Inspector Brighton wouldn’t have inflicted his hypothesis only on Mrs. Treadles. Even if Inspector Treadles hadn’t intuited anything before the fateful night, he most assuredly had been told by now that at one point, isolated and beleaguered, his wife had depended on Mr. Sullivan more than she had on him.
“I do not have any good conjectures,” said Inspector Treadles.
Lord Ingram knew now beyond a shadow of doubt that his friend spoke to them as he had spoken to Inspector Brighton: He did not trust that the information exchanged in this room wouldn’t be overheard. But what about Mrs. Treadles? Had he been just as detached and uninformative with his own wife?
“Mrs. Treadles thought you were investigating a case in the Kentish countryside, when in fact, for the fortnight before the murders, you were on leave from Scotland Yard. Why did you lie to your wife, Inspector?”
Holmes, with her measured tone, was as inexorably forceful in her questioning as any police inspector.
Inspector Treadles’s brow furrowed, but he radiated no anger or annoyance, only an almost fatalistic forbearance. “I prefer not to discuss that.”
But we are your friends! If you don’t tell us anything, how are we to help you?
Holmes remained unaffected. “Where were you in truth, when she thought you away for work?”
“I would rather not discuss that either.”
“When did you return to London?”
A muscle leaped at Inspector Treadles’s jaw, the only indication that he wasn’t as composed as he let on. “I cannot tell you.”
“Cannot because you do not know, or because you choose not to share that with us?” Lord Ingram couldn’t help adding this question of his own.
Inspector Treadles closed his eyes for a moment. “I choose not to answer.”
Do you not know the impossible position your wife has been put in? Do you not understand that your own neck is in palpable danger?
Lord Ingram plunged his fingers into his hair, so as not to shout these questions aloud.
Holmes, undeterred, carried on. “What were you doing at 33 Cold Street on the night of the murders, Inspector?”
“I have nothing to say about it.”
“Is there anything you do have something to say about, Inspector? Your injury, perhaps?”
Coming from anyone else, the question would have dripped with sarcasm—or burned with frustration. But Holmes managed to imbue it with nothing more than professional curiosity.
Inspector Treadles raised his head for the first time. “I can assure you that I did not kill either Mr. Longstead or Mr. Sullivan.”
Holmes nodded. “Thank you. I have no more questions. My lord?”
Lord Ingram rubbed his temple. “It behooves me to pass on Inspector Brighton’s message that he does not mean to wait long, Inspector, even though I’m sure he has already related it in person.”
“He has indeed informed me that he intends to charge me on Christmas Eve. But thank you anyway, my lord,” said Inspector Treadles quietly.
Holmes, who had not been privy to the conversation between Lord Ingram and Inspector Brighton, did not appear remotely surprised.
Lord Ingram regarded his gently uncooperative friend. “I very much hope that you and Mrs. Treadles can still come to the gathering at Stern Hollow, Inspector.”
“It is my fond hope, too.”
“If there is anything I or Sherlock Holmes can do . . .”
“What Sherlock Holmes typically does should be good enough for me. Please convey my deep gratitude,” said Inspector Treadles, looking directly at Holmes.
Holmes nodded and rose. “Good day, Inspector.”
Inspector Treadles got to his feet. “Good day, Miss Holmes. Good day, my lord. And thank you. You are both the finest of friends.”
* * *
Greater Scotland Yard was receding from the carriage window when Lord Ingram asked, “You don’t think Inspector Treadles conveyed anything in code, do you, Holmes?”
Charlotte, who had been absently patting her wig, feeling the unfamiliar texture of hair that had once been the crowning glory of another woman, shook her head. “No, not via blinking or any facial twitching.”
“Did you expect him to?”
She shook her head again. “He’s no specialist and wouldn’t have been able to manage anything more complicated than a variant of the Morse code. If what he needs to keep secret is that important, then it was wise of him not to gamble on a primitive cipher that others might see and decode.”
“Why do you think he would rather keep his silence, knowing very well that it puts his wife in a state of terrified suspense?”
“You have a fairly good idea, do you not?”
He exhaled. “I wish I didn’t.”
One possibility was that Inspector Treadles had committed such atrocities that he would be getting off lightly, being accused of only two murders. But having already eliminated this possibility at the onset, they had to contend with the likelihood that Inspector Treadles knew something. And this something was so highly dangerous that he would rather take his chances with a trial—and the hangman’s noose—than to let it be known that he was in fact in possession of this knowledge.
Lord Ingram tapped his fingers a few times against the head of his walking stick, not bothering to hide his agitation. “He believes that what he knows endangers not only himself, but his wife, doesn’t he?”
Charlotte wondered whether they would be better acquainted with Inspector Treadles’s troubles if they hadn’t been in France for most of the preceding weeks. But they had been in France and could only guess at the nature of what Inspector Treadles had unhappily learned.
Rain fell, striking solidly against the top of the carriage. It had snowed the previous week, raising hopes of a white Christmas. Now the specter of a wet Christmas loomed far larger, though the precipitation did not diminish the enthusiasm of three street musicians they drove past, playing “Joy to the World” loudly on two accordions and a violin.
“Thinking of a cup of hot cocoa and a slice of plum cake?” came his voice.
He had on a midnight blue greatcoat. She remembered this coat. Several years ago, at a winter country house party, she had emerged from the library to the sight of him striding across the cavernous entry of the stately home.
His had always been a striking physical presence, but it had never simply been a matter of height, build, or even athleticism. There was something in his skeletal alignment, a fortuitous combination of posture and fluidity, so that when he stood, he was straight yet loose-limbed, and when he moved, he did so with the lightness and muscularity of a Thoroughbred.