Murder on Cold Street, page 27
“An excess of furniture does not a man indict,” said Lord Ingram slowly. “But I do agree with you otherwise. With the younger Mr. Cousins having been an ineffective chief, and with Mr. Sullivan and his cabal having arrogated most of the decision-making power to themselves, I’d be surprised if the hostility he directed at Mrs. Treadles wasn’t part of a concerted effort to prevent his crimes from coming to light.”
An awful thought struck Mrs. Watson. She turned toward Lord Ingram and gripped his arm. “The rumors that have been flying—so many of them have been about Inspector Treadles as a jealous husband. But—what if instead he’d been investigating this very matter and had learned about Mr. Sullivan stealing tens, possibly hundreds of thousands of pounds from his wife’s family? That would be sufficient cause to make anyone extremely—”
She stopped. Her hand dropped away from Lord Ingram’s arm—to cover her own mouth.
They were trying to exonerate Inspector Treadles, not to discover more plausible motives for him to have killed Mr. Sullivan.
Lord Ingram, who no doubt understood that her latest line of reasoning did Inspector Treadles no favors, frowned. “What I don’t understand—what I’ve never understood from the beginning—is why Mr. Sullivan and Mr. Longstead were killed together.”
An even more awful idea clobbered Mrs. Watson.
“What if—” she said from behind her hand, “what if Mr. Longstead wasn’t who we thought he was? What if instead of being grateful to old Mr. Cousins for buying out his shares, he resented old Mr. Cousins all these years? Could he have felt that old Mr. Cousins had forcibly separated him from his one great achievement in life? Remember he never offered Mrs. Treadles any substantive help. It couldn’t have cost him much to be kind to Mrs. Treadles to her face, especially if he’d been directing his nephew to siphon away her fortune. A man who is wonderful to his niece and solicitous of his servants can still be a monster to others.”
Lord Ingram looked pained. He gently pulled Mrs. Watson’s hand away from her face and held it in his own. “Unfortunately, this theory also places Inspector Treadles at the very center of the murders—and gives him every motivation.”
Mrs. Watson slumped against the back of the carriage seat. “Poor Mrs. Treadles. If I were her, I’d probably be stark raving mad by now. I am not her and still I feel the hangman’s noose tightening.”
Unexpectedly, Lord Ingram smiled. “I felt that distinct sensation not too long ago, when I was the prime suspect in the case at Stern Hollow. Have I ever told you what Miss Charlotte said to me when she came to visit me in my jail cell?”
Mrs. Watson not only straightened. She leaned forward and took hold of his other hand. “Tell me.”
“I let her know that I was terrified and she said, ‘Don’t forget, sir, that I am a queen upon this board, and I do not play to lose.’”
He held Mrs. Watson’s gaze, his eyes deep yet clear. “I had her in my corner then. Inspector Treadles has her in his corner now. She will not let him down.”
Mrs. Watson felt a smile rising to her own lips. But—“I thought that at Stern Hollow Miss Charlotte had a strong idea from the very beginning as to who was responsible for the body in the icehouse. Here she must be in the dark, the same as the rest of us.”
Lord Ingram pitched a brow, a hint of mischief to his expression. “We are in the dark, absolutely, my dearest lady. But Miss Charlotte? She most likely has a clear idea what happened and is only looking to find out why.”
* * *
After Mr. Woodhollow left her town coach, Charlotte made a close study of Mr. Longstead’s appointment book, which recorded, beginning from the final week of November, numerous instances at the British Museum, several meetings at Cousins, two trips to the chemist’s, and one encounter with his physician.
As Charlotte was already in the neighborhood, she asked her way to Sealy and Worcester, the nearest establishment of pharmaceutical chemists. Both Mr. Sealy and Mr. Worcester knew Mr. Longstead, and had considered him a friend as well as a faithful customer, who, when in town, could be expected to frequent the shop weekly.
“Was there anything he bought on a regular basis?” asked Charlotte.
“I believe those kept him coming back.” Mr. Sealy gestured to a row of large, clear glass jars that contained vividly colored sweets. “My sister is a talented confectioner and Miss Longstead is very fond of our gummy-textured sweets. Mr. Longstead could usually be counted on to buy a packet of her favorite flavors, a packet of my sister’s newer creations, some household items entrusted to him by his housekeeper, and one or two things that simply caught his attention.”
“Mr. Sealy is correct,” said Mr. Worcester, emerging from the back room to join his partner behind the counter. “It was really the sweets he came for. But we flattered ourselves in thinking that perhaps once in a while he enjoyed conversation with others who’ve had some scientific training.”
“May I have a penny’s worth of this lemon-flavored gummy sweet?” Charlotte pointed to a glass jar. “And may I ask what conversational topics interested Mr. Longstead?”
“Oh, many,” said Mr. Worcester. “When his niece grew interested in the making of abstracts and absolutes, he consulted Mr. Sealy, who has broad experience with tinctures.”
“We did speak for a while on that,” concurred Mr. Sealy as he scooped bright yellow sweets into a small paper packet. “And then there was the time you and he discussed remedies for cancer.”
“Which we do not sell,” Mr. Worcester hastened to assure Charlotte. “Mr. Longstead and I agreed they exist solely to extort money from the already desperate.”
Charlotte also asked for a packet of peppermint sticks—it was almost Christmas, after all.
“Mr. Longstead liked a peppermint lozenge once in a while,” said Mr. Sealy. He weighed and closed the packets carefully. “And Mr. Worcester and I both participated in a conversation with him about the days before the regulations of ’68. I made my own fireworks back then. Alas, Miss Longstead won’t be able to.”
His partner patted him on the arm. “But you did give Mr. Longstead a recipe in case his niece wished to prepare her own photographic solution. The practice of chemistry didn’t stop being enjoyable with the regulation of explosives.”
“True, true.” Mr. Sealy chuckled. “Likely I’m missing being young, rather than being able to make fireworks.”
Charlotte let the reminiscences continue for a few more exchanges, enjoying their camaraderie, and then she asked, “Do you gentlemen remember when Mr. Longstead last came in?”
“That would be the Tuesday before he passed away,” said Mr. Worcester. “Mr. Sealy was feeling poorly that day so it was only me in the shop.”
“And before that?”
“Before that he came in two days in a row, which was rather unusual,” answered Mr. Sealy. “He told me it was because the first day he was so busy talking he forgot to make his purchases, and realized only when he got home.”
He smiled, only to have that smile fade into sadness.
Mr. Worcester again gave him a reassuring pat on the arm. “And those two days would have been the Monday and Tuesday of the week before,” he told Charlotte.
To thank the pharmaceutical chemists, in addition to the sweets, Charlotte also bought a bar of rose soap and a tin of lip salve, both again made by Mr. Sealy’s talented sister. As she paid for her purchases, she asked, “You wouldn’t happen to know the address of Dr. Ralston, Mr. Longstead’s physician, would you?”
* * *
Dr. Ralston lived nearby. A few minutes later, Charlotte was knocking on his door.
The physician did not appear to be in the best of health. As Charlotte was shown into his drawing room, he coughed into a monogrammed handkerchief and, in a raspy voice, begged Charlotte for her forgiveness.
After a brief inquiry into his health—he’d caught a cold several days ago—Charlotte explained the purpose of her visit. “I understand that Mr. Longstead died of a gunshot wound, and not from any illnesses. But is there any light you can shed on his health?”
Dr. Ralston added two spoonfuls of honey and a twist of lemon into his tea, took several swallows, and sounded less hoarse when he spoke again. “What ailed Mr. Longstead was a combination of actual problems alongside a mental incapacity to restrain himself. In a different man, such health issues as he had wouldn’t have been enough to force an early retirement. But he couldn’t not overwork. If there was a problem, he wouldn’t eat or sleep until he’d solved it. That temperament was terrific for a man with many engineering difficulties to solve, but terrible for someone whose body needed to be properly fed, rested, and otherwise cared for.
“Perhaps if he’d married, his wife might have been able to regulate his schedule. But he remained a bachelor who didn’t understand the meaning of moderation. And so it was that he nearly killed himself twice through sheer carelessness and overwork, before old Mr. Cousins, of all people, made the decision that he absolutely must stop.”
“Mr. Mortimer Cousins?”
“Yes, a truly excellent man, old Mr. Cousins. Mr. Longstead’s innovations were the lifeblood of the company, but for Mr. Longstead’s health, Mr. Cousins gave up untold future profits. The first time Mr. Longstead nearly ruined his health, he said he would retire, but he still had shares in the company and couldn’t help getting involved. The second time, Mr. Cousins bought out his shares on terms highly advantageous to Mr. Longstead. Mr. Longstead separated himself thoroughly from the company, and rusticated for some years. Lo and behold he was fine. Mind you, he was never as hale and robust as me—my normal self, that is—but speaking as his physician, his was a perfectly tolerable state of health.”
Charlotte had always been open to the possibility that the partnership between Mr. Longstead and old Mr. Cousins hadn’t been as robust and mutually affectionate as those around them preferred to believe. Yet here another person had added his voice to the chorus and attested to the very solidity of that friendship and alliance.
“Did Mr. Longstead have any recent health issues?” she asked.
“None that I was aware of, and we saw each other regularly. In fact, I would have been there that night at his niece’s party, if I hadn’t caught this accursed cold the day before.” Dr. Ralston coughed again. “And this tragedy has not helped my recovery.”
It was rather warm in the room for Charlotte, but Dr. Ralston gazed with some longing at a thick, knitted shawl draped over the back of a chair. Charlotte rose, retrieved the shawl, and handed it to him. “When you say you saw each other regularly, do you mean in a professional capacity?”
“Thank you, Miss Holmes,” said Dr. Ralston gratefully, spreading the shawl over his lap. “Mr. Longstead and I saw each other more as two bored old men—I am three quarters retired myself. When he was in town, we attended lectures together about once a month. Once a month I also host a whist game, to which he had a standing invitation.
“And when he came to my card games, either before or after, I would serve as his physician for a quarter of an hour: take his pulse, look him over, and ask him about his health. Sometimes I think his niece was the best thing to ever happen to his health. He very much wanted to be sure that he didn’t orphan her—not before she found a good man to marry, in any case.”
But despite her uncle’s intentions to the contrary, Miss Longstead was now once again an orphan.
Dr. Ralston fell silent.
Charlotte took out Mr. Longstead’s appointment book. The dates of Mr. Longstead’s last few visits to the pharmaceutical chemists, at least according to Messrs. Sealy and Worcester, had not agreed with the ones recorded inside. Those took place at the beginning of December. She opened the appointment book to the page on which the word “physician” had been jotted down, and showed it to Dr. Ralston. “Does this appear to be the correct date and time for your card games?”
“Yes, I always have them on the second Thursday of the month, in the afternoon.”
“And he played on that day?”
Dr. Ralston put a lozenge in his mouth. “No, Mr. Longstead didn’t play on that day. Eight of us should have been there but two bowed out at the last minute. We were going to take turns, but Mr. Longstead entered into a conversation with Dr. Motley and they seemed to enjoy themselves. They even went for a walk together.”
The name was familiar to Charlotte from an earlier case. “Dr. Motley, Mrs. Treadles’s family physician?”
“Indeed, the very same.”
“Did they know each other well?”
“They most certainly knew of each other but I don’t believe their paths crossed very often.”
Charlotte looked again at the word “physician,” scrawled on the still open page of the appointment book. “Were you surprised that they took so well to each other?”
Dr. Ralston drank more of his honey lemon tea, his eyes taking on a faraway look. “The day before the whist game I ran into Miss Longstead. She confessed herself nervous about her coming-out party. When Mr. Longstead came the next day, he appeared unusually grave. I attributed his sober mood to worries about his niece. But then he and Dr. Motley began chatting and he seemed fascinated by everything Dr. Motley had to say.
“Perhaps I was surprised, too. But my most prominent feeling, both as his friend and his host, was one of relief, to see him keen and animated. After that I allowed myself to be absorbed in the game.”
He rubbed a hand over his face. “But now I look back, and wonder whether I shouldn’t have paid closer attention.”
* * *
On her way back to Mrs. Watson’s house, Charlotte read Mr. Longstead’s appointment book one more time, beginning on the first of January, commemorated with an instance of sledge driving with his niece in newly fallen snow.
By the time she arrived home, she had the distinct sensation that something was missing from Mr. Longstead’s records—and that she should have already realized what it was. Yet the realization refused to drop into her lap.
She blamed her sluggish brain on the fact that she still hadn’t had her luncheon—how could she expect to think properly, being underfed on a day when she was already underslept?—and repaired immediately to the dining room.
As she was tucking into an excellent roast beef sandwich, Miss Redmayne returned, bringing with her a large pile of letters that she had retrieved from the general post office: Sherlock Holmes had called for the public to write with information about the murders and the public had responded.
She joined Charlotte at the table—though not for the meal, as she had already eaten at the proper hour. They spoke of their respective findings and Charlotte learned that at least according to the register of admissions, Mr. Longstead hadn’t been anywhere near the Reading Room of the British Museum in recent weeks, despite what he had told his niece and his housekeeper—and written down in his appointment book.
“The clerk at the Reading Room was terribly helpful, and looked up instances of Mr. Longstead’s visits going several months back,” said Miss Redmayne with an approving nod. “We compiled a record of his attendance from August onward. I’ll set it here for you.”
She left the dining room shortly thereafter, as Lord Ingram had sent a cable and she had to prepare for the imminent arrival of Mr. Bloom, the expert who had inspected Mrs. Treadles’s factory in Reading and now wished to see the Cousins accounts.
Charlotte wiped her hands with a napkin and perused Mr. Longstead’s attendance record. Prior to the last week of November, the dates accorded with the instances noted down in Mr. Longstead’s appointment book. But after that, outings documented as visits to the Reading Room had turned out not to be visits to the Reading Room.
She picked up her sandwich again. The same problem existed with regard to forays to the chemist’s that had been logged in the appointment book. Only his trip to Dr. Ralston’s house was recorded correctly.
If she asked for verification from Mrs. Treadles, would she find that his documented visits to Cousins also hadn’t taken place? Or took place at entirely different times than what he wrote down?
Charlotte stopped eating. The roast beef sandwich had not only filled her stomach; it had revitalized her poor, tired brain. She knew now exactly what had been missing from Mr. Longstead’s appointment book.
He had never mentioned his call of condolence to Mrs. Cousins.
Seventeen
Mrs. Cousins shook Charlotte’s hand warmly. “Miss Holmes, please, have a seat. And please allow me to thank you for introducing Mrs. Watson to my sister-in-law. When I called on her yesterday evening, she was enormously relieved that at last someone gave her the courage to do what she should have done long ago.”
“That courage was Mrs. Treadles’s own,” answered Charlotte, sitting down.
“Very true, but sometimes we need a nudge—or even a strong kick—onto the right path.”
Charlotte inclined her head. “We are but doing what Mrs. Treadles engaged us to do.”
Although she would not deny, if pressed, that she’d been a little harsher on Mrs. Treadles than absolutely necessary, so that when the latter encountered Mrs. Watson, she would open up that much more readily.
“May I trouble you to answer a few more questions, Mrs. Cousins?” continued Charlotte. “I should have been more thorough at our prior meeting.”
Mrs. Cousins poured tea for Charlotte. “Oddly enough, after you left yesterday, I kept feeling that there was something I should have told you. My mother has been faring poorly of late. Between her health and my sister-in-law’s troubles, I haven’t been able to think, let alone think clearly. But I should dearly love to help if at all I could.”
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