“And why did Mrs. Struthers make that choice?”
“The Prices are yeoman farmers. Lots of men trudging about, especially during planting and harvest. And Jenny, well, I’m sure you wouldn’t, Inspector, but there are men who would take advantage of a girl like that. Her parents tried to lock her in her room, but she gets in a bad way if she’s locked up all the time.”
Mrs. Cornish opened the door to the maids’ room. Two neatly made iron beds were arranged in the shape of an L. The one that presumably belonged to Jenny Price had a pair of slippers underneath. Inspector Treadles noted the bars on the window and the padlock on the door.
“Mrs. Struthers offered to take Jenny in,” Mrs. Cornish continued. “She was a widow then and except for the man who took care of her horses and her garden there was no other man on the property—and he lived above the stables, not in the house. Jenny can only manage simple tasks, but she works hard and Mrs. Struthers didn’t have to pay her. In fact, to this day the Prices supply a good portion of the foodstuff that goes into the kitchen.”
“But with Mr. Sackville’s arrival there were men in the house.”
“At first there was only Mr. Sackville himself—Mr. Hodges came later. It was when we knew that the house had been let to a gentleman that I put the lock on the maids’ door—and the bars outside the window. I wasn’t so much worried about anyone getting into Jenny’s room as that she’d be lured out. But I needn’t have worried. Mr. Sackville wasn’t that kind of man—and neither is Mr. Hodges.”
They were now in Mrs. Meek’s room. A photograph of her younger self sat on a desk. She had not been nearly as pretty as the young Mrs. Cornish, but she beamed with confidence.
“I haven’t asked you this, Mrs. Cornish. What is your opinion of Mr. Sackville as a man?”
Mrs. Cornish was taken aback. “He was a gentleman, of course.”
“Many men are born gentlemen, but not all are worthy of that term.”
“Well, he was a true gentleman. He was always courteous to everyone. And considerate. We used to do all our own washing here, in the house. When Mr. Sackville saw how hard and rough the work was, he told me to have the laundry sent out—he’d pay for it.” Her voice cracked a little. “Now that was real kindness, that.”
Her anecdote left an impression on Sergeant MacDonald. As they walked away from the house, after saying good-bye to Mrs. Cornish, he said, “A shame this Mr. Sackville died. He seemed a real gentleman.”
“It would appear so. But if experience has taught me anything, those who knew the deceased are unlikely to speak ill of him so soon after his passing—especially not to a pair of police officers.”
From Curry House, they were to head back to the village to call on Dr. Harris. But Treadles exclaimed softly, turned around, and rang the doorbell again.
Mrs. Cornish opened the door. “Inspector, did you forget something?”
“I did indeed, Mrs. Cornish. I forgot to ask where the Birtles live.” He and MacDonald could easily pay Becky Birtle a visit while they were in the area.
“They live in Yorkshire.”
“Yorkshire?” Young girls in service tended to find work nearby. Or they departed for the big cities via connections with family and friends. For Becky Birtle to travel from Yorkshire to a barely on-the-map village four hundred miles away was unusual, to say the least.
“I worked in Yorkshire years ago and knew the Birtles. When Becky was old enough to work, they asked me if I had a place for her—they said they’d feel less worried if someone they trusted kept an eye on her.”
“I see. Did you inform Becky that the police would like a word with her?”
“I wrote her parents as soon as I heard. But I don’t expect to hear back from them before tomorrow.”
“I see.”
Treadles collected the Birtles’ address from Mrs. Cornish and made a mental note to find someone from the district’s constabulary to speak with Becky.
Sherlock Holmes had better be uncannily brilliant in his conjectures about these deaths—or at least about Mr. Sackville’s. Or he and Treadles would both end up looking very silly.
Very silly indeed.
At Dr. Harris’s home, Treadles and MacDonald were pleasantly surprised to find not only Dr. Harris waiting for them, but also Dr. Birch, the physician who had attended Mr. Sackville on the latter’s deathbed.
“Dr. Birch, Miss Birch, Mrs. Harris, and I play whist together quite often,” said Dr. Harris. “So we thought we’d make a party of it today, and save you gentlemen a trip to Barton Cross.”
“Your thoughtfulness is most appreciated,” said Treadles.
“I assume you will wish to speak to Dr. Birch first, since his intelligence is more germane to your case?”