Page 31 of A Study in Scarlet Women
The housekeeper hesitated a moment. “Inspector, Sergeant, you are visitors to this house and by rights ought to be received abovestairs. But I wouldn’t feel right sitting down in the drawing room...”
“We’ll use the drawing room for our interviews but we’ll be happy to take tea where you’ll be comfortable, Mrs. Cornish,” said Treadles.
They had tea in Mrs. Cornish’s small office, next to the storeroom. Two-thirds of the entire floor was below ground level, but enough light came through windows set high on the wall that the room didn’t feel subterranean.
Mrs. Cornish poured tea. Treadles took the opportunity to ask some questions. From the preliminary report, he already knew that Mrs. Cornish had been at Curry House the longest, fourteen years, taking over the housekeeper’s position while the former Mrs. Curry was still in residence.
Mrs. Cornish confirmed that, as well as information about the rest of the staff. The cook, Mrs. Meek, was the newest, arriving onthe Devon Coast little more than a month ago. There was also a valet, a housemaid, a kitchen maid, and a lad who looked after both the garden and the horses.
With the exception of the valet, Hodges, the servants were paid by the owner of the house, who charged higher rents for a property that came with a full implement of competent staff. Mr. Sackville’s solicitors had agreed that his estate would continue to foot the lease—and Hodges’s wages—until their client’s death had been properly investigated.
Treadles didn’t doubt the lawyers were irked when the inquest didn’t immediately return a verdict of accidental overdose.
“Will you tell me something of Mr. Sackville’s daily routines?” he asked Mrs. Cornish.
Mrs. Cornish did so readily. On an ordinary summer day, Mr. Sackville would have taken his morning cup of cocoa in bed at half past six. Then he bathed and dressed. At quarter past seven he rode. Breakfast was at half past eight, when he returned. He liked to spend some time in his study after breakfast. Luncheon was at one. He often went for a long walk afterward, returning home to take tea at half past four, and dinner at eight. Twice a month he traveled to London after luncheon and didn’t return until tea time the next day.
Inspector Treadles knew about the London trips from the preliminary report—Constable Perkins of the Devon Constabulary had been thorough at his task. He also knew that the visits were a source of curiosity in the village. Some thought he went to visit friends, some speculated that he gambled, and a few more were of the opinion that Mr. Sackville simply wished to get away regularly—that they would, too, if they had his wealth and freedom of movement.
“Do you happen to know, Mrs. Cornish, what had been his purpose for those trips?”
“Not at all, Inspector.”
“He did not speak of them when he returned?”
She shook her head. And of course a self-respecting servant would never think to interrogate her employer on his private affairs.
“Which train did he take?”
“The 3:05 from Barton Cross.”
Barton Cross was the next nearest village. Treadles had studied the local railway timetable. The 3:05 from Barton Cross didn’t arrive on a mainline until almost four o’clock in the afternoon. And even if Mr. Sackville caught the next express to London, it would be well past business hours by the time he pulled into Paddington Station.
Not the kind of itinerary a man would choose, if his primary intention was to see his agents or solicitors.
“Did he always leave on the same days?”
“The second and fourth Thursday of each month.”
The London theatrical season ran from September to the end of July. But the regularity of Mr. Sackville’s visits didn’t suggest the jaunts of a theater lover. It also seemed unlikely that he went to see friends—members of his social class congregated in London during the Season and spent the rest of the year in the country, where the air was far more salutary.
“You are certain London was his destination, Mrs. Cornish?”
“Mr. Hodges said so. He went through Mr. Sackville’s pockets before his clothes were sent out for laundering. And he always found punched tickets issued from Paddington Station, from Mr. Sackville’s return trips.”
Mrs. Cornish blushed slightly, as if embarrassed that she’d gossiped about her employer with the valet.
“I see. I understand Mr. Sackville’s London trips became a little more irregular in the weeks before his passing.”
“Gastric attacks,” Mrs. Cornish replied with great authority. “They happened twice in April. Once he never left the house, thenext time he began to feel poorly while he was on the train. He got off at the next station and spent the night at the railway hotel.”
This was in accordance with what the ticket agent at the Barton Cross railway station remembered.
“A fortnight after that he did go.”
“He did, but he came back the next morning, earlier than usual. And two weeks after that he didn’t go at all, even though he was well.”
“Were those two times in April the only occasions he suffered from gastric attacks?”
