He set a plate of holiday cake before her. She liked a good fruit cake, she’d once said in his hearing, because the taste made her remember happy childhood Christmases. “Allow me to be useful as a nursemaid, my dear lady, since I cannot do anything else at the moment.”
She blinked rapidly—he realized with astonishment that she was holding back tears at his utterly insignificant gesture. She picked up the piece of cake and took a bite, smiling bravely. “I’d like to say that I’m following your sage advice because I’ve come to my senses. But right now I’ll probably blindly obey any kindly voice of authority, if only to no longer be responsible for everything myself.”
His heart ached for her: She had been exhausted long before catastrophe struck this morning. “Decisions are taxing—far more than I ever imagined they’d be, in those days when I longed to make all the decisions.”
She took another bite of her cake. “I hope Sherlock Holmes is excellent at decisions.”
He nodded with wholehearted endorsement. “Extraordinarily so. As is Miss Holmes, in fact.”
“Do you have any guesses as to what Mr. Holmes will have us do?”
“No, but I’ve come to expect the unexpected.”
She turned her plate in her hands, as if she wasn’t sure whether she ought to ask her next question. “Robert said you were impeccable in your conduct at Stern Hollow. But were you—were you at all afraid?”
He also didn’t answer immediately—the memories brought back a sensation of cold that had nothing to do with the December day outside. He suppressed a shiver. “I was deathly afraid.”
“Even though Mr. Holmes had sent a brother to help you?”
Even though Holmes, in the guise of that brother, had been there in person, fighting for his life.
“Had I been an outsider looking in, I would have had full confidence in Holmes’s capability. But I was the prime suspect, I was the one all the evidence pointed toward, and I felt as if I were drowning. Even having Mr. Sherrinford Holmes at Stern Hollow didn’t change the fact that I was barely holding my head above water in rough seas. But he was the lifeline I held on to and eventually he pulled me ashore.”
Mrs. Treadles looked toward the door through which Holmes had disappeared. “Do you think,” she asked tentatively, “that Sherlock Holmes can do the same for Inspector Treadles?”
Yes, but you must place your complete trust in her. Tell her everything. Do not withhold any more crucial information.
Before he could answer, Holmes returned. “Ah, I see you have put more water to boil, my lord. Thank you.”
“May I ask what Mr. Holmes counsels?” asked Mrs. Treadles, her voice sounding both eager and nerve-stricken.
Holmes sat down and arranged her skirts so that they cascaded with greater flair about her. “In situations like this, it is always advisable to know all the facts as soon as possible to avoid wasting time on unnecessary avenues of inquiry. My brother recommends a multipronged approach. We will need to know everything about Mr. Longstead, look into the doings of Cousins Manufacturing, and seek to speak and otherwise communicate with Inspector Treadles.”
A commonsense—and commonplace—set of recommendations that Mrs. Treadles could have come up with on her own.
She tried valiantly to conceal her disappointment. “I see.”
“In the meanwhile, can I count on you to be home tonight?”
“Of course,” said Mrs. Treadles, rising wearily. “Thank you, Miss Holmes. And you must please convey my gratitude to Mr. Holmes.”
Lord Ingram rose, too. “I will see you out, Mrs. Treadles.”
At the bottom of the stairs, he asked, in a low voice, “Would you like me to accompany you home, Mrs. Treadles?”
“No, I shall be quite all right,” she said rather quickly.
“I’m sure Inspector Treadles would wish you to have the support of friends, in times such as these.”
“And I’m sure I shall feel more assured to know that you are at Sherlock Holmes’s disposal, my lord, rather than wasting your time squiring me about town.”
Her first refusal he’d attributed to a desire not to inconvenience him. But this second one, accompanied by a flash of apprehension in her eyes, was more adamant. She really didn’t want him to escort her.
She did not want any further questions, from anyone.
“In that case, let me see you to your carriage, at least.”
As he handed her up into her vehicle, she turned around in dismay. “Goodness, I forgot to inquire about Mr. Holmes’s fees! Should I have paid a portion up front to retain his services?”
He put on a reassuring smile for her. “Don’t worry about that now, Mrs. Treadles. You will hear from his bursar in good time.”
* * *
When Lord Ingram returned to the parlor at 18 Upper Baker Street, he was not surprised to see that said bursar had joined Holmes at the tea table: Mrs. Watson, his old friend, must have been in the bedroom, listening. But he was surprised—and delighted—to see Miss Penelope Redmayne, too, by her side.
To the world Penelope had always been presented as Mrs. Watson’s niece. But she was Mrs. Watson’s daughter, her natural father the late Duke of Wycliffe, Lord Ingram’s official father. But since he was, in truth, the product of the late duchess’s affair with a wealthy banker, he and Penelope were not related by blood. Still, he had always regarded her as a baby sister, one he didn’t see enough of.
He exchanged warm greetings with mother and daughter. Holmes looked on, appearing bemused. With someone else he might worry she felt excluded, but that had never been a problem with Holmes, who did not weigh the affection she received against that bestowed on anyone else.
“When did you arrive in London, Miss Redmayne?” he asked. When they were alone, they called each other Penelope and Ash. But even in front of Mrs. Watson, he preferred to maintain the pretenses.
“I reached yesterday,” she said cheerfully, “after a crossing that felled everyone aboard. I do believe I kissed soggy English ground in fervent gratitude upon disembarking. Presently I shall petition all and sundry to bring the tunnel under the Channel to fruition at the earliest possible date. And I refuse to hear a word about how such a shaft might undermine Britain’s natural defenses.”
He smiled. “And how are your studies?”
“Demanding and fascinating. I’ve become an ever more indelicate individual, by the way, having by now eaten pastries and cheese sandwiches next to still-open cadavers,” she answered, sighing. “My friends say that my coarsification will be complete when I will have consumed a serving of rognons à la crème under the same conditions—which, of course, will never happen as I don’t care for kidneys, even without human remains nearby.”