Alice was panting again.
She hoped she was right about Robert. Sometimes, much of the time, she simply didn’t know anymore. She was defending him to the utmost of her ability—and she would continue to defend him as long as she had a shred of strength left. But what if she was wrong?
What if she was wrong and Inspector Brighton was right?
She felt sick at the thought even darkening her mind. But trust was a most fragile thing. She had never imagined it possible that he would abandon her within their marriage, but he had, for months and months, as if she had become a complete stranger.
Did she really know him?
Had she ever known him at all?
Miss Holmes was still watching her, with neither the pity Alice dreaded nor the understanding she craved. Miss Holmes simply watched, as if hers were the eyes of God.
“Fortunately for you, Mrs. Treadles, I agree with you.”
Alice was stunned into momentary paralysis; then her eyes filled with abrupt, grateful tears. “You do?”
“Yes, I do agree that the role you played that particular night was a minor one. Which is why, instead of scolding you, I am going to introduce you to another of Sherlock Holmes’s associates. And the two of you will head to Cousins.”
This instruction was so unexpected, Alice barely noticed that she was wiping away her tears. “We will?”
“You’ve suspected for a while that not all is well at Cousins, haven’t you?” said Miss Holmes, with that same impervious neutrality. “In the beginning, you thought that the resistance of your directors and managers was only due to you being a woman. Then you began to realize it was too strong, too persistent. But you couldn’t find out anything, since those men stood in your way at every turn. Now is your chance to bring to light everything they’ve kept hidden.”
Alice felt a little faint. Cousins had been a locked door. She’d been desperate to pry that door open. But now that a proper crowbar had been thrust into her hands, did she really want to know what lay beyond?
“Not to mention—if you want Sherlock to help Inspector Treadles, then my brother needs a motive for the murders, a motive other than your husband’s jealousy, real or imagined. Cousins, which links together all of you, is the best possible place to look for this motive.”
Alice’s fingers shook. Her innards quailed, too. But she raised her chin and looked Miss Holmes in the eye. “All right, then.”
“Excellent,” said the magisterial Miss Holmes. “You’ve long wished to take matters into your own hands, and now you can.”
* * *
Holmes did not return until the exact appointed hour of their meeting with Inspector Treadles. To Lord Ingram’s inquiring look, she only gave a small nod.
They were taken into a room that appeared to be a small library, its shelves lined with law books and annual police reports. Inspector Treadles sat to one side of a large desk, handsomely attired in a gray Newmarket coat.
Lord Ingram recalled the observations Holmes had made about Inspector Treadles, upon the latter’s first visit to 18 Upper Baker Street, concerning his clothes: excellent material and equally excellent workmanship, yet two years behind fashion, with buttons replaced and cuffs rewoven.
From that Holmes had inferred that Mrs. Treadles’s income had reduced: Instead of a generous father, she now had a much less generous brother. She’d further deduced that Mrs. Treadles had done everything in her power to make sure that her husband was still impeccably turned out, that he felt as little of the lessening of their circumstances as possible.
The Newmarket coat that he wore now, perfectly cut and subtly stylish, was most certainly a new acquisition: Despite her husband’s obvious displeasure at her taking over Cousins Manufacturing, Mrs. Treadles had used her newly inherited wealth to arrange for a new wardrobe for him.
And Inspector Treadles had continued not to inquire into her work.
Lord Ingram would have liked to think that he himself would have been satisfied with much less from his own wife. But he knew that had not been the case. He, too, had wanted to be everything to his wife. He, too, had not thought that was too much to ask for, even though he never would have asked for it aloud.
Perhaps another man could more easily condemn Inspector Treadles, but that man was not he.
At Holmes’s entrance, Inspector Treadles had risen, though he blinked a time or two before recognizing her. “Miss Holmes, my lord, thank you for coming.”
The Inspector Treadles that Lord Ingram had known was a man of energy and confidence. He might have preferred to be known for his courtesy, but no doubt he had been an assertive man, an expansive presence.
This man, however, seemed to want to occupy as little space as possible. He wasn’t hunched over or otherwise physically pulling into himself, and yet he emanated a desire for minimization.
For invisibility.
“Have you been well?” asked Holmes. “Has your arm been tended to?”
“Yes, and yes. Thank you,” answered Inspector Treadles, his tone soft and . . . uninformative.
“I’m glad to see that you are not in a cell,” said Lord Ingram.
“I have one,” replied Inspector Treadles. “But Inspector Brighton prefers more elegant surroundings for himself so I’ve been brought here for my questioning.”
Lord Ingram recalled what Inspector Brighton had said to him. After he and Holmes left, would Inspector Treadles be subject to another round of interrogation?
“May I offer you some seats?” said Inspector Treadles. “I apologize that I don’t have tea or biscuits.”
Did he know that Inspector Brighton planned to formally charge him very soon? Lord Ingram could not imagine Inspector Brighton hadn’t relayed the threat in person. What did it cost Inspector Treadles, then, to be so calm, almost withdrawn?
Or was he, in fact, completely overwhelmed?
They all sat down. Lord Ingram scanned the room. They were alone inside, but he wasn’t sure that they wouldn’t be overheard.
He looked to Inspector Treadles, hoping the latter might give some indication as to whether these walls had ears. But the policeman sat with his eyes downcast and his hands in his lap, obscured by the desk.
A silence fell.
Lord Ingram glanced at Holmes. She studied Inspector Treadles for a minute, then asked, briskly, “Inspector, has Mrs. Treadles ever mentioned either of the dead men to you?”
Was Inspector Treadles surprised by this sudden transition? His speech remained uninflected. “Mr. Longstead, yes. Mr. Sullivan, no.”
“Why do you suppose she never did so, with regard to Mr. Sullivan?”