“Please, Miss Longstead, you must not apologize for your sorrow,” said Holmes. “Someone you loved has been taken from you most cruelly and yours is the most natural reaction possible.”
“Thank you, Miss Holmes.”
A servant brought in a tea tray. Miss Longstead poured for everyone.
As Holmes added milk and sugar to her own, Miss Longstead tucked her handkerchief into her cuff and said, “I agreed to meeting with you at this time, Miss Holmes, because of the name Sherlock Holmes. We’ve been in town since summer and I was absolutely fascinated by his brilliant detection in the Sackville case—from afar, no less. So even though at the moment I shouldn’t be receiving anyone, I still wish to hear what the great sage has to say about what happened.”
Lord Ingram was grateful that Miss Longstead was diplomatic enough to omit any mention of the Stern Hollow case, which had been no less a feather in Sherlock Holmes’s cap.
“You may wish to know, Miss Longstead,” said Holmes, “that the great sage, as you call him, has been engaged by Mrs. Treadles to find out the truth of what happened.”
“I have been told that. But I trust that when Sherlock Holmes is engaged in finding out the truth, the truth is in fact what he will unearth. His reputation precedes him.”
“Sherlock will be gratified by your assessment of his professional good name, Miss Longstead,” said Holmes, smiling a little at the young woman’s genuine admiration. “I understand that the unfortunate events took place on the night of your coming-out party.”
Miss Longstead sighed. “Initially I was not in favor of the party. Looking as I do, I am stared at anytime I leave the house. To set aside an entire evening for people to look their fill at me—there was nothing I wanted less.
“But Uncle was adamant. I found his insistence baffling. One reason we lived together in such harmony was that we both preferred a quiet life, spending our time in the search of knowledge and innovation, rather than out in the world among others.
“And he announced it all of a sudden. That also wasn’t like him. He was not dictatorial by nature and usually would ask for my opinion. But this time he’d made up his mind and that was it.”
Miss Longstead picked up the sugar tongs, then regarded them uncertainly.
“You already added two sugar cubes to your tea,” said Holmes.
“Thank you. That is good to know,” said Miss Longstead with an embarrassed half smile, setting down the sugar tongs again. “Now where was I? Right. The rush unnerved me, too. If I was going to be looked at all night long, then it seemed to make sense that I should have some time to prepare myself, to acquire a suitably impressive dress, and just as importantly, to spend some time with a dancing master.”
“I understand you looked sensational.”
Miss Longstead’s expression was something between a smile and a grimace—the memory of her triumphant debut forever tainted by the murders. “We were able to commission a lovely gown. And Uncle taught me to dance himself.”
A wistful look came into her eyes. “I never knew he was such a good dancer. He told me, for the first time, that he’d learned to dance to woo a particular young lady who loved a good soiree. And he’d won her hand, too. But she died of illness before they could be married. He said it affected him deeply, to see someone so full of life—and love of life—be taken away so soon.
“I wish I’d paid better attention and relished those hours. I mean, I did, but I was also worried over the party, about whether I’d be able to withstand the scrutiny, or conversely, about whether anyone would show up and whether any gentlemen would invite me to dance.”
She took a sip of her tea—and shook her head. “In retrospect my worries were completely inconsequential, but at the time they loomed like avalanches. Had I known he’d be gone so soon . . . but I hadn’t the least idea. I thought we’d live quietly and uneventfully together until some distant ripe old age for him.”
Holmes let a few seconds pass. “Other than this sudden insistence on your debut, was there anything else different about him in the days and weeks leading up to the party?”
Miss Longstead winced. “I didn’t see very much of him in that time, Miss Holmes.”
“No?”
“My uncle had a number of patents to his name. He had been teaching me for years, mathematics, physics, especially thermal dynamics, principles of engineering, etc. But my true love has always been chemistry, which he rather lamented because he disliked the smells produced by chemical experiments. At our place in the country, he had an outbuilding converted into a laboratory for me. Here in the city, I have turned to making essential oils and other extracts, and have found that I dearly adore this more fragrant side of chemistry. Of late I’ve been thinking of scaling up my production, so in the studio of the spare house—”
“Number 33, you mean?” murmured Holmes.
“Yes, number 33. That was another reason I was against my debut: I was consumed with designing new equipment and experimenting with temperatures and proportions.”
Through her grief, Lord Ingram heard an echo of the excitement she must have felt for her enterprise, her pride in its progress.
“If anything, the approach of the party made me want to escape even more to number 33 and the studio. As a result, I didn’t see much of my uncle in those days, except for our dance practices—and even then I was only half paying attention.”
Tears welled up in Miss Longstead’s eyes again. She brushed them away with the tips of her fingers. “I’m sorry.”
“Please don’t apologize for living your life as both you and Mr. Longstead wished you to live,” said Holmes, with greater gentleness than Lord Ingram was accustomed to seeing from her. “If you can’t tell us about the days leading up to the soiree, can you tell us whether you noticed anything unusual while it took place?”
“Unfortunately I’m almost blind without my glasses—you would have seen me in them today except I’ve been crying and taking them on and off, and at the moment I’m not sure where they are.” Miss Longstead smiled ruefully. “And of course, I was firmly overridden on wearing glasses to the party, by every single woman in the house. Even my uncle thought it would be best if I were to leave them alone for a night.
“I can see a person’s face, if he or she is standing right before me. But five feet out features begin to blur. If someone is standing ten feet away, I can distinguish whether it’s a man or a woman by their attire and the shape of their hair. And if I’d paid attention earlier on, I might be able to tell the women apart by the color and cut of their dresses. But men are nearly indistinguishable to me from that distance, especially if they are of a similar build and attire—as they are usually all wearing the exact same things at an evening function.”