Page 32 of A Study in Scarlet Women
“No, Inspector. He’d had them for as long as I’ve worked for him. I think there was once before when he didn’t go to London because he wasn’t feeling up to it.”
Once in seven years and then twice in a month. Curious. Not curious enough to suggest outright foul play—the nature of random events was that they were random—but noteworthy, nevertheless. “Did he say anything about why he came back early that time in May?”
“No, he didn’t.”
“How did he appear when he arrived back at Curry House?”
“He kept to himself that day and didn’t want to be disturbed.”
“He also went to church, I understand, before he returned home that day. The vicar saw him, as well as some other villagers.”
This for a man who had never attended service the entire time he had resided at Curry House.
“I heard the same.”
“Were you surprised the Thursday a fortnight later, when he didn’t head for London at all?”
“I... I was, but not terribly so.”
“Why not?”
“He had a resigned air about him.”
This had not been part of the village gossip. Inspector Treadles frowned slightly. “How resigned?”
Mrs. Cornish thought for a moment. “Disheartened, I’d say. Restless, too. His habits used to be regular. But in those last few weeks, he’d disappear a whole day at a time. And once he came back drenched in rain—and it’d been raining even when he left.”
The information did not bode well for Sherlock Holmes’s conjecture. The relevant dates for Mr. Sackville failed to line up with Lady Amelia’s sudden death, which came too late to explain his downheartedness. The most likely hypothesis would be that Mr. Sackville had a mistress in town whom he visited with clockwork regularity. And then what happened? Had she left him for greener pastures? Or perhaps accepted a proposal of marriage from another smitten man?
It was hardly unheard of for a man in the throes of heartache to be overly generous with substances that offered him a few hours of oblivion and forgetfulness.
Inspector Treadles pressed on. “Please describe for me the household activities in the twenty-four hours preceding Mr. Sackville’s death.”
“There isn’t much to tell, Inspector. It was a half day. I had the Anglican Women’s meeting in the afternoon. Then I went to Bideford, had myself a spot of tea, walked around the shops a bit, and came back at half past seven. Everyone else returned a little before eight—except Mr. Hodges, he was out on his annual holiday.
“We had our supper in the servants’ hall and then brought back the dishes from the dining room—on half days Mrs. Meek, the cook, left Mr. Sackville a cold supper. At nine I took him a cup of tea, a plate of biscuits, and the evening post and asked if there would be anything else. He said no, I might retire. And that was the last I saw him conscious.”
“Can you recall what came in the post for him?”
“A magazine or two and maybe a few pamphlets—he liked to send for those from time to time,” Mrs. Cornish said rather reluctantly, asif finding it distasteful to admit that she’d guessed the contents of her employer’s mail.
“And how did he look?”
“A bit tired, but not in a way to alarm anyone.”
Had he any idea those would be his final hours?
“You were at the inquest. You heard the letter read from Mr. Holmes, connecting Mr. Sackville’s death to those of two ladies in his circle. What did you think of that?”
“I’m sure I don’t know what to think of it at all,” answered Mrs. Cornish, her expression as circumspect as her words.
“Have you ever heard Mr. Sackville mention either Lady Amelia Drummond or Lady Shrewsbury?”
“No, sir.”
“Did he write to them?”
“I have never seen an envelope with either of those names.”
