Page 104 of Murder on Cold Street
Mrs. Watson scanned the letters. “But these are—these are—what—” she stuttered, bewildered.
Charlotte smiled at her. “More than ever I am grateful for your policy, ma’am, never to toss away anything that comes addressed to Sherlock Holmes. I believe the letters are from Inspector Treadles, who chose the examples of these clients because they had been featured in a newspaper article. And if you look at where the letters were sent from...”
Mrs. Watson scrutinized the addresses on the letters and the postmarks on the envelopes. “I don’t see any disparities.”
“No disparities. But look at the locales themselves, please.”
Lord Ingram lifted one envelope. “Headingley. Is that not near Leeds?”
Charlotte nodded. “Likely a part of Leeds itself now, but it probably still has a receiving post office with its own postmark.”
Miss Redmayne took the other envelope. “This one is postmarked Sharrow. Where’s Sharrow?”
“Sharrow—that’s in Sheffield!” Mrs. Watson shot out of her chair. “Inspector Treadles was inSheffield.”
In Mrs. Watson’s account of what she and Lord Ingram had learned in Reading, the name of this city had passed through the lips of a dying worker, mumbling deliriously in German.
Two more, then Sheffield, then home.
Miss Redmayne rubbed Mrs. Watson’s arm gently. Lord Ingram poured a glass of wine for her. While they capably saw to Mrs. Watson, Charlotte finished all the remaining brussels sprouts on her plate.
The butter sauce had made them far more palatable. But alas, how virtuous could she feel, when she ate almost as much butter as she did brussels sprouts?
Mrs. Watson sat down again and drank from the glass Lord Ingram had set before her. The wine brought back some color into her cheeks, but the fine lines around the corners of her eyes deepened with her frown. “I’m more than willing to believe that Mr. Longstead and Inspector Treadles joined forces to scrutinize irregularities at Cousins—Mr. Longstead could have done far worse fora partner in such an endeavor. Not to mention that Inspector Treadles, having recently reconciled with his wife, probably yearned to render her a service, to make up for months of neglect. But why didn’t they say anything to her?”
Lord Ingram poured a glass of wine for himself. “A trick of the masculine mind, I’m afraid. They probably thought it chivalrous not to involve her in something that could prove dangerous.”
But that she had been so much in the dark had made life an order of a magnitude more difficult for her, when everything had gone wrong on the night of the party.
“I, too, am willing to accept the premise that Mr. Longstead and Inspector Treadles worked together and that Mr. Longstead opened the back door to number 33 that night,” declared Miss Redmayne. “But if he was waiting for Inspector Treadles, how did he end up dead, together with Mr. Sullivan? And what was Mr. Sullivan doing there in the first place?”
Charlotte was eyeing thebûche de Noëlagain. Lord Ingram pushed it directly in front of her. She smiled at the cake, though she really wished to bat her eyelashes at him.
He said to Miss Redmayne, “While Miss Charlotte is busy with her one true love, I can venture a guess to your question.”
Miss Redmayne laughed. Mrs. Watson chortled. Charlotte cut herself a slice of the cake. Ah, how scrumptious.
Lord Ingram studied her a moment, his gaze full of amusement and affection. But as he turned back to address the other ladies, all lightheartedness left his expression.
“When we began this investigation, we thought Mrs. Treadles in desperate straits. But the greater part of her current predicament arose from her husband’s arrest. Knowing what we do now, if we go back to the beginning of that night, before anyone ended up dead, we can see that it wasMr. Sullivanin water so hot it was practically boiling, Mr. Sullivan who knowingly and recklessly abused the power of his office.
“His had not been subtle crimes. They had not come to light, because he oversaw all reports and the younger Mr. Cousins had been lazy and incurious. But then Mrs. Treadles took over the company and she wanted to know all about its inner workings. She was intelligent and tenacious,andshe was entirely within her rights in making those inquiries.
“This must have terrified him. By exploiting the other men’s hesitation about and hostility toward having a woman preside over their work, he could only stall her for so long. She was, after all, the owner of the company. Even a threat against her marriage was no long-term guarantee. He had to do something else.
“And I’m guessing...” He glanced at Charlotte. “Perhaps Mr. Sullivan didn’t lie entirely to his wife. Perhaps he did intend for something to disrupt the party—ruin it, even—to distress Miss Longstead, infuriate her uncle, and cause a rift between Mr. Longstead and Mrs. Treadles.”
Charlotte, her mouth full of airy cake and decadent crème Chantilly, nodded in agreement. “Mmm.”
“But for Mr. Sullivan to cause that uproar at the party, wouldn’t he need Inspector Treadles to be there?” asked Miss Redmayne. “But how could he be sure, even if he had put that provocative taunt in the papers, that Inspector Treadles would indeed arrive on the scene? And how could he anticipate what the inspector would do, even if he were there?”
She sucked in a breath. “Oh, so that’s why he had Inspector Treadles’s service revolver stolen!”
“Precisely,” said Lord Ingram. “He didn’t need Inspector Treadles to be there, only something that was unmistakably and identifiably his. As for what exactly he intended to do, I believe he planned to fire the revolver into number 31.”
“What?” Mrs. Watson exclaimed.
“Not to injure anyone, at least not intentionally, but to cause a panic. He would make sure to leave the firearm behind and get outof number 33 quickly. And then, even better, once he was back in number 31, he could organize a sortie with a few other intrepid gentlemen to see what was going on. And when this cavalcade of heroes arrived next door, what should they find but Inspector Treadles’s still warm revolver.”
