“The best way to prove her innocence is to discover the truth.”
“Do you really believe that those three deaths are part of a larger scheme?”
“I could not convince myself that they were all simply a coincidence.” She glanced down at the letter in her hand. “I hope Inspector Treadles has some good news for me.”
“You know someone in Scotland Yard?”
“I don’t know him personally, but Sherlock Holmes has consulted for him a few times, via a mutual friend.”
“Then why don’t you read his note? You must be anxious to know what it says.”
Charlotte did not need to be urged again.
Dear Mr. Holmes,
I have been looking into the Sackville case at Lord Ingram’s request. But while I have come across tantalizing clues and insights, I have unearthed nothing concrete—nothing that would convince a coroner’s jury, let alone be deployed as Crown’s evidence.
Time is running out—the inquest reconvenes tomorrow afternoon. I need hardly state that if you have any special insights that would aid me in the investigation, sir, it would be well to convey them at your earliest convenience.
Sincerely yours,
Robert Treadles
P.S. My best wishes for your speedy recovery.
“The news is not encouraging, I take it,” said Mrs. Watson.
Charlotte handed over the letter for Mrs. Watson to read herself.
Mrs. Watson scanned the lines. “What will you do now?”
Charlotte pressed a finger against her lips. “His letter is dated today, which means there is still time before the inquest reconvenes. I must arrange a meeting with him.”
“As yourself?”
“Not at this crucial moment, I don’t believe.” Men had a tendency to discount a woman’s thinking, even men who were otherwise open-minded. “Our mutual friend might have properties around town that I can borrow. Since he seems to have given Sherlock Holmes a condition, it would be doable to tell the inspector that Sherlock Holmes is in the next room but cannot receive him in person and that I, Miss Holmes, must be the conduit through which information passes.”
If she started preparing this very moment—and everything went her way—she should be able to pull off the meeting, if only just. “May I have some time to make the arrangements, Mrs. Watson? Of course you must deduct—”
“I have a better idea,” said Mrs. Watson. “I have some properties on Upper Baker Street, right behind the house. One of my tenants moved out two weeks ago. The flat has been cleaned and made ready but not yet put up for let again. What do you say that you receive your inspector right there?”
Charlotte did not debate long with herself. “In that case, would you mind asking Mr. Lawson to stop at the nearest post office? I’d like to send a cable to the inspector and ask him to meet me tonight.”
Charlotte had accepted Mrs. Watson’s offer because she needed it—time was of the essence. But as they went about staging the flat on Upper Baker Street, she saw that she’d have done Mrs. Watson a disservice if she’d declined her help.
Mrs. Watson had come alive.
The flat was already furnished, but she immediately set to work to make it look lived in. Potted plants and plump seat cushions were hauled over from her own house. Books by the gross went on the shelves. Several days’ worth of newspapers and half a dozen magazines were stuffed into a canterbury next to the fireplace.
But Mrs. Watson was far from finished: They needed to create the illusion that a man lived on the premises. She set a decanter of whisky on the sideboard, hung hats and a pair of men’s coats, and placed three walking sticks into the umbrella stand by the door.
A tobacco pipe was lit and left to smolder in an ashtray. Cups of steaming tea were allowed to sit and cool, for their fragrance to diffuse. And then, in a moment of inspired attention to detail, she simmered water over a spirit lamp and added a few drops each of cough syrup, camphor, and linseed oil, along with a handful of dried herbs. Immediately the flat took on the smell of convalescence, of many tinctures and compounds poured out and administered to a loved one.
She walked about the parlor, checking it from various angles, her brow furrowed. Charlotte, who had been placing a few of her own books onto the shelves, followed her line of sight. Knickknacks and souvenirs populated the top of the shelves. A vase of roses sat on the seat of the bow window that looked down onto Upper Baker Street. In the adjacent bedroom, a bolster had been placed under the cover of the fully made-up bed; the pair of men’s slippers peeking out from beneath the bedstead served as the perfect detail, for someone stealing a glance into the room with the door open a bare inch.
“No photographs,” said Charlotte.
“I knew it,” exclaimed Mrs. Watson. “I knew something was missing. Would you happen to have any?”
“A few.” She had brought a small album with her. “But none of them show me with anyone who can pass for a brother.”