Another look exchanged between the Birtles. Mrs. Birtle wiped her hand on her apron. “Why do you need to know, Inspector?”
“I am investigating a murder. None of the suspects with the means to have committed it appear to have concrete motives. Therefore I must get to the bottom of every possible connection among all parties involved. If you are concerned the information might get someone into trouble, please consider that withholding the necessary intelligence from me may result in an innocent bystander being charged with the crime.”
Mr. Birtle placed his hand atop his wife’s. Mrs. Birtle glanced at her husband and then looked Treadles in the eye. “We took Becky in the day she was born and raised her as if she were our own.”
Treadles let out the breath he didn’t realize he was holding. “And is Mrs. Cornish of Curry House Becky’s natural mother?”
Mrs. Birtle nodded.
“Thank you for your trust in me.” Treadles inclined his head. “I will do my best to keep this from becoming public knowledge.”
It felt almost unsettling to finally have a prime suspect, but the scenario made sense. Mr. Hodges must have told Mrs. Cornish about the closer-than-necessary rapport between their employer and Becky Birtle. Mrs. Cornish would have become more and more concerned about her daughter’s involvement with Mr. Sackville. At an impressionable age, she herself had been taken advantage of by a man who refused to marry her and look after their baby—possibly an unscrupulous employer—and she was desperate for the same not to happen to her child.
Becky Birtle returned to the parlor. Treadles had asked for her—he still had one last point he wanted to clear up. But one look at the girl’s face let him know that she had heard everything. How? The floorboards would have squeaked had she snuck back to eavesdrop.
As if she heard his question, she pointed behind his head. He turned around to see a small, half-open window—she had eavesdropped from outside.
“Mrs. Cornish can’t be my mother,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. “She doesn’t even like me.”
“I can’t speak to the state of her affection, but I have no doubt she feels a tremendous sense of responsibility toward you.”
“Enough to kill Mr. Sackville when he did nothing wrong? That can’t be.”
“If she was the one who poisoned Mr. Sackville, she wouldn’t be the first to have attempted murder for what she perceived he did.”
“But what could she even perceive?”
Treadles could not have asked for a better lead-in to his question. “Perhaps unbeknownst to you, she witnessed the incident that caused Mr. Sackville to no longer be there everywhere you turned.”
Becky Birtle squinted at him. “That’s ridiculous.”
“Is it? I can’t tell since I don’t know what happened.”
“Nothing happened. Nothing.”
“It might not have been nothing to Mrs. Cornish.”
Becky Birtle threw up her hands. “Fine. I’ll tell you. It was a few days after Mr. Sackville and I had those horrible tummy troubles. I—I had my monthly and it was an awful one. I could hardly stand, but Mrs. Cornish said it was no excuse—the other women in the house didn’t take to their beds during their time.
“Mr. Sackville saw that I was in pain and he was worried. He thought maybe it was something I ate. So I told him the truth, that it was only my monthly.”
Treadles could only hope he wouldn’t stammer—his face scalded with embarrassment. “That was it?”
“That was it. Mum—my real mum, not Mrs. Cornish—always told me that men hate it when women bring up their menses. I thought it was ridiculous. They love to moan about their own aches and pains, why should they begrudge us a little complaining about ours? But Mum was right. That was the end of anything between Mr. Sackville and me.” The light dimmed in Becky Birtle’s eyes. “Guess he wasn’t a real friend after all.”
Charlotte twisted the black handkerchief with her black kidskin-clad fingers and reminded herself that she must give the impression of frailty and forlornness. It would not do for her to swivel about, scanning the guests who moved through the lobby of Claridge’s: The widow’s veil might obscure her face, but it couldn’t completely disguise the set of her shoulders or the angle of her head.
She glanced discreetly toward the front entrance, followed it with a sideways glimpse toward the staircase. Perhaps now she should lift the handkerchief and give it a helpless flutter. Maybe even—
“My condolences on your loss, my dear lady.”
Her heart thudded—Lord Ingram had materialized out of nowhere. “What are you doing here?”
One corner of his lips lifted. Her heart thudded again: She couldn’t remember the last time he smiled—or half smiled—at her. “And I thought you’d be glad to see me, since you’re always scheming for it.”
“Yes, when I’ve nothing better to do.”