Mrs. Cornish thought for a moment. “Disheartened, I’d say. Restless, too. His habits used to be regular. But in those last few weeks, he’d disappear a whole day at a time. And once he came back drenched in rain—and it’d been raining even when he left.”
The information did not bode well for Sherlock Holmes’s conjecture. The relevant dates for Mr. Sackville failed to line up with Lady Amelia’s sudden death, which came too late to explain his downheartedness. The most likely hypothesis would be that Mr. Sackville had a mistress in town whom he visited with clockwork regularity. And then what happened? Had she left him for greener pastures? Or perhaps accepted a proposal of marriage from another smitten man?
It was hardly unheard of for a man in the throes of heartache to be overly generous with substances that offered him a few hours of oblivion and forgetfulness.
Inspector Treadles pressed on. “Please describe for me the household activities in the twenty-four hours preceding Mr. Sackville’s death.”
“There isn’t much to tell, Inspector. It was a half day. I had the Anglican Women’s meeting in the afternoon. Then I went to Bideford, had myself a spot of tea, walked around the shops a bit, and came back at half past seven. Everyone else returned a little before eight—except Mr. Hodges, he was out on his annual holiday.
“We had our supper in the servants’ hall and then brought back the dishes from the dining room—on half days Mrs. Meek, the cook, left Mr. Sackville a cold supper. At nine I took him a cup of tea, a plate of biscuits, and the evening post and asked if there would be anything else. He said no, I might retire. And that was the last I saw him conscious.”
“Can you recall what came in the post for him?”
“A magazine or two and maybe a few pamphlets—he liked to send for those from time to time,” Mrs. Cornish said rather reluctantly, as if finding it distasteful to admit that she’d guessed the contents of her employer’s mail.
“And how did he look?”
“A bit tired, but not in a way to alarm anyone.”
Had he any idea those would be his final hours?
“You were at the inquest. You heard the letter read from Mr. Holmes, connecting Mr. Sackville’s death to those of two ladies in his circle. What did you think of that?”
“I’m sure I don’t know what to think of it at all,” answered Mrs. Cornish, her expression as circumspect as her words.
“Have you ever heard Mr. Sackville mention either Lady Amelia Drummond or Lady Shrewsbury?”
“No, sir.”
“Did he write to them?”
“I have never seen an envelope with either of those names.”
“Whom did he correspond with?”
“His lawyers, mostly.”
“And the morning of the discovery? Please give an account.”
Mrs. Cornish thought for a moment. “Before Mr. Hodges went on his holiday, he gave the task of Mr. Sackville’s morning cocoa to Mrs. Meek. But that morning she was busy in the kitchen so Becky Birtle, the housemaid, carried it upstairs.”
“According to Becky Birtle’s testimony at the inquest,” said Treadles, “she set down the tray and wished Mr. Sackville good morning. And when he didn’t respond, she spoke louder. And when he still didn’t respond, she shook him by the hand, only to feel that his hand was alarmingly cool.”
Mrs. Cornish nodded, her brow furrowed. “She went to Mrs. Meek—and Mrs. Meek came to me. The three of us went to Mr. Sackville’s room together. He was still breathing then. Mrs. Meek said it didn’t look good for him. Becky started shaking. I ran to find Dunn in the stable. He rode to the doctor’s house, but Dr. Harris wasn’t home. He had to ride another four miles to Barton Cross to fetch Dr. Birch.
“When Dr. Birch finally came and examined Mr. Sackville, he asked me whether Mr. Sackville used chloral. I said I’d seen some about. He said that if he’d had a better description of Mr. Sackville’s condition, he’d have brought strychnine. He and Dunn rushed off to Dr. Harris’s house, raided his dispensary, and came back with strychnine. But by then it was too late. Mr. Sackville, he’d stopped breathing several minutes before.”
Mrs. Cornish’s voice quavered slightly at the end of her recital.
“I have an unpleasant question that must be asked,” said Treadles. “Do you know of anyone who might wish Mr. Sackville harm?”
“No!” The housekeeper’s answer was instant and fierce, the strongest reaction they’d seen from her this day. “No one. Well, certainly not anyone in these parts.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Cornish. I have no further questions for you at the moment,” said Treadles.
Mrs. Cornish inclined her head, her breaths still noticeably shallow.
“The next person I’d like to see would be Becky Birtle, the maid who found Mr. Sackville,” Treadles went on. “But Constable Perkins reported that Becky Birtle is no longer at this house. Can you elaborate on that, Mrs. Cornish?”