Page 82 of The Hollow of Fear
But if the children were far away, then who had slept in the fairy tale cottage? Who had drunk the hot cocoa in the space that housed the boilers? And what had Lord Ingram been doing there past midnight?
Fowler apparently had the same questions. “My lord, why were you in the tunnel in the first place, late at night?”
Lord Ingram shrugged. “I don’t sleep very well these days. So I sometimes walk about the estate at odd hours.”
“All right. You subdued this man and tied him up. Then what?”
“I tried to question him. At first he wouldn’t say anything. Then he told me that his name was George Barr and he lived outside the village, mainly on money his sister sent him. He’d heard that Stern Hollow housed a valuable collection of art. He’d also heard that art theft was both quick and easy.
“A few weeks ago he met a footman from Stern Hollow at the village pub, having a pint on his half day. During their chat he said he’d heard that the manor was locked up nice and tight at night, with no way for anyone from the outside to get in. According to him, the footman, having already had a few pints, declared that if he were trying to break in, he would get into the boiler hut, climb down the ladder, and take the tunnel to the coal cellar. And Mr. Barr decided that he would do exactly that, for instant riches.
“He seemed a genuinely stupid man. But I didn’t dare trust my first impression. So I decided I would verify his story first, before I did anything else. Since we were already near the icehouse, that seemed as good a place as any to stow him.
“I tied him to a tree, gagged him, and went to the head gardener’s shed and took his key to the icehouse. While I was in the shed, I saw that he had a pile of padlocks and decided to take one. I didn’t want the kitchen helper to accidentally come upon Mr. Barr before I could find out whether he was truly the village idiot.
“I put him in the second antechamber and secured the icehouse with the other lock. In the morning I meant to take him some water and food, but the outdoor staff were working nearby and I couldn’t get into the icehouse without being seen. And then the cisterns broke at Mrs. Newell’s and I was faced with an influx of guests who must be looked after. I was unable to get away for the rest of the day. And when I managed to do so after most of them had gone to bed, one of the gentlemen decided to set up his telescope twenty feet from the icehouse.
“I waited for an hour. He showed no intention of leaving. I came out again at three in the morning. He was gone by then. But so was the lock on the icehouse door. This alarmed me to no small extent. I went in and all that remained of the man was a foul smell he had left in the second antechamber.
“You didn’t go deeper into the icehouse?”
“No. My first—and only—thought was that hehadbeen sent by Lady Ingram—and that he had not been sent alone. His partner must have set him free. Since it would profit them not at all to venture farther into the icehouse, I never thought to check the inner chambers.”
“And then what?”
“Then it didn’t matter anymore whether anyone came into the icehouse; I put the old lock back on, returned the spare key to the head gardener’s place, and went back to the house.” He tapped his fingers once against the top of his large mahogany desk. “And that afternoon Lady Ingram’s body was discovered twenty feet from where I’d stood that morning.”
Beyond the windowsthe sky was blue—the fog had cleared entirely; the day promised to be cold but crisp. The brilliance outside only made the interior of the library, despite its many lamps and sconces, appear somber and unlit.
In the wake of Lord Ingram’s confession, silence reigned—even the fires barely hissed. Chief Inspector Fowler polished his spectacles. Lord Bancroft finished one slice of cake and picked up another. Lord Ingram took a sip of tea, his hand steady, his expression detached, seemingly unaware of his impending doom.
Treadles held on to the edges of his notebook so that his fingers wouldn’t shake. Where was Charlotte Holmes? And where was the exculpatory evidence that he and Lord Ingram had trusted her to unearth?
Fowler, satisfied with the clarity of his glasses, set them back on his nose. His owlish gaze landed on the master of the manor. “Lord Ingram, this is what I believe happened: You killed this man.”
Neither Lord Ingram nor Lord Bancroft betrayed any reaction. Treadles gritted his teeth, wiped his perspiring palms with a handkerchief, and resumed his note-taking.
“It could have happened under two different sets of circumstances, both involving your children,” Fowler went on. “I do not believe your children left with your brother, Lord Remington Ashburton. I believe they are still somewhere here on this estate. George Barr happened to stumble upon one of the places where you keep the children, and possibly their governess—namely, the tunnel between the glass house boilers and the coal cellar. Little wonder, then, that his presence so alarmed you.
“You chased him down and subdued him. This is where possibilities diverge. It’s possible you killed him on the spot. But I am of the opinion that you didn’t. That you told the truth about locking him in the icehouse while you sought to discover whether he truly was the moron he appeared to be.
“And then Lady Ingram arrived in secret. Perhaps things had gone awry with the man of her dreams. Perhaps her return was only for the sake of her children, all three of them. But she knew that you’d explained her absence as a visit to a Swiss sanatorium, which could be easily enough reversed. And she wished now to come back home, mother her children, and raise her future infant in respectable circumstances rather than ignominious exile.
“This enraged you, you who were beginning to consider letting the truth be known, so that you could petition for divorce on grounds of desertion. So that you could carry on with the rest of your life, preferably with Miss Charlotte Holmes as the next Lady Ingram. You pretended to be amenable to Lady Ingram’s plea, gave her a quantity of laudanum—the pathologist found that in her as well—and then injected her with absolute alcohol.
“Now that the deed was done, you wondered how to turn the situation to your advantage. It would be best if you could manipulate things so that it would appear to the general public that she had passed away while abroad. For that you would need her body to be shipped back in a casket and a funeral held.
“But how to get her to the Continent to be shipped back? Arrangements must be made. In the meanwhile, she must be preserved, in a way that would be convenient to whatever chronology of events you chose to fabricate. You remembered the fellow in the icehouse. The icehouse, you realized, would be the perfect place to keep her from spoiling—or spoiling your future.
“Which then, of course, means that poor Mr. Barr, who witnessed you dragging in Lady Ingram, must now be forever silenced.”
It was with great effort that Treadles didn’t stare at Fowler with his mouth open. This was a ghastly interpretation of the known facts, but the worst thing about it was that he could see a jury being convinced of such a scenario.
“I had no idea Scotland Yard employed novelists these days,” said Lord Bancroft coldly. “Of the penny dreadful variety, no less.”
Treadles, who until now had felt only a respectful wariness toward his friend’s brother, began to harbor warmer sentiments. Lord Bancroft was no doubt the kind who had no reservations about eviscerating men he considered his lessers, but at least now he’d done it on behalf of someone Treadles wished to defend but couldn’t.
Fowler was not chastised. “Truth is often stranger than fiction, my lord.”
