“I’m sure everything will prove to be a misunderstanding, where Inspector Treadles is concerned,” he said. “And then you can return to policing as usual.”
“It was also my great hope. Alas, Inspector Treadles has been anything but informative.” Inspector Brighton’s expression turned calculating. “But as Sherlock Holmes is a great ally of his, perhaps you two will have better luck than I did.”
“My brother’s primary allegiance has always been to the truth. As his emissary, I hope I will not disappoint him,” said Holmes.
“We have heard of his detective prowess in faraway Manchester,” said Inspector Brighton with sharp-edged heartiness. “It will be an honor to witness his work.”
“I will convey your compliment—I’m sure Sherlock will be tickled by the idea of his burgeoning fame,” said Holmes. “In fact, let me do more than that. You must be extraordinarily busy at the moment, Inspector. Why not allow me to escort Mrs. Treadles out? I’m sure she could use the comforting presence of a woman right now.”
“Yes, indeed,” said Mrs. Treadles, a bit too fast. “You are much too kind, Miss Holmes.”
Mrs. Treadles barely took her leave of Inspector Brighton before rushing off alongside Holmes, her desire to get away from him unmistakable. Inspector Brighton watched the departing women for a moment, then he turned to Lord Ingram.
“My lord, if I may say so, Inspector Treadles is in a perilous position. If he is charged with murder and tried, he stands a high chance of being convicted. He must know this. It is therefore even more incomprehensible that he chooses to keep silent about everything that happened the night of the murder—and also about his movements in the days and weeks beforehand.
“I do not know him well—the reason I’ve been chosen for this task, I imagine. But here at Scotland Yard he has an unimpeachable reputation, as a man who is both intelligent and hardworking, and who has remained humble despite his rise up the ranks. I would hate to see it all go to ruin.”
Lord Ingram had the distinct sensation that Inspector Brighton would not hate to see that at all—that he might, in fact, derive a distinct pleasure from Inspector Treadles’s downfall. His grip tightened on his walking stick.
“I wish we were only speaking of his career,” continued Inspector Brighton. “His life is at stake, too. Yet, even with that being the case, I cannot needlessly prolong this investigation. All evidence points to his culpability—not circumstantial evidence, but direct evidence.”
Inspector Brighton paused to let his words sink in.
Lord Ingram held his breath for what was coming next.
“If he is unwilling to speak on his own behalf, I see no reason not to formally charge him before Christmas and let the matter proceed to trial.” With a small smile, Inspector Brighton glanced at the front door, through which Mrs. Treadles had left a minute ago. “As he won’t think of himself, I beg that you ask him to think of his wife. She is already devastated. She will be that much more so were he to hang.”
* * *
Alice Treadles collapsed onto the seat of her carriage.
“Here,” said Miss Holmes, pushing a small flask into her hands.
Alice took a swallow, coughed, and took an even bigger swallow. The whisky burned like sulfur on its way down. Her eyes watered. But at least she’d stopped shaking.
“Did Mrs. Graycott tell you that I called last night?” came Miss Holmes’s cool voice from the opposite seat.
“Yes, she did, this morning.”
“I would not have crossed Inspector Brighton by interrupting his interrogation.”
“Lesson learned.” Alice panted several times, from the lingering harshness of the whisky. And the memory of Inspector Brighton, garroting her with his inescapable logic. She returned the flask. “But just like last night, he didn’t get anything from me.”
“It must have been an enormous relief,” said Miss Holmes blandly, “realizing that he doesn’t have the thing you dropped in number 33.”
Alice’s fingers dug into the tufted seats. Had she been forced to disrobe in public, she could not have felt more exposed. “I—you—”
“You were looking for too many things in too many places, Mrs. Treadles, after being told of the murders at 33 Cold Street. What did you leave behind? An earbob? A hair ornament?”
Alice scooted back involuntarily, her body trying to shrink into a corner of the carriage.
“As I thought,” said Miss Holmes, her voice coolly relentless. “Something the absence of which could easily go unnoticed until the next day, when you performed an inventory of your accessories. So it was a hair ornament then?”
“A jeweled comb,” Alice heard herself admit.
“Do you not worry that someone else has it now? Someone who might not have your best interest at heart?”
Even though she’d made herself appear older and drabber, Sherlock Holmes’s oracle still commanded attention, occupying her seat as if it were a throne.
Alice suppressed a shiver. “I can’t care about that now. If someone besides the police has it, then they were also in that house that night. Let them come forward and explain why they were there in the first place.”
“Inspector Brighton knows you are lying.”
“Maybe. But that’s not the same as having a confession.”
She held on to that. Inspector Brighton had no confession from her and therefore she could not hurt Robert’s chances . . . of survival.
“What were you doing in that house that night?” asked Miss Holmes quietly.
Alice clenched her jaw. Did Lord Ingram have to submit to such a grinding before he was helped? “Does Mr. Sherlock Holmes not already know, he who knows everything from a glance?”
Miss Holmes looked directly at her and Alice immediately regretted her question. But it was too late.
“He does have an idea,” said Miss Holmes calmly. “You were raised a lady. You are also an attractive woman. You have no good reason to leave a safe, well-lit house to venture into a dark, empty one at night. He thinks it’s likely you only went into number 33 because you saw your husband enter.”
Alice gripped her hands together so they wouldn’t shake. “No wonder my husband had qualms about working with Sherlock Holmes. He really is terrifying.”
No reaction crossed Miss Holmes’s face at this assessment. “Why hire us to help you find the truth when you will not even tell us what truths you already know?”
“Because what I can tell you does not matter and would only muddy the waters. Because my husband did not kill those men. Therefore whatever you learn about me will only be incidental. Fool’s gold—all glittering to make you think you’ve got something valuable when it’s completely worthless!”