Marbleton had been able to spend a few hours by themselves, exploring the Jardin des Tuileries and the Sacré-Coeur. He’d carried with him his detective camera, disguised as a thick but not very large book, and used it to take photographs of her.
Afterwards, they’d stopped to refresh themselves at a bistro, its air redolent with the aroma of herbs and warm, bubbling stew. She’d gazed at the crowd outside, rushing to and fro on their own business, and imagined how the boulevard would look come summer, with all the great elms along its length in their full leafy glory.
Life always seemed to abound with possibilities when he was near.
But he was no longer in her life.
His had been the passage of a legendary comet, lighting up entire skies. But comets, however brilliant and extraordinary, are only visitors. They arrive from some mysterious region in the heavens, and disappear there again, leaving behind only dazzling memories.
Yes, she should drown in woe and wistfulness, for what she’d had all too briefly. Yet as she gazed upon her own image, and remembered his mischievous laughter after he’d taken the picture, what she felt was not sadness, but a cold dread that seeped from her heart to her lungs.
Why did she need to be afraid for him? He was a comet, for goodness’ sake.
She put the photograph away and sat down at her desk. But it was a quarter of an hour before she managed to pull herself together enough to resume copying.
This time, when Miss Longstead received Charlotte, she had on her glasses, wire rimmed with tortoiseshell temples. But the glasses were quickly put into her pocket: Charlotte had come to test her vision under conditions similar to the night of the dance.
Number 31, which in mourning had shut down tightly, now had all the windows on the two lower floors ablaze with light, their curtains drawn apart. Miss Longstead, wrapped in a great black cape, stood in the garden, at the spot where she believed she had been.
Charlotte would ask her to close her eyes. When she opened her eyes again, Charlotte would have a trial ready for her. Sometimes Charlotte sent a manservant to stand before the back door of number 33, sometimes a maid, sometimes no one, and sometimes two servants at once. Miss Longstead squinted but correctly identified the gender of the person or persons at the back door, except once, when a maid and a manservant stood in a line and she thought only the maid was there, because her dress had a bigger silhouette. She also said so when no one had been sent to stand before the door.
After Charlotte was satisfied that she could trust Miss Longstead to be right about what she’d seen that night—a woman going into number 33 from the back—she thanked the servants. Mrs. Coltrane, on hand to observe the proceedings, shepherded them back into the house. Charlotte marched farther into the garden to thank Miss Longstead.
“No, Miss Holmes, I should thank you for being so thorough,” she answered. And then, with her voice lowered, even though there was no one else within earshot, “Have you made any progress?”
