Page 43 of Murder on Cold Street
They stopped at nearly the same moment, she looking toward the base of a small bush next to a house, and he to the edge of the curb. Buttons. Buttons that looked exactly like the remaining buttons on Inspector Treadles’s coat.
The enclosed garden’s length of approximately 700 feet far exceeded its width, at about 150 feet. Both 31 and 33 Cold Street were near the middle of its long western side. Lord Ingram and Holmes currently stood on the pavement along its shorter southern edge, just outside another garden gate. If this was where Inspector Treadles had been attacked, there would have been drops of blood on the street in the immediate aftermath. But it had rained enough since the night of the party to wash away all traces of blood, leaving only the buttons.
Holmes took out a pair of tweezers from her reticule, picked up thebuttons, and packed them away in a handkerchief. They kept walking and finished the round, but did not encounter anything else of note.
Back at the spot between 31 and 33 Cold Street, Constable Lamb opened the gate and let them through. Inside they found an expansive stretch of smoothly clipped lawn, the grass still green, though a paler, yellower shade. Large plane trees were scattered throughout, their bare forms, though somewhat forlorn-looking, still shapely. Here and there clusters of smaller trees or larger bushes formed, almost like the parkland of a country estate, if one ignored the houses that delineated the edges of this parkland.
A pebbled path wound through the lawn. Holmes stepped on the path and walked some thirty feet toward the interior of the lawn before turning around to inspect the two houses in question.
“You can actually see into number 31 from number 33,” she said. “And vice versa.”
Because of the gap between the two houses—and because the architects for both had decided to take advantage of that and put in windows.
Constable Lamb, who had gone off to unlock number 33, now stood at its back door, beckoning them to come in.
“Constable Lamb, was the back door open, when the police got here?” asked Holmes.
“No, miss, it wasn’t. Only the front door.”
She examined the rear entrance. “This house is otherwise unoccupied, I understand?”
“No tenants now, miss,” confirmed the young constable. “None since summer.”
She raised a brow. “This doormat looks rather new though.”
When she wished to encourage someone to keep talking, Lord Ingram noticed, her expressions grew more animated. Conversely, when she wanted someone to stop lying, her face became more and more opaque.
After they’d left Scotland Yard, where there was a greater chancesomeone would recognize her, she’d taken off the makeup and devices that made her appear different and older. He enjoyed seeing her real face in a state of vivacity, a change rather akin to a dramatic haircut.
The eager-to-help Constable Lamb did not disappoint her. “That’s because Miss Longstead, from number 31, uses the house from time to time.”
“Did Mr. Longstead also own number 33?”
“Yes, miss.”
This was not a terribly unusual arrangement. Mrs. Watson, for example, owned several houses near her own, including the property at 18 Upper Baker Street. If one already lived in a district, then one understood its characteristics and would be quicker to spot a good deal. And it was easier to keep an eye on one’s investment properties if they were close by.
She tapped a gloved finger against her chin. “What does Miss Longstead use number 33 for?”
“The attic was made into a painting studio by the previous tenants. I hear Miss Longstead used it to make extracts and whatnot.” Constable Lamb shook his head. “A shame it was turned upside down. The servants from number 31 cleaned it up after Inspector Brighton and the photographers had been there, but before that it was full of broken glass.”
And its door had been shot at, twice.
Lord Ingram’s fingertips tingled. Holmes tsked in suitable disapproval.
They entered the town house via the dining room, which was often found on the ground floor, toward the rear. The furnishings were covered in large protective cloths, the dining table and its chairs in one huddle, the sideboards in another. The floor, too, was spread with dust sheets.
“I understand that the policemen who first discovered the bodies entered from the front door. What about those who’ve come here since?”
“The front door, too, miss, as far as I know.”
Constable Lamb sauntered forward deeper into the house, no doubt expecting them to follow in his wake. Holmes, however, knelt down to examine the dust sheets.
The dining room had three windows, two facing the garden, one in the direction of number 31, and only the curtains on this last had been pulled back, admitting the watery light of a rainy morning and a view of a tightly shut number 31, a house in mourning.
Lord Ingram drew back all the remaining curtains.
Now there was enough light for him to see a tangle of footprints, none terribly muddy or pronounced, but enough to distinguish that most were left by men’s boots—the police, heading out the back door to take a look at the garden and then coming back in.
