“Yes.”
She gazed at him. “You gave in to an impulse. This is unlike you, Ash.”
He made no response.
She, for all that she was often thought of as cold-blooded and unemotional, was rather free with her impulses—as much as possible, she preferred to indulge herself. Lord Ingram, on the other hand, felt intensely, yet kept a stranglehold on his emotions and his desires.
“You taste good,” she said.
Another indulged impulse on her part, to give voice to this particular thought.
Was he carefully weighing his words, making sure that he did not answer rashly, impetuously?
He kissed her again.
The heat of his palm against her cheek.
The pressure on her chin, held firmly between his thumb and forefinger.
The incitement of being pulled up from her chair and set against the wall.
And then he was no longer kissing her, but gazing into her eyes. An entire minute passed before he said softly, “I didn’t give in to an impulse, Holmes. I made a choice.”
* * *
Her eyes were large and wide set, ringed with long dark lashes tipped with a hint of gold. Her irises were the vivid cool blue of northern skies in autumn—and sometimes they reminded Lord Ingram exactly of a transparent, impersonal sky, unclouded by emotions.
They were not quite as impersonal today. But they remained deceptively guileless, as if she had never experienced kisses—or even proximity to a man—before this moment.
She exhaled.
Into the silence came the enthusiastic cries of a prepubescent boy, somewhat muffled by wind and rain. “Scotland Yard inspector accused of murder! Read all about it! Read all about the murdering copper!”
They broke apart and rushed to the window. She knelt on the deep, cushioned sill, opened a casement, and asked the paperboy if he could toss one up at her. He did and caught a coin she dropped down in return.
“Keep the change!”
She closed the window and spread open the rain-speckled paper on the desk. They stood over it, reading, hands braced against the side of the desk, arms almost but not quite touching.
The Metropolitan Police has acknowledged that Inspector Robert Treadles, of the Criminal Investigation Department, has been arrested on suspicion of murder.
He was found on the scene of the crime, 33 Cold Street. The two victims, Mr. John Longstead and Mr. Ambrose Sullivan, are uncle and nephew, and both said to have been longtime associates of Cousins Manufacturing, owned by Mrs. Robert Treadles, the suspect’s wife.
They exchanged a look. Not one, but two men killed!
The paper went into some biographical details about the dead men. Those describing Mr. Longstead accorded largely with what Mrs. Treadles had related, except the article neglected to mention that he’d only recently returned to Cousins Manufacturing after a long absence.
Mr. Sullivan, the nephew, had been at the company ten years. Accounted capable and brilliant, the handsome managing director was popular with both peers and subordinates. His death had left behind a grieving widow and two fatherless young children, one still an infant.
Inspector Treadles, too, received a fair number of column inches. Nothing of what was written could be classified as inaccurate, per se, but Lord Ingram’s lips flattened as he read on.
The distinctive impression he received from those paragraphs was that of a man who had married above his station and then proceeded to be jealous of his wife, especially after she took over her father’s enterprise and began associating with men of her own class, men better educated and more successful than he.
The article concluded with Inspector Treadles has not confessed to the twin murders and Scotland Yard has released no additional details on the crimes.
He was just about to state that the paper went too far in its conjectures when his gaze fell on a stub of an article directly underneath.
In what might be considered a highly curious coincidence, it has been pointed out that a small notice, carried by a number of London morning editions yesterday, reads, when deciphered, “Roses are red, violets are blue, on Cold Street one finds a wife no longer true.”
So much for hoping that the message would have gone unnoticed in the wake of the murders.
“It smacks of manipulation, doesn’t it?” said Holmes calmly.
“Manipulation or not, the public will leap to the conclusion Mrs. Treadles feared: that those were crimes motivated by an insecure husband’s intense jealousy. Men have killed for far less.”
Holmes ran her fingers through her hair, shorn short several weeks ago so that it would be easier to don wigs. Her lace cap from earlier now lay on the floor next to the wall where they had kissed, the sight of which sent a rather adolescent thrill through him.
“And men have withstood far more without killing.” Her voice remained dispassionate. “It’s telling that Mrs. Treadles didn’t mention Mr. Sullivan, whom she would have seen a lot more of, since presumably he was there at the office every day except Sunday.”
He forcibly pulled his mind back to the case at hand. “Perhaps she didn’t know he also died.”
But even he didn’t believe it.
A young man, handsome and well-versed in the running of the enterprise—whatever they had speculated earlier about Mrs. Treadles and Mr. Longstead was much more likely to have instead taken place between Mrs. Treadles and Mr. Sullivan.
Her conspicuous silence certainly didn’t dispel the thought.
Holmes tapped a knuckle against the paper. “The article didn’t say who would be the detective leading the investigation. I wonder if it will be Chief Inspector Fowler. I hope not.”
They’d had more than a little taste of working with Chief Inspector Fowler, who had handled the case at Stern Hollow and had been rather overtly invested in Lord Ingram’s guilt.
“Fowler has seen me as Charlotte Holmes the fallen woman, and he has seen Mrs. Watson, too, as my companion. If he’s in charge, we’ll need disguises.” She patted her cheek wistfully. “And I’d rather not put on a beard unless absolutely necessary. My skin does not care for the glue.”
“You have suffered for your friends,” he said softly.
“In your case, I’d say I was also pleasantly rewarded,” she said with a slight smile. “Very pleasantly.”
He ignored the heat that surged through him, although the effort took a moment. “Shall I go find out who is in charge of Inspector Treadles’s case?”
The bell rang. “Probably not necessary for you to make a special trip for it, if that’s Sergeant MacDonald at the door.”