“I apologize for the necessity of the intrusion,” Treadles said as gently as he could. “But we have an eyewitness account of your return to Paddington Station from a Great Western train. The eyewitness, who has been interviewed by my colleague, is entirely certain that she saw you on the day Mr. Sackville died—and even produced her diary entry to bolster her claim.”
“Lady Avery kindly sent a message to that effect.” A note of irony lined her words. “I did return to London that day. I am one of the patronesses of the Young Women’s Christian Association and attended the opening of a new center in Bath, which took place before numerous witnesses. Then I got on a train the next day and came back.”
“You didn’t go to Stanwell Moot?” It would have been a fairly convenient side trip from Bath.
“I assure you, Inspector, I never set foot in Stanwell Moot.”
Unfortunately, that was probably true. Constable Perkins’s conscientious legwork had not produced a shred of evidence that either of the Sheridans had ever visited the village or its vicinities.
“I was also told that you were once very fond of Mr. Sackville. That you lamented that he had drifted away from the family. Lady Avery said you claimed not to know why he cut off contact, but there is a very real possibility that you knew and chose not to tell her, as she was liable to repeat what she learned to others.”
“An astute observation.” The expression on Lady Sheridan’s face was almost a smile.
Treadles found himself warming up to the old woman at this sign of almost approval. He had to issue a stern reminder to himself that she was still a prime suspect. “Can you elucidate us as to why Mr. Sackville drifted away from the family?”
Lady Sheridan waved a weary hand. “One of those tedious arguments between brothers about their manly honor—I can’t recall how it began.”
Her dismissal of the matter seemed genuine enough. Treadles tried a different angle. “Lord Sheridan insisted that there was no estrangement.”
“And I believe that he believed so. Until Harrington died he was probably still expecting his brother to ring the bell and admit he’d been wrong all these years.”
Could it truly be so insignificant, an argument that caused formerly affectionate brothers to become strangers?
“Mr. Sackville’s passing does not seem to have grieved you, my lady.”
“I have been brought up to never grieve in public. In any case, we lost him long ago—my husband might not have realized but I did, eventually. I already grieved.”
Her voice was hard.
Inspector Treadles rose and inclined his head. “Thank you, my lady. That will be all.”
“Breathe in,” Mrs. Watson ordered.
Charlotte sucked in hard. Mrs. Watson yanked on the laces of her corset. On Sherlock Holmes’s supposed sickbed lay a tangle of scarlet and gold silk, the blouse, skirt, and scarf of the ghagra choli that she had just taken off. With Mrs. Watson tying the corset laces, Charlotte stepped into her petticoats and peeked at the street below from behind the curtain.
She had been followed from the Holmes house to 18 Upper Baker Street, she was fairly certain of that. But now there was no one—and no carriages—loitering below.
The doorbell rang just as she finished dressing. Charlotte put the pile of ghagra choli into an armoire and took a seat in the parlor; Mrs. Watson went down to open the door for Mrs. Marbleton.
Her inquiry had been one of the earliest Sherlock Holmes responded to.
Dear Mr. Holmes,
I am concerned for my husband.
Mr. Marbleton writes twice a day when he is away. If he feels postal services are too slow, he cables in addition. And anytime circumstances permit, he telephones, in spite of my protest that it is hardly the thing to do for the lady of the house to stand in a passageway and shout her more tender sentiments for all to hear.
I have not heard from him in thirty-six hours. Instead, a strange letter bearing no return address has come. I cannot puzzle out what it is trying to tell me: The sentences make sense, but why would anyone think that I have the remotest interest in animal husbandry?
The letter is typed, on plain paper. I enclose a replica I have made of this letter in the hope that you may be able to advise me.
Yours,
Mrs. C. B. Marbleton
Charlotte had written back immediately.
Dear Mrs. Marbleton,
I am very sorry to hear about your husband. Although I cannot ascertain his whereabouts, I can tell you something of the note you received.
The text, while coherent, has no significance. However, by examining the punctuation—namely the hyphens and the full stops—it emerges that the letter contains a message in Morse code.
Decoded, it says Call for me at general.
Should you have further need of my service, you are welcome to call upon 18 Upper Baker Street at four o’clock tomorrow afternoon.
Your servant,
Sherlock Holmes