Had he misheard? “Strychnine? Mr. Sackville died of chloral.”
“We, however, are operating on the assumption that his death was not an accidental overdose, but a murder that is meant to appear as an accidental overdose.” Miss Holmes leaned forward an inch. “Were you the systematic executor who could pull off multiple murders that appear otherwise, Inspector, what would you have done ahead of time to make sure that Mr. Sackville wasn’t saved by a dose of strychnine delivered just in time?”
It was the first time that anyone had, within Treadles’s hearing, referred to the deaths of Mr. Sackville, Lady Amelia Drummond, and Lady Shrewsbury as murders. A chill ran down his spine. “Are you implying, Miss Holmes, that I would have tampered with the supply of strychnine in the vicinity?”
“Yes. So that even if help reached Mr. Sackville before the point of no return, that help would have been administered in vain.”
Treadles let out a breath. “That is both diabolical and brilliant.”
“It is, let’s face it, quite a reach,” said Miss Holmes modestly. “But at this point, Inspector, what do you have to lose?”
“True, nothing. But I must make haste, if I hope to achieve anything in time.”
Cables needed to be sent immediately to have the evidence gathered for testing. He had planned to leave for Devon first thing in the morning, but now it would seem that he had better be on his way as soon as possible, to be there in the morning and urge matters along.
He rose. “Thank you, Miss Holmes. And please convey my gratitude to Mr. Holmes. I will see myself out.”
“Inspector?”
“Yes, Miss Holmes?”
Miss Holmes smiled a little. “My brother advises that you request the chemical analyst to also test Mr. Sackville for every poison for which he has an assay. If the strychnine turns out not to have been tampered with, then this will be our last hope, to find something in Mr. Sackville’s system that couldn’t have arrived there accidentally.”
Thirteen
A silence fell at Inspector Treadles’s departure.
Charlotte moved to the window seat and poured a little water into the vase of roses. She was surprised to see raindrops rolling down the windowpanes. A shower fell, quiet and steady. A carriage passed below, hooves and wheels splashing, a yellow halo around each lantern.
She had expected Lord Ingram to stay longer—they were friends of long standing, having known each other since they were children. She had very much looked forward to a word in private with him. But she forgot, as she usually did, the silence that always came between them in these latter years, whenever they found themselves alone.
The sensation in her chest, however, was all too familiar, that mix of pleasure and pain, never one without the other.
She could have done without those feelings. She would have happily gone her entire life never experiencing the pangs of longing and the futility of regret. He made her human—or as human as she was capable of being. And being human was possibly her least favorite aspect of life.
“More tea, sir?” she asked, remembering that they weren’t truly alone. Mrs. Watson was in the next room, the door to which was open a crack.
“No, thank you,” he said quietly.
“Nibbles?” He hadn’t touched the madeleines.
“Most kind of you, but no.”
She returned to her seat and took a madeleine herself—she didn’t understand how anyone had the willpower to say no to madeleines. Then again, the man before her said no to the vast majority of her suggestions, whether they concerned tea cakes or life-altering courses of action.
Other young ladies she knew enjoyed the construction of an ideal man for themselves. Charlotte never understood the point of such an exercise: She’d yet to meet a woman who thought her house perfect, and unlike men, houses could be planned, expanded, and redecorated from top to bottom. But had she indulged in intellectually devising her own perfect match, she would have come up with someone substantially similar to herself, an aloof observer, a creature of silence, a man happy to live life entirely inside his own head.
Whereas with Lord Ingram, she was always first struck by his physicality. She was aware of the space he occupied, his motion, his weight, the cut and drape of his coat, the length and texture of his hair—even though she had never touched his hair. She found herself observing, intensely, the direction of his gaze, the placement of his hands, the rise and fall of his chest with every breath.