* * *
Mrs. Coltrane, the Longsteads’ housekeeper, showed Holmes and Lord Ingram the rest of 33 Cold Street, with Constable Lamb trailing in their wake, but keeping a respectful distance.
As Miss Longstead had said, all the other rooms in the house had been locked during the night of the murders. Mrs. Coltrane herself had unlocked them, when Inspector Brighton had come through to inspect the scene of the crime from top to bottom.
“Would you happen to know, Mrs. Coltrane, who all has keys to number 33?” asked Holmes.
“I have the entire set,” said Mrs. Coltrane, rattling the ring of keys in her hand. “Miss Longstead has keys to the front and back doors and the studio, as did Mr. Longstead.”
Holmes looked inside each room, to satisfy herself that the police hadn’t overlooked anything significant. As there were a number of rooms, the process took some time. Lord Ingram sometimes watched her work, and sometimes spoke to the others present. Constable Lamb was grateful that number 31 kept him supplied with tea, biscuits, and sandwiches. And Mrs. Coltrane told him that despite her own grief, Miss Longstead had gathered the staff, comforted them, and assured them that they didn’t need to fear for their employment.
When Holmes was finished with the last room on the floor just beneath the attic, she said to Mrs. Coltrane, “I understand that the police found the front door open. And Miss Longstead saw someone enter the house from the back at some point during the party.”
Mrs. Coltrane groaned. “Oh, dear. I won’t mind admitting it, Miss Holmes: That is mortifying. Mortifying. I don’t know how either instance could have happened. For number 33, I check the doors every day before dinner, after Miss Longstead comes home. Yesterday she never left home because there was so much to do, but still at about half past six I came and checked the doors here. They were all locked, front, back, and the service entrance, too.”
“You, Miss Longstead, and Mr. Longstead were the only ones with keys to number 33?”
“We were the only ones.”
“Do you have any thoughts as to why the door to the chief bedroom should have been open, when the other rooms remained locked?”
The chief bedroom was where the murders had taken place. If Mrs. Coltrane was the only one who could access the individual rooms, then even Mr. Longstead shouldn’t have been able to get into that bedroom.
Mrs. Coltrane groaned again. “It’s an absolute mystery to me, Miss Holmes. Miss Longstead walked past that bedroom every time she went to the top floor and she said that the door always appeared properly closed to her. I check the entire house once every week and can attest that I’ve had to unlock the room every single time.”
Holmes nodded. She was not the most energetic person, but could muster a great deal of stamina, if necessary. Lord Ingram, however, worried that she’d barely had any rest after their return from France.
Even a Sherlock-ian must weary from time to time.
The stairs that led to the highest floor were narrow and steep.
“Oh, I am getting old,” mumbled Mrs. Coltrane, even as she ascended easily.
The air here nearly bounced with the pungency of essential oils in too great a concentration. Rosemary, rose, lavender, quintessentially English. But also, wormwood, spikenard, and myrrh, an olfactory tour of the Song of Songs.
And more than a hint of alcohol.
The low, narrow attic door probably could have been kicked in, except the stair landing was too small for such a maneuver. Instead, an irregular hole gaped where the in-door lock had once been. The old hasp and stable—for the padlock that had also been blown off—were blackened and twisted with the force of impact, the wood behind them splintered and blackened.
A new set of hasp and stable had been put in for a new padlock. Mrs. Coltrane unlocked the unprepossessing door.
An unexpectedly large space opened up before them.
It was raining again. And yet, the studio was not at all dim, thanks to the glazed skylights and several large mirrors. Mrs. Coltrane explained that the house was not currently connected for gas, then lit several tapers and placed them in wall sconces set before those large mirrors. All at once, the interior was bathed in a warm golden glow.
The studio was shaped somewhat like a dumbbell, with the portion immediately next to the door, having to accommodate for the space taken up by the staircase, being the narrowest, like a corridor that connected two larger spaces at either end.
Several worktables were lined up along the length of this corridor. They must have once held Miss Longstead’s equipment; but now stood sadly empty.
Holmes wandered toward the larger area in the direction of the garden, which had been set up as a sitting area. Not long ago it might have been a comfortable spot, with books on low shelves and a writing desk that would have given its occupant an excellent view of the garden.
Lord Ingram imagined his children in this studio. Come summer, with the trees outside in full foliage, they might easily believe that they were in the midst of a forest, perched high above.
But now the shelves were in pieces. The books, many of which appeared damaged from having been thrown about, stood in desolate piles on the floor. The writing desk looked as if it had been gouged—someone had wielded a poker with great force.
“It was such a charming space,” lamented Mrs. Coltrane. “I don’t think Miss Longstead can comprehend what happened here and I don’t blame her. I don’t either. You cannot imagine how much glass we swept up.”
The smells inside were weaker than in the stairwell, possibly because the windows had been opened: It was as cold as an ice well inside the studio, and everyone’s breaths vapored.
“The previous tenants didn’t leave behind the furniture, did they?” asked Holmes, testing with a fingertip the depth of a particularly large gouge mark on the desk.
“No, indeed, they didn’t. Once it was decided not to put the house up for let again, Miss Longstead had things brought over from the other house.”
Lord Ingram made his way to the other end of the studio, near the windows that looked down on the street. Here a different work area had been set up, with an ironing board placed next to a chair. Mrs. Coltrane explained that those were for Miss Longstead’s maid, who stayed with her while she worked and used the time to perform some of her own duties. And that there had been a sewing basket and a knitting basket, but the baskets were destroyed, and their contents mixed up with too much debris to salvage.
“Miss Longstead didn’t need the company but it was an empty house, after all. Both Mr. Longstead and I insisted that she not be alone here.”
The studio had been formed by removing thin walls that would have separated the space into small rooms for the servants. Not all the partitions had been removed. Near the maid’s station, one such room remained.