Page 30 of A Study in Scarlet Women
“Yes, Inspector. Top to bottom, on the day itself.”
Had Mr. Sackville died of natural causes, he might have been allowed to remain undisturbed on his deathbed for a while—or transported no further than the dining room table and laid out. But such had not been the circumstances and a conscientious housekeeper, faced with an unexpected death, had no doubt wished to return the house to its usual state of order and orderliness.
Treadles could not argue with the caretaker of a fine propertyduly discharging her duties, no matter how much he wished the room had been better preserved.
He and Sergeant MacDonald examined the windows and asked Mrs. Cornish about the various ways one could enter the house. She was certain that Mr. Sackville’s windows had been closed that night, as after dinner there had been a thunderstorm. The exterior of the house, smoothly plastered, would have been difficult, if not impossible, to climb up.
“Were the windows firmly latched?”
“Yes, Inspector. I unlatched them to air the room after Mr. Sackville was taken away.”
“And where does he keep his supply of chloral?”
Mrs. Cornish opened a nightstand drawer to reveal a small vial with two white grains inside.
“This was the quantity of chloral left the day of Mr. Sackville’s death?”
“Yes, Inspector. Dr. Birch asked to see it and I remember this was how much was left inside then.”
On top of the nightstand were several very recent periodicals—everything from literary weeklies to penny dreadfuls—Mr. Sackville had a catholic taste. “Did these come by post?”
“Yes, Inspector.”
They moved to the other upstairs rooms. Besides the private facilities, there were two more bedrooms, a sitting room, a study, and the valet’s room. “Mr. Hodges lives up here because we are all women below,” Mrs. Cornish explained.
Treadles nodded. “The windows in these rooms were also secured that night?”
“I unlatched them the next day—we aired out the entire house.”
Her responses were concise and to the point—Mrs. Cornish was not a talkative woman. But something in the way she held herself—atightness in her jaw, the hard clutch of her fingers around one another—belied her apparent composure.
She was deeply unsettled to be speaking to the police. But whether it was because the entire affair was upsetting or for some other reason, Treadles could not decide.
“And the doors?”
“I check them every night at nine.”
“Is it possible for someone to slip into the house unnoticed before nine o’clock?”
“I suppose it’spossible.” But her tone indicated that it was so improbable, the very thought was ridiculous.
If the deaths of Mr. Sackville, Lady Amelia, and Lady Shrewsbury were related, then an outsider—or more than one outsider—must be involved. But that theory of interconnectedness appeared ever more tenuous, now that Treadles had seen for himself the isolation of the house—and of the nearest village. This was the kind of place where a stranger would be immediately noticed. Or, likewise, a local doing something out of the ordinary.
Tourists did come through the area, tramping along the edge of the coast and taking in the views. But the preliminary report listed only two sets of guests at the village pub-and-inn in the preceding week: a traveling photographer and his assistant, who had stayed overnight and left five days before Mr. Sackville died, and some friends of the vicar’s brother, who’d come with the brother for a visit and slept at the pub, rather than cramming into the crowded vicarage.
Treadles and MacDonald were now back on the ground floor. “Would you mind showing us the rest of house, Mrs. Cornish?”
Kitchen complexes at large country houses were often separate from the main building, to reduce the risk of fire. Here, however, the kitchen was on the ground floor, separated from the drawing room and dining room by two sets of heavy, green baize–covered doors.The corridor led past the larder, the pantry, and the scullery before coming to the kitchen proper.
Stairs at the end of the corridor led down to other domestic offices, as well as to the servants’ hall and staff quarters. Mrs. Cornish showed Treadles where the linens from Mr. Sackville’s bed had been stowed, and they might as well have been freshly laundered, given how pristine they were.
“We changed the bedding frequently,” said Mrs. Cornish, not without a note of pride.
Another avenue of inquiry shut off. But Treadles was a patient man. He would find his openings.
“Will you take your tea now, Inspector, Sergeant?” Mrs. Cornish went on.
“We will,” answered Treadles. “Most kind of you, Mrs. Cornish.”
