Page 8 of A Ruse of Shadows
Charlotte, unbeknownst to Inspector Brighton—and Inspector Treadles—had also boarded the sleek oceangoing steamer in disguise, for her own purposes, and had therefore witnessed certain fateful events for Inspector Brighton.
“I was relieved to see Inspector Brighton set off for Malta—it was not easy to be collegial with a man who had attempted to send me to the gallows. And perhaps Inspector Brighton was also relieved to be away on official business for a while—I was not without allies at work, and many of them considered him much too eager to see a fellow policeman come to an ignominious end.”
Did this mean that had Inspector Brighton not been so determined to charge Inspector Treadles with two counts of murder, today he might still be a trusted and feared officer of the law?
“Apparently, before he left, Inspector Brighton submitted an unsolved case for review. Knowing him, he must have seen something in the case that could rehabilitate his reputation within Scotland Yard. Of course, after the events aboard the RMSProvence, his reputation is beyond repair, but still I am wary about the case.
“Fortunately, we’ve been shorthanded these past few months, what with Chief Inspector Fowler’s injury and Inspector Brighton’s…misadventure. And when Chief Inspector Fowler returned to work,hehad to set out for Malta, because the constables there still hadn’t received their promised training.
“When he comes back, I believe he will assign the case to a junior officer so as to satisfy procedural requirements. Chances are the junior officer will encounter decade-old clues that lead nowhere and give up. However, we do have several talented and ambitiousnewcomers, and the one who receives the dossier might very well dig up something significant.”
Inspector Treadles paused to drink from his teacup. He had arrived a little tense, no doubt worried for Lord Ingram—and discomfited by the puzzling ruse of which he had only the most superficial grasp. But that uneasiness of knowing too little had by now transmuted into the distress of possibly knowing too much.
Charlotte took a bite of her plum cake—highly toothsome, with a moist crumb and perfectly macerated raisins. “May I ask the nature ofyourinterest in this case, Inspector?”
“Inspector Brighton wasn’t subtle about his desire to see me charged for murder. Had he succeeded, it would have made his reputation. But he didn’t. When you proved my innocence, it not only exposed his ruthlessness but also left his judgment open to question. Why had he not asked for the same accounts and documents from Cousins Manufacturing? Why had he not bothered to trace misallocated funds?”
The policeman turned his teacup on its gold-rimmed saucer a few degrees—clockwise, counterclockwise, then clockwise again—producing faintly audible scratches of porcelain on porcelain. “I doubt that Inspector Brighton cared greatly what others thought of his character, but it agitated him that his much-vaunted competence became a subject of debate. He meant to prove that while he might have stumbled on one highly visible case, his ability to sniff out guilt remained intact. And to do that, he sought to bring down a different officer at the Yard.”
“The officer responsible for the unsolved case?”
“Correct. I was lucky to escape Inspector Brighton’s malice, but I do not want anyone to pay for my good fortune with their reputation.” He looked up and hastened to add, “Please don’t understand this to mean that I have come to you to prevent any facts from coming to light—not at all. What I have is a slight advantage of time—Chief Inspector Fowler won’t be back for a few days, and even then it will likely be another fortnight before he officially assigns the dossier.In the meanwhile, I hope to learn the truth before anyone else at Scotland Yard does—the whole truth or whatever nuggets you can discover.”
Charlotte sipped her tea. She drank Ceylon in Paris, too, but in London the same tea tasted smokier and more full-bodied. “Inspector Brighton wasn’t completely without cause in trying to pin the Longstead-Sullivan murders on you: Both you and Mrs. Treadles tried to hide evidence. And he might be right about this unsolved case as well. What will you do should I discover misconduct on the part of the investigating officer?”
Inspector Treadles grimaced and reached for a slice of cake. “I don’t know, Miss Holmes—the possibility unnerves me. But if we cannot escape the truth, we might as well learn it sooner.”
?Inspector Treadles had not handed over the actual Scotland Yard dossier; instead he had given Sherlock Holmes an excellent summary, a nearly word-for-word copy of the original investigator’s report. He had also informed Miss Charlotte that Garwood Hall, where the so-called Christmas Eve Murder had taken place, was currently up for let.
Garwood Hall was located not in the environs of London but in Lancashire. After a brief discussion, Mrs. Watson and Miss Charlotte set out that very evening for Manchester.
During the journey, Mrs. Watson needed a dozen attempts before she managed to read the police summary to the end—only to realize, an hour later, that with her mind still full of Lord Bancroft’s letters, she’d failed to retain names and crucial details.
Starting with Lord Ingram’s “injury,” the ruse was all about misdirection, to make their enemies think that they were otherwise occupied. Given that assisting Inspector Treadles was very much part of the overarching plan, she had trouble thinking of the Christmas Eve Murder as a real commission for Sherlock Holmes.
And this was before one considered Inspector Treadles’s ambivalencetoward the case. From speaking to Miss Charlotte, Mrs. Watson had come away with the impression that while the inspector had steeled himself for the truth, he would much rather be told that despite Sherlock Holmes’s best effort, absolutely nothing else could be unearthed about this long-ago crime.
At the railway station nearest Garwood Hall, an estate agent named Mr. Elstree collected them. After an enthusiastic greeting, he guided them to his dogcart, that most useful country vehicle.
The drive was lovely. The landscape bore no marks of industry, and every bend in the road yielded only more unspoiled greenery, fields, orchards, and pastures bordered by stacked stone walls.
Mrs. Watson imagined this vista at Christmas: wreaths of holly on farmhouse gates, the berries red and festive against waxy green leaves, an aroma of freshly baked mince pies in the air, and upon every brightly lit window, silhouettes of families gathered around laden tables.
At Garwood Hall, too, there had been a family. Mr. Victor Meadows had acquired the manor only months prior to his death, with wealth inherited from his industrialist grandfather. Mrs. Meadows, his much-younger wife of eight years, had been on hand, as well as her sister, still a child then; Mr. Meadows’s older half brother, Mr. Ephraim Meadows; and a dozen indoor servants.
No doubt the house had been Christmas-card perfect, pine garlands over the mantelpieces, a cornucopia on every table, and in the kitchen, the Christmas goose slowly roasting in the oven.
Yet underneath, ill will had festered.
But whose ill will? A mistreated member of the staff? A disgruntled worker from one of Victor Meadows’s factories? His wife, who had married him at sixteen, after the bankruptcy and death of her parents? Or his much poorer half brother, who’d seethed with jealousy and discontent his entire life, because his younger sibling had been born with not only a silver spoon in his mouth but gold rings on every finger?
“Here we are!” chirped Mr. Elstree as he reined the dogcart to a gentle stop.
Garwood Hall did not have a gatehouse. Mr. Elstree simply unlocked the gate, drove the dogcart through, and locked it again.
The gate itself might be difficult to climb, all bare wrought-iron pickets topped with stabbing finials, but the estate wall that ran along the country lane was only five feet high and posed little challenge to a nimble evildoer. With a ladder, even a clumsy one could scale it.
“Was that not a quick, easy trip from the railway station?” extolled Mr. Elstree. “And such a pretty drive ahead of us.”
