Treadles tapped his knuckles against the cable from Scotland Yard. “Mr. Hodges, you said you didn’t know where your late employer went in London or what he did. But now we have a reliable eyewitness who placed you at exactly the same place as Mr. Sackville, asking for his purpose. How do you explain that?”
“Fairly simple,” said Hodges, as if he’d long expected the question and had the answer ready. “I was a boxer before I entered service, and lived in London for twenty years. Sometimes when Mr. Sackville went off to London, I did, too, to see old friends in the area.
“One day I saw him in Lambeth and I was curious—wouldn’t anyone be, under the circumstances? So I knocked on a few doors and asked if anyone knew what went on in the house Mr. Sackville entered. Nobody was sure but they all thought it a little dodgy. Gambling, most likely. Probably loose women, too. I was frankly disappointed. It was too . . . common. I thought Mr. Sackville would have had some more gentlemanly vices.”
Treadles didn’t believe him. “If they were truly such pedestrian sins, why did you keep them a secret?”
“Mr. Sackville can’t defend his good name anymore, so it’s up to the rest of us. Men have sinned much worse. But when they die of natural causes, nobody cares what they’ve done in their spare time. Mr. Sackville ought to be given the same privacy—he’d have wanted it.”
Treadles raised a brow. “You didn’t have as high a regard for his good name when you insinuated to Mrs. Cornish that he might be taking advantage of Becky Birtle.”
“I said no such thing.” For the first time, a note of vexation crept into Hodges’s voice. “I warned Mrs. Cornish that the girl was taking liberties with Mr. Sackville’s expensive liquor—and made up the nonsense about Mr. Sackville offering it to her. Told Mrs. Cornish she ought to have a stern word with Becky. Even an amiable gentleman wouldn’t hesitate to give the sack when his whisky is endangered.”
A former boxer. A man accustomed to dodging and counterpunching. And conditioned by years in the ring to keep a cool head under pressure. “What else have you been keeping from us, Mr. Hodges?”
“Nothing, Inspector,” said Hodges evenly. “Nothing.”
“Very well, Mr. Hodges. I will need a written statement of your whereabouts during the twenty-four hours leading to Mr. Sackville’s death.”
Hodges inclined his head. “And you’ll have it, Inspector.”
Hodges was not the only liar. Lady Sheridan’s story, too, turned out to be less than entirely truthful. The YWCA had indeed dedicated a new center, and Lady Sheridan had indeed been there—rather unexpectedly, as she had cabled her regrets only two days prior, citing ill health.
But she had not left Bath the next morning, as she’d informed Inspector Treadles. Instead, she had departed immediately after the evening reception, even though she had paid for a night’s lodging at the hotel.
“How do you explain the discrepancies, Lady Sheridan?” Treadles demanded.
He was tired: He’d returned to London on the early train. But more than that, he was frustrated. The investigation had uncovered an abundance of information that seemed promising, only to then never lead anywhere. He wanted a suspect. He wanted proper answers. He wanted the case solved so he could sleep in his own bed—and wake up with his wife in his arms.
Lady Sheridan, however, displayed no inclination to help him achieve his objectives. “What does it matter when I left Bath, Inspector? An old woman is entitled to change her mind and head home earlier.”
She was even thinner than Treadles remembered, her voice scratchy and weary. He felt an onslaught of self-reproach. She was clearly not well and he’d fallen barely short of discourtesy.
“You had every right to modify your plans, ma’am. It is not that you changed your mind that brought me back, but that you failed to disclose the truth.”
Lady Sheridan sighed. Treadles had the strange sensation that her skeleton might rattle apart even with such a miniscule motion. “The truth is I had nothing to do with Mr. Sackville’s death.”
“Then, ma’am, you can have no objection to making your itinerary known—to remove yourself from suspicion.”
Lady Sheridan regarded him with something close to approval. “Very well then. I left Bath that evening, but had a spot of discomfort along my return route. I got off at the next stop, took a room at the nearest railway inn, and continued my journey the next day, when I felt more equal to the challenge.”
“Can anyone at the inn corroborate your account?”
“I’m afraid I didn’t pay much attention to where I was. All I needed was a bed that didn’t sway—it could have been any inn at any station along the line.”
It took a great deal of cheek to give such an answer. And a great deal of dignity to endow it with even a semblance of seriousness. “Ma’am, I’m afraid I can’t take that for an answer. Why wasn’t your maid with you?”