Page 26 of The Hollow of Fear
“I have an urgent message for the ladies of Rampling Cottage, mum.”
Mrs. Watson had taken off her reading glasses before she came to the door—oh, the vanity. Now she found it difficult to make out the exact letters on the envelope—at least without holding the letter as far from her eyes as her hand could reach and squinting unattractively.
“An urgent message for us from Stern Hollow,” she said when she returned to the sitting room. “I wonder if it’s from Lord Ingram. Drat my old eyes.”
Almost immediately Miss Holmes said, “That’s my sister’s handwriting.”
“Oh? What news does she have?”
Miss Holmes took the letter. Her expression changed—changed so much that even someone not at all acquainted with her would be able to tell that something dreadful had happened.
“My goodness, what’s going on?” cried Mrs. Watson.
Miss Holmes did not answer. She turned the letter over and read it again from the beginning, much slower this time, as if committing every word to memory. When she was done, she set it down on the tea table and pushed it across to Mrs. Watson.
Dear Charlotte,
I hope my hand will stop shaking long enough for me to write.
Although what I really want is for what I’m about to tell you to never have happened at all.
Lady Ingram is dead. Her body was discovered in the icehouse by a kitchen helper. The poor boy ran out screaming. Lady Avery, Lady Somersby, and I, who happened to be passing nearby, ran to his aid. We then went into the icehouse to see what had so frightened him, when he couldn’t say anything beyond, “She’s in there. She’s in there!”
We saw her in the ice well. I’m not sure what happened afterward. I think one of the ladies tasked me to inform Lord Ingram, because the next thing I can remember is insisting to the house steward that I must see his master without delay.
When he received me, I found myself as inarticulate as the kitchen helper. “We—we were near the—the icehouse,” I stammered, “the icehouse, you—you see.”
Then I stared at him, as if he could divine what I could not bring myself to say. He looked back at me steadily, but with such weariness that my heart broke.
At last the words came. “Lady Ingram—Lady Ingram is in the icehouse. And she is no more.”
Now it was he who stared at me, as if I were a chair that had spoken. His lips moved, but no sounds emerged.
“I think you will wish to see it—to see her—for yourself,” I managed.
An eternity passed before he said, “Lady Ingram?LadyIngramin the—inthisicehouse?”
I nodded helplessly, wishing I’d never agreed to be a harbinger of evil tiding.
“Are you absolutely sure?” he asked, his voice so quiet I had to strain to hear.
I could only nod with unhappy certainty.
He rose, poured a measure of whisky, and pressed the glass into my trembling hands. “I’ll have Mrs. Sanborn send up a tea tray to your room. It has been an awful shock. Please go and take some rest.”
I did not need to be encouraged twice.
But now, with the tea tray beside me, my cheeks scald as I recall my utter uselessness. He’d remembered to see to my well-being but I didn’t even possess the presence of mind to comfort him. To declare my belief in his innocence. My faith that the universe would not be so cruel as to saddle him with the blame for Lady Ingram’s death.
Alas, all I did was babble something incoherent. Worse, as I left, I wished him good luck.
I should have at least told him that you would get to the bottom of the matter. That he was not alone in this dire misfortune. But at the time I fled with an unholy haste, only to moan and shiver in the tranquil loveliness of my room, no longer able to hold on to any illusion of sanctuary.
Please, Charlotte. You must help him.
Please.
Livia
