Page 15 of Murder on Cold Street
He was found on the scene of the crime, 33 Cold Street. The two victims, Mr. John Longstead and Mr. Ambrose Sullivan, are uncle and nephew, and both said to have been longtime associates of Cousins Manufacturing, owned by Mrs. Robert Treadles, the suspect’s wife.
They exchanged a look. Not one, but two men killed!
The paper went into some biographical details about the dead men. Those describing Mr. Longstead accorded largely with what Mrs. Treadles had related, except the article neglected to mention that he’d only recently returned to Cousins Manufacturing after a long absence.
Mr. Sullivan, the nephew, had been at the company ten years. Accounted capable and brilliant, the handsome managing director was popular with both peers and subordinates. His death had left behind a grieving widow and two fatherless young children, one still an infant.
Inspector Treadles, too, received a fair number of column inches. Nothing of what was written could be classified as inaccurate, per se, but Lord Ingram’s lips flattened as he read on.
The distinctive impression he received from those paragraphswas that of a man who had married above his station and then proceeded to be jealous of his wife, especially after she took over her father’s enterprise and began associating with men of her own class, men better educated and more successful than he.
The article concluded withInspector Treadles has not confessed to the twin murders and Scotland Yard has released no additional details on the crimes.
He was just about to state that the paper went too far in its conjectures when his gaze fell on a stub of an article directly underneath.
In what might be considered a highly curious coincidence, it has been pointed out that a small notice, carried by a number of London morning editions yesterday, reads, when deciphered, “Roses are red, violets are blue, on Cold Street one finds a wife no longer true.”
So much for hoping that the message would have gone unnoticed in the wake of the murders.
“It smacks of manipulation, doesn’t it?” said Holmes calmly.
“Manipulation or not, the public will leap to the conclusion Mrs. Treadles feared: that those were crimes motivated by an insecure husband’s intense jealousy. Men have killed for far less.”
Holmes ran her fingers through her hair, shorn short several weeks ago so that it would be easier to don wigs. Her lace cap from earlier now lay on the floor next to the wall where they had kissed, the sight of which sent a rather adolescent thrill through him.
“And men have withstood far more without killing.” Her voice remained dispassionate. “It’s telling that Mrs. Treadles didn’t mention Mr. Sullivan, whom she would have seen a lot more of, since presumably he was there at the office every day except Sunday.”
He forcibly pulled his mind back to the case at hand. “Perhaps she didn’t know he also died.”
But even he didn’t believe it.
A young man, handsome and well-versed in the running of the enterprise—whatever they had speculated earlier about Mrs. Treadlesand Mr. Longstead was much more likely to have instead taken place between Mrs. Treadles and Mr. Sullivan.
Her conspicuous silence certainly didn’t dispel the thought.
Holmes tapped a knuckle against the paper. “The article didn’t say who would be the detective leading the investigation. I wonder if it will be Chief Inspector Fowler. I hope not.”
They’d had more than a little taste of working with Chief Inspector Fowler, who had handled the case at Stern Hollow and had been rather overtly invested in Lord Ingram’s guilt.
“Fowler has seen me as Charlotte Holmes the fallen woman, and he has seen Mrs. Watson, too, as my companion. If he’s in charge, we’ll need disguises.” She patted her cheek wistfully. “And I’d rather not put on a beard unless absolutely necessary. My skin does not care for the glue.”
“You have suffered for your friends,” he said softly.
“In your case, I’d say I was also pleasantly rewarded,” she said with a slight smile. “Very pleasantly.”
He ignored the heat that surged through him, although the effort took a moment. “Shall I go find out who is in charge of Inspector Treadles’s case?”
The bell rang. “Probably not necessary for you to make a special trip for it, if that’s Sergeant MacDonald at the door.”
“Let me go out the back door and come back in—so he doesn’t get the wrong impression.”
Her eyes twinkled with amusement. “So he doesn’t get the correct impression, you mean?”
“That, too, I suppose.”
She sighed softly. “It would be nice—”
“If he didn’t jump to conclusions?”
