Page 29 of A Study in Scarlet Women
“As you can see, Inspector, there are no signs at all of a struggle. No bruises around the throat or anywhere else on the skin. No wounds or injuries. And since chloral was the culprit, I made a careful inspection of the entire body. There isn’t a single puncture mark tosuggest the use of a syringe. Nor is there any evidence that chloral was administered rectally.”
The pathologist’s tone was professional and brisk. But Treadles heard a trace of vexation—that what should have been a straightforward inquest returning a verdict of accidental overdose had been unnecessarily prolonged by the involvement of that busybody Sherlock Holmes.
And now, of Scotland Yard.
At the same time, however, Treadles discerned a hint of excitement. Dr. Merriweather, like most men, was intrigued by the possibility of a truly unusual crime, one so subtle that even someone of his considerable knowledge and experience could not identify, let alone fathom, it.
Treadles had confessed the same excitement to his wife. What he had not told her was the tremulous hope in his heart that such a closely watched case—the C.I.D. had been bombarded by reporters hounding for the latest developments—might make his name known to the public. He cared little for fame, but he wanted those friends of Alice’s who had become mere nodding acquaintances after her marriage to a policeman to read about his exploits in their morning papers. They would never envy her, but perhaps someday they would no longer disdain her for her choice of mate.
He knew that she had no regrets about becoming his wife. He only wanted that she never would.
“And chloral is absolutely the culprit?” he asked.
“Absolutely,” said Mr. Smythe, the young chemical analyst for the county. He hadn’t Dr. Merriweather’s detachment before dead bodies, and had remained in a corner of the room as the policemen and the pathologist inspected the cadaver, but now he warmed up to his subject and launched into a detailed explanation of the tools and procedures used to ascertain that it was not chloroform or antimonyfound in the tissue, but chloral hydrate and only chloral hydrate. “I performed the assays myself, each step repeated multiple times. There can be no mistake.”
“Thank you, Mr. Smythe,” said Treadles. “And thank you, Dr. Merriweather.”
Dr. Merriweather was correct: there was no trace of foul play to be seen on Mr. Sackville’s body. And Treadles had no reason to doubt that the enthusiastic Mr. Smythe wasn’t just as meticulous at his work. From afar it had been easy to imagine all kinds of overlooked details that, once observed, would lead clearly and triumphantly to a conclusion of criminality. But up close such had not turned out to be the case at all. In fact, Mr. Sackville’s death appeared more and more what it had seemed at first glance: a simple matter of accidental overdose.
He sighed inwardly—so much for his dreams of a most publicized success.
Well, on to the house.
Per Treadles’s request, a capable constable had been dispatched to Curry House—and the nearest village—to gather general information ahead of Scotland Yard’s arrival. The report had been waiting for Treadles when he reached Devon, as had a copy of the official transcript from the inquest.
Mr. Sackville did not own Curry House. It belonged to a widow named Mrs. Curry, who, upon remarrying and becoming Mrs. Struthers, moved to her husband’s home in Norwich and put up the house for let.
Seven years had passed since Mr. Sackville took over the lease of Curry House. No nearby squires, however, could claim anything beyond a nodding acquaintance—Mr. Sackville had been a recluse. That said, he’d enjoyed a gentlemanly reputation in the area: He might not have cultivated close ties with anyone, but he was nevertoo proud to acknowledge the villagers he came across on his walks, be they vicars or simple farm wives.
And though he had not participated in the civic life of the village, he could be counted upon to give generously to any and all causes, whether it was for a new altarpiece in the old Norman church, coal and windows for the village school, or funds to purchase titles for the circulating library.
He was, in other words, not beloved, but respected and admired. No one thought it particularly odd that he chose to keep to himself; the great families of the land were well-known to produce eccentric sons.
Not that the villagers knew which great family had produced Mr. Sackville—they had no copy ofDebrett’sto consult. It was simply their instinctive conclusion that his origins lay not with the gentry, but the nobility.
Curry House, too, added to that impression.
The Devon Coast was a lovely place. The cliffs that met the sea were high and dramatic—an almost startling reminder that Britain was but an island. The headlands along this stretch of the coast were a green patchwork of fields and sheep-dotted pastures. Curry House stood one and three-quarter miles outside the village of Stanwell Moot and was reached by a narrow path, hemmed in on both sides by hedges of hawthorn and field maple.
The house was relatively recent, built at the beginning of the century, with a slender, almost delicate silhouette, its stucco exterior bright white under the sun—and impossibly clean against a backdrop of limitless blue skies. The two policemen were more accustomed to the soot and grime of London, where it was easier to find a unicorn than a set of such immaculate walls. Sergeant MacDonald whistled softly.
Inside, the house was no less immaculate: clear, white-framedwindows, pastel blue walls, and thick oriental rugs adding a welcome splash of color and texture. The woman who received them could not be said to be as elegant as her surroundings: Mrs. Cornish, the housekeeper, had a ruddy complexion and a somewhat lumpy build. But her black dress had been skillfully pressed and her large, white cap perfectly starched.
Not as elegant, but certainly as spotless.
After politely inquiring into their trip, she offered them tea. Inspector Treadles accepted, but asked to see the house first, particularly the bedroom in which Mr. Sackville had drawn his last breath.
The airy refinement of the house extended to the upper story. Mr. Sackville’s bedroom commanded a spectacular panorama of the coast—the house was less than half a mile from the sea and boasted one of the highest vantage points in the surrounding countryside.
“A most favorable view,” murmured Treadles.
Sergeant MacDonald nodded. “Probably why the house was set here in the first place.”
Treadles turned his attention to the room itself. “Are these the same sheets on which Mr. Sackville died?”
“No, Inspector. The sheets have been changed. But they haven’t been sent out to launder yet.”
“I will need to see them. And the rest of the room has been cleaned too, I suppose?”
