“The main thing I remember feeling, after the guests had departed, was that I was both relieved the fog came in, forcing everyone to leave, and truly sorry that it happened. The party could have been legendary, the kind where people still dance at five o’clock in the morning. That would have been rough on the staff, as we still had to get up in the morning for the next day’s duties, but I would have liked that for Miss Longstead. I would have liked for everyone to always remember that on the night of her debut, the guests were so taken with her that they made merry as if there was no tomorrow.”
Charlotte gazed at her a moment. Mrs. Coltrane was not a handsome woman, but her kindness made her lovely. How much better Charlotte would feel about Livia being stuck at home if she had a Mrs. Coltrane in the household, looking after her.
“So you barely slept that night,” she said softly.
“I’d just lain down, in fact, when I heard the doorbell ring. I was peeved when I got to the door and couldn’t believe a word the policeman was saying. In fact, I marched right up to Mr. Longstead’s room and banged on the door, convinced that he would be just as vexed as I’d been to be woken up. But I had to drag him downstairs to show him to the copper.
“My knocking brought no response. And when I opened the door and saw that there was no one inside—my blood congealed. Miss Longstead, when I woke her up, had precisely the same reaction. She didn’t believe me and rushed to her uncle’s room.
“In the end we went together to the next house. The horror of it. The carnage.” Mrs. Coltrane inhaled deeply. “Afterward, in the entrance hall of number 33, I saw Inspector Treadles. I almost lunged at him. We hosted him. We respected him. I couldn’t believe he would do this to Mr. Longstead. To his wife.”
After her interview with Mrs. Coltrane, Charlotte also spoke to the other servants, one by one, in the servants’ hall. All had been run to ground the night of the party, and none had had enough interactions with the master of the house to tell her anything useful.
The one exception was Miss Longstead’s maid, Owens, who was also black. Unlike her spectacular mistress, Owens was rather plain looking and shy of demeanor. But she declared firmly that in the days leading up to the ball Mr. Longstead had been more silent than usual.
On edge, it felt to her.
“He wasn’t an aloof gentleman,” Owens said, looking up from a stocking she was mending—her mistress’s stockings, Charlotte assumed. “He didn’t need the servants to keep their eyes down and be quiet as ghosts. If he saw you, he’d ask how your family was getting on, or if you’d done anything interesting on your half day. He knew that I’d been sitting with Miss Longstead in her studio and that Miss Longstead’s been having me learn some algebra, so he’d ask if I’d learned how to solve for equations with two variables. Once, we talked about factoring polynomials and I told him that I didn’t mind factoring them—I liked when I got them correct. But I couldn’t see for the life of me what they were for. He had a right old laugh at that.
“But in the last few weeks, it felt as if he never even saw me. As if he even had to make an effort to see Miss Longstead—and he’d always been wonderful attentive to her.”
“I see,” murmured Charlotte.
What exactly had Mr. Longstead been doing with his new routine, that he’d been too distracted to pay attention to his beloved niece?
Owens bit her lower lip. “Please don’t tell Mrs. Coltrane I said that. She wouldn’t have us speculate about the master.”
“Did she say this to you after he died?”
“No, no, she didn’t. She just doesn’t like us to gossip in the servants’ hall.”
“I won’t tell her anything,” Charlotte promised. “And you did the right thing. If nobody gave us any information, my brother and I wouldn’t be able to be of any use, as we are strangers and only come in after disasters have taken place.”
“Will you—” Owens hesitated. “Will Mr. Sherlock Holmes really be able to find out who killed Mr. Longstead, if it’s not Inspector Treadles?”
Mrs. Graycott, the Treadleses’s housekeeper, had asked Charlotte whether Sherlock Holmes would be able to bring Inspector Treadles back home soon. Charlotte had given a noncommittal answer, as she sincerely had no idea whether she could do anything for Inspector Treadles.
Owens, however, asked a very different question.
“Yes,” said Charlotte. “Sherlock Holmes will find out who killed Mr. Longstead. And when he does, it will be thanks in part to your help, Miss Owens.”
Ten
EARLIER THAT SAME DAY
Alice Treadles was more than a little afraid of Miss Holmes. The young lady might be only conveying her brother’s insights, but her seemingly artless gaze made Alice’s gut tighten. She was sure Miss Holmes not only detected lies and omissions, but perceived the slightest bending of the truth.
She had, therefore, warily—and wearily—braced herself for this other associate of Sherlock Holmes’s.
Someone similarly omniscient, similarly cool and removed.
Miss Holmes had left to fetch Mrs. Watson from the latter’s own carriage. Alice sat with her face in her hands. Despite a full night’s sleep, she was already exhausted again by the impossibility of the situation. Yes, she would keep putting one foot down in front of the other, but what was the use of it all?
Miss Holmes returned with a woman in a jewel-blue cape. At her entrance, the interior of the carriage brightened, as if lit by an invisible halo.
“Mrs. Treadles,” said Miss Holmes, “may I present my colleague Mrs. Watson? Mrs. Watson, Mrs. Treadles, our client. I must call on Inspector Treadles now and will leave you ladies to be better acquainted. Good day, Mrs. Treadles. Good day, Mrs. Watson.”
After Miss Holmes left, Mrs. Watson sighed softly and looked at Alice. “It has just been awful, hasn’t it, my dear?”
With Miss Holmes, Alice felt as if every single one of her mistakes and shortcomings, accumulated over her twenty-eight years on earth, had been laid bare, with no place to hide and all defenses crumbled.
But with Mrs. Watson, her bewilderment, loneliness, and pain—her entire self—was seen. And not just seen, but gently, and ever so kindly, embraced.
Tears immediately stung the backs of her eyes. She covered her mouth with her handkerchief, as if by doing so she could dam the flood of need.
“I’m—I’m so besieged.”
Sympathy radiated from the older woman. “Of course you have been, my dear. It has fallen on you and you alone to preserve your marriage and look after a large enterprise—and now, to save your husband’s life. But you mustn’t despair. You are not alone anymore. We are here to help. And if I may boast a little, Mrs. Treadles, we are formidable help.”