Page 1 of A Ruse of Shadows
One
The interrogation
August 1887
Before Inspector Robert Treadles had wanted to be Sherlock Holmes, he had wanted to be Chief Inspector John Talbot.
The chief inspector had retired the year after Treadles had been promoted to detective sergeant, but Treadles had worked with him once. The senior officer had been patient and fair, interested not in producing likely seeming culprits to prosecute but in chiseling away at a case until he had revealed everything about the crime and its participants.
Under any other circumstances, Treadles would have been delighted to welcome the chief inspector out of retirement—and to observe the wise old policeman again in a professional capacity.
Under any other circumstances.
The parlor of the hotel suite in which he found himself boasted dark varnished wainscoting, scarlet velvet curtains, and a deep pile blue-and-gold Turkish carpet underfoot. The décor had been conceived to provide luxurious warmth during London’s long and gloomy winter. But on this sultry day, the room closed in.
Chief Inspector Talbot, his thick head of white hair combed back,his gaze kind yet penetrating, asked, “Young lady, may I inquire as to the nature of your association with the deceased?”
The young lady in question, a woman in her mid-twenties, was attired in a full English garden. So many roses, foxgloves, and hydrangeas flourished upon her dress that it had taken a while for Treadles to discern that the garment was made of a light green muslin. And, of course, embroidered sprigs of lavender proliferated across the circumference of the hem.
In contrast to the gaudy botanical excesses of her frock, her expression was solemn and blank.
“Lord Bancroft Ashburton was the brother of my friend Lord Ingram Ashburton. Several years ago, Lord Bancroft asked for my hand in marriage. I did not believe we would suit and declined his proposal.”
She spoke with a calm detachment, as if she were fielding slightly intrusive questions at a tea party rather than inquiries stemming from a murder investigation.
“And was that the extent of your acquaintance?”
“Not quite. Due to certain events, I am now no longer welcome in polite circles. After I became an exile from Society, much to my surprise, Lord Bancroft proposed again.”
Treadles, who had been in the middle of tugging on his collar, stilled.
He had learned some time ago that Miss Charlotte Holmes had been highly successful on the Marriage Mart: Several of the proposals she’d received had been considered not just good but spectacular.
Even so, to number Lord Bancroft as a suitor not once but twice.
“And I surmise that, once again, you turned him down?” murmured Chief Inspector Talbot.
“He withdrew his offer, rather,” said Miss Holmes. “But you are correct, Chief Inspector, in that after much consideration, I still did not wish to marry him.”
“And yet lately you have visited him—repeatedly.”
She was, in fact, the only person Lord Bancroft had met with in the weeks preceding his death.
The grandfather clock in the corner gonged. Treadles glanced at it. Half past three in the afternoon.
Miss Holmes cast her gaze in the same direction. “Our tea should be here.”
As if on cue, a knock came. Miss Holmes excused herself, went to answer it, and returned with a laden tea tray. She poured for her callers and handed around a plate of baked delicacies. “The hotel provides an excellent Madeira cake. The tea cakes are very decent, too.”
The hotel also provided suites that functioned much as residences, with private entrances from the street. That Miss Holmes had chosen to lodge at a hotel, rather than opening up 18 Upper Baker Street or Mrs. Watson’s house, had signaled to Treadles her intention of only a brief stay in London.
Surely she hadn’t planned on becoming a murder suspect in so short a time?
Miss Holmes took a bite of the tea cake she had recommended. “Lately Ihavecalled on Lord Bancroft a little more than is my wont.”
She glanced at Treadles. “Are you sure you wouldn’t care for a tea cake, Inspector?”
Treadles’s innards, wound tight, rebelled at the thought of sugar and butter. He didn’t know how she managed to enjoy—or at least appear to enjoy—the rich assortment on her plate. “I’m quite all right, thank you.”
