Holmes took the kettle off the spirit lamp and poured hot water into the teapot. “Had the victims been shot?”
Sergeant MacDonald took a swallow of the whisky he’d been given earlier—and took a deep breath. “Yes, they were.”
“Had anyone heard the shots?”
“I asked the same question. Apparently there was a problem with miscreants setting off fireworks in the area. Some coppers blame Italian immigrants—word is, in some Italian cities, Christmas fireworks are a tradition. Others say there was once a tavern nearby that set off fireworks at Christmas and people are just nostalgic.” Sergeant MacDonald shrugged. “In any case, the residents are annoyed by pyrotechnics going off at night. The news has even made the papers, but no one has been apprehended.”
Holmes passed him more cake. “I see. Please continue.”
Sergeant MacDonald accepted her offer with a grateful smile. “Right. Now where was I? Oh, the constables didn’t have firearms, as they were patrolling a generally safe district. But one fought in Afghanistan and wasn’t daunted by either the carnage or the sight of a man holding a gun. He simply told Inspector Treadles to hand over the revolver and submit himself to the authority of the police.
“There are different versions of what happened next, but most of those I spoke to agreed that Inspector Treadles questioned the men in some detail about their station house, their superiors, and their duties, which they answered earnestly enough, given that they still had a revolver pointed at them. And then Inspector Treadles gave his name and rank, and surrendered the firearm and himself.”
Lord Ingram exchanged a look with Holmes. Whomever Inspector Treadles had dreaded would crash through the door, it hadn’t been the police.
“Once the inspector was handcuffed, one constable stayed to keep an eye on him and the crime scene; the other ran back to the station for help,” Sergeant MacDonald went on. “Scotland Yard, I understand, was on the scene before dawn. I was pulled aside not long after I arrived for work and told to go see Mrs. Treadles.”
“At which point you didn’t know the details of the case, except that Inspector Treadles had been arrested for the murders of Mr. Longstead and Mr. Sullivan,” said Holmes, pouring tea for everyone.
“That is correct,” answered Sergeant MacDonald. He drank his tea rather thirstily. “And this is an excellent brew, Miss Holmes.”
“Thank you, Sergeant. Now, when you called on Mrs. Treadles, I assume you informed her of the names of both victims.”
“I did,” said Sergeant MacDonald without any hesitation.
So Mrs. Treadles knew very well that two men had been killed. Yet when she had called on Sherlock Holmes, she’d omitted any and all mentions of Mr. Sullivan.
Holmes stirred her own tea. “How did she react?”
“She seemed completely cut up about the older fellow, said she’d known him all her life and that he’d always been a perfect gentleman.”
Completely cut up about the older fellow. What about the younger fellow?
Lord Ingram rose. He hadn’t touched the whisky Holmes had given him earlier, but now he was in need of a draught.
Holmes cast him a look, though her expression never deviated from that of mild interest. She returned her attention to Sergeant MacDonald. “Inspector Treadles had been on leave for a fortnight or so before the events of last night. Did he give you a reason for his prolonged absence from work?”
From the sideboard, Lord Ingram glanced sharply at the duo in the center of the room. Toward the end of Holmes’s interview with Mrs. Treadles, the latter had given notice that Sergeant MacDonald would call on 18 Upper Baker Street later in the day. It stood to reason that Sergeant MacDonald also knew that Mrs. Treadles had been to see Sherlock Holmes.
Would he not wonder why Holmes asked him about something she should have already learned from Mrs. Treadles?
His brow indeed furrowed with puzzlement, but the next moment, he must have made the decision that Holmes was following sound procedure in obtaining her information from multiple sources. “He said it was something to do with his family and would require that he travel away from London.”
“Did that surprise you?”
“Somewhat. I knew that his parents had both passed away and I hadn’t heard him mention siblings. But the inspector wasn’t one to speak of his private life, so I didn’t think it was that unusual—family has a way of finding a man, especially if he’s doing well in life.” Sergeant MacDonald hesitated. “But I did wonder when he didn’t come back after a week—surely a family emergency would have been resolved after that much time.”
“Do you wish to hazard a guess as to where he might have been these past two weeks?”
Sergeant MacDonald began to shake his head, then said, “Wait. I did see him poring over some maps a while ago at his desk. I think they were of Yorkshire. I asked him then if we might be investigating a case there. He said no, but didn’t give any explanations. And I didn’t ask any more questions.”
He smiled apologetically.
Holmes raised her teacup. “Did he seem different in the days before he went on leave?”
Sergeant MacDonald frowned again. “I’ve been asking myself the same question, wondering if there was something I should have noticed. But the truth was I didn’t see very much of him even before he went on his leave—he’d given me some assignments to undertake on my own when he went to Stern Hollow with Chief Inspector Fowler. When he returned, he was pleased with my work and gave me more assignments. I’d report to him either in the morning or in the evening, when we happened to both be at the Yard.”
Mrs. Treadles had mentioned the same, that the young man was happy and proud to have been entrusted with this independence. But now, in the light of subsequent events, Lord Ingram wondered whether Inspector Treadles had been that happy with his subordinate’s work, or had he simply wanted to be unobserved for much of that time?
“Very well, thank you, Sergeant. One last question. Do you know who will oversee Inspector Treadles’s case? The papers didn’t say.”
“That would be Inspector Brighton. He’s new to Scotland Yard, but he’s said to have had a distinguished record in Manchester.”
It made sense, Lord Ingram supposed, to have an investigator who wasn’t a longtime colleague of Inspector Treadles, someone whose impartiality wouldn’t be so easily called into doubt. And yet. At the thought of having a complete stranger in charge of his friend’s fate, his hand tightened around the glass of whisky he’d just poured for himself.
Holmes cast him another glance. “Chief Inspector Fowler—he wasn’t considered?”
“He might have been—Lord knows he has no allegiance except to pinning down culprits. But he just left for a case in Lincolnshire. In fact, he’s gone to take over Inspector Brighton’s new case, so Inspector Brighton could come back to London for Inspector Treadles.”