“Let me go out the back door and come back in—so he doesn’t get the wrong impression.”
Her eyes twinkled with amusement. “So he doesn’t get the correct impression, you mean?”
“That, too, I suppose.”
She sighed softly. “It would be nice—”
“If he didn’t jump to conclusions?”
“If whatever conclusions he jumps to with regard to my gentlemen friends did not affect his ability to work with me.”
He wasn’t sure he could do that. He, for one, emphatically did not want to judge Mrs. Treadles. But even so, he knew he was already beginning to wonder whether she was as competent and trustworthy as he’d first thought.
All in the absence of solid evidence.
“I’d better hurry,” he said. “We don’t want Sergeant MacDonald to wait too long.”
“You don’t need to go anywhere,” she said.
“I don’t—”
“You’re afraid he’ll wonder what we two might be doing here alone. But you forget: to Sergeant MacDonald we wouldn’t be alone.”
Of course. “Sherlock Holmes” was in the next room.
She touched him briefly on the arm, went down, and returned with their caller. As they climbed up he heard her say, “By the way, Lord Ingram is also here, Sergeant, to discuss Inspector Treadles’s current predicament—Mrs. Treadles wished for his involvement in the matter.”
“I would have wished for the same—this is a time for friends,” said Sergeant MacDonald, as he walked into the room.
He was a young man of about Holmes’s age. When Lord Ingram had met him before, he’d remarked on the sergeant’s relaxed, smiling mien. Today he was not relaxed or smiling, though he was visibly relieved to be among his superior’s supporters.
“I’ll make tea. Would you also care for something stronger in the meanwhile, Sergeant MacDonald?”
“I probably shouldn’t but I will, this time. Thank you, Miss Holmes.”
“It has been a long day for you, I take it,” said Lord Ingram, while Holmes put a kettle to boil on the spirit lamp.
“Unfortunately so, my lord. I don’t know what to make of anything anymore. Rumors are rife within the Yard. I’m petrified to think that the inspector might have done the deeds—and I’m even more petrified that he didn’t but will be condemned as guilty anyway.”
“Do you think the inspector might have done it?” asked Holmes, taking her seat.
Sergeant MacDonald made a rueful face, as he sat down after her. “The only reason I force myself to contemplate it is because the inspector taught me that I should eliminate suspects on evidence, and not because they seem unlikely.
“But no, I really don’t think it could have been him. We are working men, us coppers, but we labor for different reasons. Some of us just want wages on the regular and work that isn’t as grinding as what men do in factories. Some of us fancy it a bit more—I think my work in the Criminal Investigation Department is interesting, when it isn’t too gruesome. But for the inspector—he’s never said it in so many words, but I think for him it’s a calling.
“He really does revere the rule of law, to an extent I find a bit . . .” The sergeant scratched his chin, searching for the right word. “Well, a bit old-fashioned. Laws are made by men, aren’t they? Men aren’t perfect. And even decent laws aren’t enforced uniformly—I see that all the time. But the inspector, even though he’s a tough investigator, has this idealistic, almost romantic view of a just society and all that.”
It was precisely this quality that had drawn Lord Ingram to Inspector Treadles. He was a few years younger than Inspector Treadles, but by the time they’d met, his own romantic vision of life had already become badly eroded. It had been encouraging, almost restorative, to be in the company of a man who dealt with some of the worst elements of society, yet still held on to his ideals.
Not realizing at the time that Inspector Treadles’s ideals also included a number of inflexible views on women.
Holmes passed Sergeant MacDonald a plate of cake and he fell upon it eagerly, consuming a slice before saying, “I imagine the inspector would kill in self-defense, or in the defense of others, if he must. But I can’t see him killing with premeditation. If he was dealing with malfeasance of any kind, he’d let the law handle it. After all, he is an enforcer of the law; his words would carry weight.”
But what about where the law did not legislate? What about matters of affection, of husbandly possessiveness?
“We just read about a small notice,” said Holmes, “that would seem to indicate that Inspector Treadles would have arrived at Cold Street already in an inflamed state of mind.”
“I heard about that, but Inspector Treadles doesn’t read the small notices, as far as I know. And in any case—” Sergeant MacDonald again scratched his chin. “Forgive me if I’m speaking out of turn. I’ve known the inspector for a while. I won’t say he doesn’t get angry, but he isn’t a man who lashes out in anger. He pulls in, if you take my meaning.”
Lord Ingram did. He also “pulled in,” so to speak.
Holmes nodded and changed the subject. “I believe Inspector Treadles enjoyed a stellar reputation at Scotland Yard. Yet despite his good name and his good work over the years, he was arrested for these murders. Should we take it as indication that his guilt, at the moment at least, appears overwhelming?”
Sergeant MacDonald sighed. “After I saw Mrs. Treadles, I went to the nearest two stations to Cold Street and got the gist of the story. A bit after three in the morning, I was told, a pair of bobbies were coming back from their patrol. A fog had rolled in. Because of that they changed their route to Cold Street, a shortcut back to their station house.
“The fog was dense. But with the light from their lanterns they could still see, when they passed before 33 Cold Street, that the front door was open. They went for a closer look, and saw that the house was unoccupied—cold interior, furniture covered, etc. Their first thought was burglary, possibly one in progress. They heard some noises coming from an upstairs room and climbed up, thinking to catch the thief red-handed.
“What they found was a room locked from the inside. They rattled the door and heard no response. They identified themselves as the police and still received no answers. So they forced open the door—and saw Inspector Treadles inside. He’d barricaded himself behind the bedstead, his service revolver pointed at them. Nearer to the door were the two dead men and a fair bit of blood.”
The sergeant’s recital was matter-of-fact, but Lord Ingram heard the catch in his voice at the end. His own stomach tightened. He could almost smell the pungency of fresh blood and feel the inspector’s terror at the pounding on the door.