Her heart clenched.
The week before, in Paris, she and Mr. Marbleton had been able to spend a few hours by themselves, exploring the Jardin des Tuileries and the Sacré-Coeur. He’d carried with him his detective camera, disguised as a thick but not very large book, and used it to take photographs of her.
Afterwards, they’d stopped to refresh themselves at a bistro, its air redolent with the aroma of herbs and warm, bubbling stew. She’d gazed at the crowd outside, rushing to and fro on their own business, and imagined how the boulevard would look come summer, with all the great elms along its length in their full leafy glory.
Life always seemed to abound with possibilities when he was near.
But he was no longer in her life.
His had been the passage of a legendary comet, lighting up entire skies. But comets, however brilliant and extraordinary, are only visitors. They arrive from some mysterious region in the heavens, and disappear there again, leaving behind only dazzling memories.
Yes, she should drown in woe and wistfulness, for what she’d had all too briefly. Yet as she gazed upon her own image, and remembered his mischievous laughter after he’d taken the picture, what she felt was not sadness, but a cold dread that seeped from her heart to her lungs.
Why did she need to be afraid for him? He was a comet, for goodness’ sake.
She put the photograph away and sat down at her desk. But it was a quarter of an hour before she managed to pull herself together enough to resume copying.
* * *
This time, when Miss Longstead received Charlotte, she had on her glasses, wire rimmed with tortoiseshell temples. But the glasses were quickly put into her pocket: Charlotte had come to test her vision under conditions similar to the night of the dance.
Number 31, which in mourning had shut down tightly, now had all the windows on the two lower floors ablaze with light, their curtains drawn apart. Miss Longstead, wrapped in a great black cape, stood in the garden, at the spot where she believed she had been.
Charlotte would ask her to close her eyes. When she opened her eyes again, Charlotte would have a trial ready for her. Sometimes Charlotte sent a manservant to stand before the back door of number 33, sometimes a maid, sometimes no one, and sometimes two servants at once. Miss Longstead squinted but correctly identified the gender of the person or persons at the back door, except once, when a maid and a manservant stood in a line and she thought only the maid was there, because her dress had a bigger silhouette. She also said so when no one had been sent to stand before the door.
After Charlotte was satisfied that she could trust Miss Longstead to be right about what she’d seen that night—a woman going into number 33 from the back—she thanked the servants. Mrs. Coltrane, on hand to observe the proceedings, shepherded them back into the house. Charlotte marched farther into the garden to thank Miss Longstead.
“No, Miss Holmes, I should thank you for being so thorough,” she answered. And then, with her voice lowered, even though there was no one else within earshot, “Have you made any progress?”
There was no mistaking the anxiety in her question. “You are worried for Inspector Treadles.”
Miss Longstead nodded tightly. “Mrs. Treadles is a lovely woman—I really don’t want the murderer to be her husband. And the inspector himself has been very kind, too. When we dined together, he took the time to ask about my experiments in depth.”
And if Inspector Treadles hanged for Mr. Longstead’s murder, would the two women ever be able to see each other again?
“I’ve learned some things,” said Charlotte. “But I’m not sure how they fit together. Perhaps you could help me. Do you have time to take a round in the garden?”
Miss Longstead set her hands over her heart. “Oh, I was hoping you’d say that. It has been awful, staring at the four walls of my room. I don’t know why being grief-stricken has to equate to being house-bound, but Mrs. Coltrane said it wouldn’t do for me to be abroad so soon after my uncle’s passing, even if it was only to walk in the park by myself.”
Charlotte thought the young woman might have a difficult time of it, especially with her laboratory, where she had spent significant hours of the day, destroyed on that same night. Charlotte herself, amazingly enough, had had enough tea and biscuits and needed some exercise before she felt virtuous enough for dessert at dinner.
The garden grew darker—the curtains of number 31 were again drawn, the lights in the unoccupied rooms dimming one by one.
“Miss Longstead, in your view, is there any chance that your uncle was killed because of his support for Mrs. Treadles?” asked Charlotte, as Miss Longstead guided her onto a garden path.
Miss Longstead reached inside her pocket, pulled out her glasses, and put them back on. “I can see Mr. Sullivan killed for such a reason, perhaps. But my uncle didn’t know how to play games.”
“He didn’t need to have been playing games. He could have been killed for the sincerity of his support with regard to Mrs. Treadles.”
They passed near a brilliantly lit house, its light reflecting in the lenses of Miss Longstead’s glasses. “I—I don’t think so.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t doubt the depth of his sympathy for Mrs. Treadles’s plight. Nor do I doubt the integrity of his character—he would never have supported her to her face and then stabbed her in the back. But—” She exhaled. “If I were Mrs. Treadles, I would have found his support—”
Miss Longstead’s pace slowed. Her gloved hands, held before her diaphragm, twisted together. “I don’t know how to say it without sounding as if I disapprove in some way of this wonderful man who raised me with all the diligence and attention I could have asked of a father. But you see, my uncle, he was a very successful man. He worked hard and was properly rewarded for his hard work. Life was fair for him and so he believed that it is fair for everyone—that if they would do as he did, they would achieve the same satisfying results.
“Persist, he told Mrs. Treadles. Have patience. Good things will come. His advice was not wrong. But he failed to consider that when he’d worked hard, he’d had old Mr. Cousins for his partner, old Mr. Cousins who had been a vigorously honorable man, keen on making sure my uncle received his rightful share of the profits. Mrs. Treadles, on the other hand, had to work with Mr. Sullivan and his cohorts.”
She said this last sentence in the same tone another person might have used to say, Mrs. Treadles, on the other hand, fell into a pit of vipers. Charlotte was already under the impression that she didn’t care for this cousin. But it seemed that Miss Longstead didn’t merely dislike Mr. Sullivan—she despised him.
“So, in your opinion, Mr. Longstead’s support of Mrs. Treadles, while genuine, was insufficient,” said Charlotte.