Charlotte handed over a slip of paper on which was written, I am Miss Holmes. Here to see Mrs. Treadles at her behest.
The woman’s expression relaxed somewhat, but her tone remained severe. “You’d best come in out of the rain then and close the door quick. Never seen so many idlers in my whole life.”
Once the door had been secured, the woman, who must have been the housekeeper, inclined her head respectfully. “Mrs. Treadles has the police inspector in the drawing room, miss. But she said to bring you by should you call. Do please come with me—I’m just about to take the tea tray up.”
They walked down a spotless service corridor. The housekeeper picked up a laden tea tray; Charlotte divested herself of her mackintosh and her basket. Together they mounted the service stairs and exited two floors up.
The housekeeper indicated a nearby room to Charlotte, while she herself trundled toward a different one. Charlotte opened the door the housekeeper had pointed to with her chin and found herself in a dimly lit private parlor. In fact, the only light came in through a connecting door that had been left ajar.
On the other side of the connecting door must have been the drawing room, from which came the faintly ceramic thuds of teapots and teacups being placed upon a tablecloth.
“Thank you, Mrs. Graycott,” said a woman. Mrs. Treadles.
The housekeeper left, closing the drawing room door softly behind herself.
Tea trickled gently into cups.
In the private parlor, the wall opposite the opening of the connecting door was dominated by a large mirror. Charlotte tiptoed until she had the best possible reflected view of the drawing room, standing almost immediately next to and behind the door.
The slice of the drawing room visible in the mirror showed the back of a man’s head and Mrs. Treadles’s pale face. She was trying to smile and not succeeding very well. “Milk, sugar, Inspector? Sergeant?”
“Both, thank you,” said Inspector Brighton in a crisp, clear voice.
“Neither, please,” said another man, who sat some distance behind Inspector Brighton, out of sight. He would be the one taking notes.
“Do please help yourself to the biscuits and the finger sandwiches,” said Mrs. Treadles after she’d distributed the teacups. “It must have been an exhausting day for you.”
“No more than it has been exhausting for you, Mrs. Treadles.”
Inspector Brighton sounded cordial, yet Charlotte was put in mind of a serpent in the grass, flicking its forked tongue.
“I visited Mr. Sherlock Holmes today, and engaged him to help my husband,” said Mrs. Treadles.
“Indeed.”
“On my way back I heard a paperboy shouting about the murders, so I had my coachman take me to Scotland Yard, hoping to see Inspector Treadles.”
Had she bought a paper? And had that newspaper also gleefully pointed out the small notice that aimed to goad Inspector Treadles into descending upon Cold Street?
“I do apologize that you weren’t able to see him,” said Inspector Brighton. “I spoke to him about an hour and a half ago. He is in reasonable fettle, if you are worried.”
“I took him some food and two changes of clothes. I was told they would be given to him.”
“I will make sure that they are.”
“Thank you.”
Mrs. Treadles’s expression was one of weary relief, as if the assurance that some comfort would reach her husband was the most she could hope for from this encounter. And now that reassurance was out of the way . . .
No one spoke for some time, until Inspector Brighton said, “This is an excellent sandwich, Mrs. Treadles. My compliments to your cook.”
Mrs. Treadles straightened abruptly, as if she were a small creature in that same grass, sensing the approach of a predator. “Thank you, Inspector.”
“If you don’t mind my asking, you and Inspector Treadles come from very different walks of life. How did you meet?” inquired Inspector Brighton, his tone conversational.
Mrs. Treadles’s answer was muted. “At one of Lord Ingram Ashburton’s archaeological lectures.”
“And that led to your marriage.”
“In time, yes.”
“What manner of man would you say Inspector Treadles is?”
“Honorable, dutiful, sensible,” said Mrs. Treadles with anxious pride. “He is also a voracious reader, very keen on broadening his horizons and understanding the flow of history—of British history in particular.”
Inspector Brighton let a moment pass. “And what manner of husband would you say he is?”
That he had begun with the class difference between the Treadleses was a clear indication, to Charlotte at least, of the thrust of his inquiries. But Mrs. Treadles still seemed caught by surprise.
Or perhaps it was because she could never adequately prepare for this particular question. Because no matter how she braced herself, the unhappiness of having to answer it truthfully would always shake her to the very foundation.
“He . . . is a very good husband. As I said, he is honorable, dutiful, and sensible, so I never need to worry about dalliances on his part. Since we have no children, we spend a great deal of time together, reading side by side, sometimes aloud to each other, and generally treasure the quietness of domestic contentment.”
“Most marriages begin well. The passage of time, however, puts all heartfelt wedding vows to the test. How would you say your marriage has changed over the years?”
If Livia were here, staring at the back of Inspector Brighton’s head in the mirror, would she have imagined a sinister smile on the man’s lips? Charlotte was less prone to such flights of fancy, but she very much felt that Inspector Brighton was enjoying himself at Mrs. Treadles’s expense.
Mrs. Treadles swallowed. “I . . . Well, he has been made an inspector in the time we’ve been married. And I inherited my father’s enterprise after my brother unfortunately passed away.”
“Let me be more specific, Mrs. Treadles, since you mentioned your family. Your dowry, dear lady, could have served as a tremendous asset to your husband’s career. You yourself, a cultured, handsome, and personable woman, could have been a similar boon. Why do you suppose he never put either to use?”
Mrs. Treadles raised her teacup to her lips—Charlotte was reminded of her nervous tea drinking at 18 Upper Baker Street. “I—I must assume it stemmed from his sense of fair play. It would be unfair to his colleagues if he were to advance faster due to his wealthy wife.”
“Is that so? I understand that Inspector Treadles has risen as fast as he has because he has had the good fortune of being associated with Mr. Sherlock Holmes, whose insights have led him to solve several puzzling cases.”