Page 10 of Murder on Cold Street
At the bottom of the stairs, he asked, in a low voice, “Would you like me to accompany you home, Mrs. Treadles?”
“No, I shall be quite all right,” she said rather quickly.
“I’m sure Inspector Treadles would wish you to have the support of friends, in times such as these.”
“And I’m sureIshall feel more assured to know that you are at Sherlock Holmes’s disposal, my lord, rather than wasting your time squiring me about town.”
Her first refusal he’d attributed to a desire not to inconvenience him. But this second one, accompanied by a flash of apprehension in her eyes, was more adamant. She really didn’t want him to escort her.
She did not want any further questions, from anyone.
“In that case, let me see you to your carriage, at least.”
As he handed her up into her vehicle, she turned around in dismay. “Goodness, I forgot to inquire about Mr. Holmes’s fees! Should I have paid a portion up front to retain his services?”
He put on a reassuring smile for her. “Don’t worry about that now, Mrs. Treadles. You will hear from his bursar in good time.”
When Lord Ingram returned to the parlor at 18 Upper Baker Street, he was not surprised to see that said bursar had joined Holmes at the tea table: Mrs. Watson, his old friend, must have been in the bedroom, listening. But hewassurprised—and delighted—to see Miss Penelope Redmayne, too, by her side.
To the world Penelope had always been presented as Mrs. Watson’s niece. But she was Mrs. Watson’s daughter, her natural father the late Duke of Wycliffe, Lord Ingram’s official father. But since hewas, in truth, the product of the late duchess’s affair with a wealthy banker, he and Penelope were not related by blood. Still, he had always regarded her as a baby sister, one he didn’t see enough of.
He exchanged warm greetings with mother and daughter. Holmes looked on, appearing bemused. With someone else he might worry she felt excluded, but that had never been a problem with Holmes, who did not weigh the affection she received against that bestowed on anyone else.
“When did you arrive in London, Miss Redmayne?” he asked. When they were alone, they called each other Penelope and Ash. But even in front of Mrs. Watson, he preferred to maintain the pretenses.
“I reached yesterday,” she said cheerfully, “after a crossing that felled everyone aboard. I do believe I kissed soggy English ground in fervent gratitude upon disembarking. Presently I shall petition all and sundry to bring the tunnel under the Channel to fruition at the earliest possible date. And I refuse to hear a word about how such a shaft might undermine Britain’s natural defenses.”
He smiled. “And how are your studies?”
“Demanding and fascinating. I’ve become an ever more indelicate individual, by the way, having by now eaten pastries and cheese sandwiches next to still-open cadavers,” she answered, sighing. “My friends say that my coarsification will be complete when I will have consumed a serving ofrognons à la crèmeunder the same conditions—which, of course, will never happen as I don’t care for kidneys, even without human remains nearby.”
He laughed. She was a second-year student of medicine at the Sorbonne in Paris and enjoyed making light of her anatomy classes.
“But enough about me. How did Mrs. Treadles look to you, my lord?”
“Indeed,” echoed Mrs. Watson. “Is she all right, that poor woman?”
He glanced at Holmes, who nibbled on a slice of cake and said, “I told them she wouldn’t buckle under yet.”
“No, not yet,” he agreed.
“But...” prompted Penelope.
“But it’s also true that Inspector Treadles is in significant trouble.”
“Surely it can’t be anything except a huge misunderstanding,” murmured Mrs. Watson, not sounding entirely convinced.
This time everyone looked at Holmes, who drank her tea and said nothing.
It had so often fallen to her, to be the harbinger of ill tidings. He decided to fill that function this time. “We are all hoping it will prove no more than a misunderstanding. However, given that Inspector Treadles was, until last night, as far as we knew, a member of the law-enforcement community in good standing, I cannot help but think that Scotland Yard wouldn’t have arrested him unless he was standing over Mr. Longstead’s dead body, the murder weapon in hand.”
Mrs. Watson recoiled. “That bad?”
“That would be my guess. Holmes?”
“A likely scenario, yes.”
“Is there any chance that he did do it?” asked Penelope, who’d met the inspector only once.
