Not just sympathy. Mrs. Watson also radiated confidence.
Alice had always known that Miss Holmes—that Sherlock Holmes would be formidable help. But not until this moment did relief wash over her, an avalanche she was glad to be buried under.
More words gushed out of her. “Ever since Sergeant MacDonald showed up at my house, I’ve felt as if I’m walking on a high wire suspended over a bottomless abyss. One false step and it would be the dreadful end.”
Mrs. Watson took her hands. They both wore gloves, yet Alice’s ice-cold fingers instantly felt warmer. “You are all right now, my dear. We are your safety net. Even if you take a wrong step, we will still catch you. We won’t let you fall.”
No one had reassured her like this in a very long time.
A nightmarish high-wire act described her life for the past few days. Before that, ever since summer, it had been as if she’d been trapped inside a large maze, with the walls closing in all around her, until she must move sideways, squeezed so tight she could barely breathe. All the while knowing that as much work as she put into each step, she was no closer to putting the struggle behind her.
Her voice broke. “I don’t know what to do anymore.”
“You don’t need to know everything, my dear. Together we will find a way out.”
Mrs. Watson moved to Alice’s seat and enfolded her in an embrace. And the tears Alice had been holding back, today, yesterday, and for months and months, fell down her cheeks into Mrs. Watson’s velvet-soft cape.
“Inspector Brighton will not let up. He’s convinced of impropriety between Mr. Sullivan and myself. And he is convinced I was there at number 33 the night of the murders.”
“I believe that there was nothing between you and Mr. Sullivan.”
Alice’s conscience burned. “I can say that nothing happened between Mr. Sullivan and myself.”
Mrs. Watson rubbed her back, the contact light yet fortifying. “My child, your husband was a fool for an extended period of time. He was so involved in his own abraded pride that he, an investigator by profession, could not perceive that you were embattled at Cousins. Was it any wonder that, however briefly, you looked forward more to seeing Mr. Sullivan than to seeing Inspector Treadles? Was it any wonder that you imagined, once or twice, how different your life would have been had you married a more broad-minded man, such as Mr. Sullivan gave every appearance of being?”
More of Alice’s tears soaked into Mrs. Watson’s cape—was there any possibility that she could keep this wonderful cape, to hold tight when she needed comfort and understanding? “It might have been little wonder, but I feel deeply disloyal for having had those thoughts.”
Mrs. Watson sighed. “And do you think, during all the time your husband had himself that long, silent tantrum, that he never looked at someone else’s wife and wished that he’d married a meeker, more deferential woman? Do you think he never considered how different his life would be if he had a wife who depended solely on him and thought solely of him?”
“I’m sure he must have, but—”
Her hands on Alice’s arms, Mrs. Watson straightened Alice and looked into her eyes. “But you don’t think it was disloyal of him. In fact, you are downright grateful that he only thought—and didn’t do anything with anyone else. But he isn’t particularly noble for not doing what he should not have done, and you, my dear, are not at all faithless for having had a thought you never would have acted on. Since you understand why he had such thoughts, please, extend the same understanding to yourself.”
But she didn’t know how. She didn’t even know, until Mrs. Watson pointed out the discrepancy, that she held herself to a far more stringent set of standards. “I wish I’d had you in my life sooner.”
“Well, I didn’t arrive too late, I don’t think—I arrived when I was meant to.”
Mrs. Watson dabbed at Alice’s still-wet face with a handkerchief that smelled of orange blossoms. “Now tell me about the night of the party. Tell me what really happened.”
Logically Alice knew that whatever she told Mrs. Watson, Miss Holmes would know, too, but it was the difference between confessing a mistake to a strict headmistress and admitting the same to a loving mother from whom she needed fear no recriminations.
Mrs. Watson had placed the handkerchief in Alice’s palm. Alice wiped her face some more, feeling a little stronger, a little braver. “It was an excruciating night. I’m not entirely out of mourning for my brother and went only because Miss Longstead worried that the party would be thinly attended. She need not have fretted. The attendance was most gratifying. Yet in all that crowd, I could not seem to get away from Mr. Sullivan, who was always appearing at my elbow, looking solicitous but with a snide comment under his breath. Around half past midnight I could bear it no more and went out into the garden behind the house.
“There I saw a man enter the house next door. From the back, he looked very much like my husband, who was supposed to be away from London. Mr. Longstead’s house was brightly lit. The house next door, not so much. And I was far away enough that I couldn’t be sure my eyes weren’t playing tricks.
“Then I had a horrible thought. Mr. Sullivan had threatened to go to my husband and tell him lies. What if he had done so after all? What if my husband had told me that he would be out of town so he could observe me in secret? Was that why Mr. Sullivan kept coming near me, to give an impression of intimacy where none existed?
“Without another thought, I ran across to number 33. The folly of my action didn’t occur to me. The most important thing, the only important thing, was that my marriage must not fall prey to a pack of lies.
“It wasn’t until I was inside number 33 that I began to feel apprehensive. What if the person who’d entered the house was not my husband, but a squatter or a night burglar?
“The house was cold and silent. I stood where I was, not daring to move farther into its interior. I could see a little—whoever had come in before me had opened the curtains on the window facing Mr. Longstead’s. But it was the kind of light that made the dark corners even darker.
“I thought I heard something higher up in the house. My heart thumped. By this point I was thoroughly regretting my rash entry. My feet started moving toward the back door.
“That’s when Mr. Sullivan came in. ‘Well, well,’ he sneered. ‘We could have had our assignation in a warm room with a proper bed, my dear Mrs. Treadles. But how like you to delight in uncomfortable thrills.’
“My lips must have flapped a few times before any protests emerged. ‘Mr. Sullivan, I will have you know—’”
She broke off, and covered her face. She wanted to deliver her account with aplomb, but her gut churned at the memory, and both shame and anger burned in her throat.