He laughed. She was a second-year student of medicine at the Sorbonne in Paris and enjoyed making light of her anatomy classes.
“But enough about me. How did Mrs. Treadles look to you, my lord?”
“Indeed,” echoed Mrs. Watson. “Is she all right, that poor woman?”
He glanced at Holmes, who nibbled on a slice of cake and said, “I told them she wouldn’t buckle under yet.”
“No, not yet,” he agreed.
“But . . .” prompted Penelope.
“But it’s also true that Inspector Treadles is in significant trouble.”
“Surely it can’t be anything except a huge misunderstanding,” murmured Mrs. Watson, not sounding entirely convinced.
This time everyone looked at Holmes, who drank her tea and said nothing.
It had so often fallen to her, to be the harbinger of ill tidings. He decided to fill that function this time. “We are all hoping it will prove no more than a misunderstanding. However, given that Inspector Treadles was, until last night, as far as we knew, a member of the law-enforcement community in good standing, I cannot help but think that Scotland Yard wouldn’t have arrested him unless he was standing over Mr. Longstead’s dead body, the murder weapon in hand.”
Mrs. Watson recoiled. “That bad?”
“That would be my guess. Holmes?”
“A likely scenario, yes.”
“Is there any chance that he did do it?” asked Penelope, who’d met the inspector only once.
Lord Ingram shook his head. “I can’t see him taking a life in cold blood. Or even in a rage. That said, he himself once told me that he had seen, in the course of his career, the most unlikely individuals turn to murder, when the stakes became high enough.”
“And what would have been his reason to turn to murder, if it had indeed come to that?” mused Penelope, as if to herself.
His wife, thought Lord Ingram.
He did not peer in Holmes’s direction this time, for fear that Mrs. Watson would take one look at their exchange and read his mind. Mrs. Watson was an integral part of any Sherlock Holmes investigation, but he did not want to lay bare his friend’s entire private life before her.
Not yet.
Mrs. Watson broke the silence. “My dear Miss Charlotte, have you a concerted strategy for us?”
She must be recalling the case at Stern Hollow, where Holmes, upon learning of a dead body found in the icehouse, had immediately formulated a detailed master plan, a large part of which she’d entrusted to Mrs. Watson to execute.
Holmes shook her head. “Not at the moment. I must at least speak to Inspector Treadles in person before I’ll know where to concentrate our efforts.”
“When will that happen?” wondered Penelope.
“When the papers get wind of the murder. At which point, Scotland Yard will need to respond. And if they already have Inspector Treadles in custody, that, too, will become public knowledge. Then they will have to allow him counsel and visitors.”
Mrs. Watson drained her teacup. “And how soon will the story be in the papers?”
“By tomorrow morning, at the very latest. If Scotland Yard suppresses this for too long, it will seem as if they are deliberately shielding the guilty, especially if the only suspect they have is one of their own.” Holmes turned to Mrs. Watson and Penelope. “You may enjoy another evening of reunion before Miss Redmayne’s holiday is interrupted by the work of the investigation.”
A few months ago, when Penelope had come home for her summer holiday, she had been eager to take part in any and all Sherlock Holmesian adventures. But the complicated nature of real cases and the toll they took on real lives had sobered her. Now the young woman who nodded did so with a hint of trepidation, as if already bracing herself for unhappy outcomes.
Mrs. Watson rose, pulling Penelope up with her. “My dear, let’s go back to the house. Mr. Mears has obtained bags of cuttings from the Christmas tree seller and we have much garland-making to do.”
Penelope gave her a quizzical glance before agreeing heartily. “You are absolutely right, Aunt Jo. And I believe it’s late enough in the day that we can have a bit of Madame Gascoigne’s cherry brandy while we work.”
They managed their departure with such grace and lightness that if Lord Ingram hadn’t already known Mrs. Watson wanted him alone with Holmes, he might not have guessed.
But now they were alone. At last.
The fire in the grate crackled softly. A horse whinnied on the street below. Rain came down, a soft percussion on the roof. Holmes adjusted the lace at her cuffs—the Christmas-themed dress, in addition to everything else, also boasted two extravagant spreads of snow-white broderie anglaise that cascaded from the middle of her forearms and matched the white lace cap on her head. The cuff lace swished pleasantly with her motion.
Satisfied with the image of exaggerated domestic tranquility she currently presented, she said, “Shall I assume that you plan to be in town for the immediate future, my lord?”
He had meant to stay in London a few days, in any case. For her. So that they might spend some time together, after he had . . . spoken to her. But this was not yet the moment for it—she was still preoccupied with her newest case.
“I will better serve Inspector Treadles here, rather than from a distance,” he said.
She gave him an even look. “Let’s speak of what you chose not to share with Mrs. Watson. I admire your desire to guard your friends’ privacy. But you of all people, Ash, should know that privacy becomes a mirage as a murder investigation gathers steam.”
“Nevertheless I hope that Inspector and Mrs. Treadles will manage to keep a large part of their lives private, that not all of it will have become fuel for public consumption.”
So many of the most pivotal events of his own life had been fodder for gossip. He wished, as much as possible, to spare his friends that particular torment. Life was difficult enough without one’s most harrowing experiences splashed over every major newspaper in the country, for the bemused speculation of strangers at breakfast.
“You and Mrs. Watson are well-matched in your gallantry,” answered Holmes. “However, you know as well as I do that Mrs. Treadles is holding something back—holding it back with all her might.”
He did know, alas.
Mrs. Treadles had made a great number of confessions: that she’d been having a terrible time at Cousins Manufacturing, that her husband hadn’t been where he’d said he would be, and even that his service revolver was missing from his dressing room.
However, everything she disclosed was something that a skilled investigator would have discovered within a day or two.