Lord Ingram promised his children that he would return and help them with the castle, and then he walked the police officers out of the park.
“Any headways in your investigation, Inspector?”
Treadles shook his head. “I’m afraid not. A few tantalizing glimmers here and there, but nothing that translates into solid evidence that would persuade any jury in the land.”
Lord Ingram looked disappointed, but not surprised. “This was never going to be an easy case. I can’t thank you enough, Inspector, for taking it on.”
“For Sherlock Holmes, it’s the least I could do,” said Treadles, feeling warm and bolstered by Lord Ingram’s words.
“If there’s anything I can do to help, please don’t hesitate to let me know.”
“There is, in fact.” If Treadles had not run into Lord Ingram, he would have sent round a note very soon. “I’d be most obliged if a discreet inquiry could be made to the cause behind Lord Sheridan and Mr. Sackville’s estrangement. The families of the deceased ladies have categorically refused to be of any help. So Mr. Sackville is our only opening.”
Lord Ingram thought for a moment. “There is someone I can approach for this purpose.”
“Thank you, my lord.” Treadles had every faith Lord Ingram would see to the matter promptly. “Have you any news from Holmes, by the way?”
Treadles had asked to see the letter to the coroner while he’d been in Devon. While the letter itself was undated, the postmark was two days after Holmes’s misfortune. Most likely, someone close to him had discovered the letter afterward and dispatched it to its intended recipient. But Treadles still held out hope that Holmes might have recovered.
“No, I’ve had no news at all from Holmes,” said Lord Ingram. Then, for the first time in their acquaintance, he asked of Treadles, “And you, Inspector? Have you heard from Holmes?”
Treadles shook his head. After he’d taken on the investigation, he had indeed sent a note to Holmes—to the General Post Office, as Lord Ingram once mentioned he had. The letter might as well have been dropped into the Thames, for all the response he’d received. “But I plan to carry on and do as much as possible.”
In the little time that remained.
“I am most grateful.” Lord Ingram shook Treadles’s hand. “And Holmes would be, too, if Holmes but knew.”
Ten
Charlotte did know of Inspector Treadles’s involvement—she’d received his letter—but sometimes gratitude wasn’t enough to get a woman out of bed.
She had not packed an umbrella when she left home. Of course not. A parasol was an accessory for a lady. An umbrella, not so. When she’d had a bit of money in reserve, there had been no precipitation. And now that one cloudburst followed another, she could no longer afford any rain gear.
Or so she told herself, for an excuse not to go out to be met with further disappointments.
All the better options had been taken from her. Had she prowled the city with energy and determination, she’d still have returned footsore and empty-handed. The schools were closed to her. The professions were closed to her. Just about anything that had a possibility of a satisfying career was closed to her.
She could go into domestic service, but her age factored against her: Women who spent their working life in service often started when they were eleven or twelve. Someone as old as she should have already worked her way up to the position of a lady’s maid or an underhousekeeper. She didn’t mind scrubbing pots and pans alongside tweenies, but that didn’t mean the person who did the hiring, the housekeeper or the cook, would want her about.
Which meant she must lie and pretend to have experience and references. She had read Mrs. Beeton’s Book of Household Management from end to end. She knew that turpentine could remove stains from clothing and that spirit of wine was good for cleaning pokers.
But domestic service had its own drawbacks. In smaller households she might be harassed by her employer or other servants. In larger households, run with military precision, she was safer from unwanted attention—she might never see her employer except once a year at the servants’ ball. But she faced a greater risk that someone might recognize her, leading to her expulsion—or to being blackmailed.
Was it any wonder she had spent most of the day staring at the ceiling? Why expend the energy—and wear out the soles of her boots—just so she could spend the next several years on her knees cleaning out grates while fearing either the son of the house or a sharp-eyed fellow servant who might have seen her from her pre-scandal days?
Much better to stay put. That way she’d at least be less hungry.