The Hollow of Fear: Book three in the Lady Sherlock Mystery Series Read online

  Did Lord Ingram understand the uphill battle he faced?

  Treadles remembered him standing outside the icehouse, staring off at nothing in particular, with only his cigarette for companion.

  He understood. He understood better than anyone that he was in a fight for nothing less than his life.

  “Since you are vocal about where your suspicions fall,” said Fowler, “let me ask you, then, ladies, do you think anyone other than Lord Ingram might have wished Lady Ingram harm?”

  “I know a number who would derive a certain satisfaction if he found grounds to divorce her, but frankly I can’t think of anyone who would want her dead,” said Lady Somersby.

  “What about Miss Charlotte Holmes?” Fowler asked.

  Lady Somersby grimaced. “I must say, Miss Holmes had never displayed the slightest interest, benign or otherwise, in Lady Ingram. She is a difficult one to understand, that one.”

  “Lord Ingram insists that he would not have proposed to Miss Holmes, even if he were a free man. He also insists that Miss Holmes would not have accepted any proposal from him, not even today. How do you assess those statements?”

  “Well, it is true that Miss Holmes had turned down some highly eligible men in her time.” Lady Avery frowned, but shook her head. “I can’t predict with any accuracy what she would do, if she were presented with a proposal from Lord Ingram, as a free man.”

  “Even in her current state of ruin?”

  “Even so. Miss Holmes is odd, Chief Inspector. And I don’t mean eccentric. Eccentric is wearing two hats on your head because you like it. Miss Holmes’s oddity is both different and . . . larger.”

  “The fact that no one can be sure she will accept a proposal from Lord Ingram—does it not undermine your claim that he would murder his wife to make that proposal possible?” Treadles pointed out.

  He certainly wanted to believe that.

  “Not as much as you would imagine, Inspector. First, Lord Ingram could very well be prepared for an initial rejection. As long as he remains an eligible man, he would be able to repeat the same overture and gradually wear her down. Second, Miss Holmes is in a difficult position. She has diminished her parents’ standing and severely impaired her sister’s chances at a good marriage. She knows it. And she knows that only by marrying a man in a position of power and prestige can she hope to undo some of the damage.

  “And third, but perhaps most important, Lord Ingram might not be able to help himself on this matter. Part of the reason he was eager to marry Lady Ingram was because she appeared to require a knight in shining armor to rescue her from her penury. He could easily convince himself that he was the cavalry charge Miss Holmes didn’t know she desperately needed.”

  “Lord Ingram does not seem to me a fanciful sort of man,” countered Fowler. “In fact, he appears very much in control of himself.”

  “Lord Ingram is good at appearing so. But he is a man in love, and a man in love will do just about anything for the object of his affection.”

  Fowler’s eyes widened. “You allege that Lord Ingram is in love with Miss Holmes?”

  Lady Avery exchanged a look with her sister. “Why, isn’t that obvious?”

  12

  The interview with Lady Avery and Lady Somersby did not conclude there.

  Chief Inspector Fowler went on to ask the ladies who they supposed might have sent the note chiding them for not paying closer attention to Lady Ingram’s disappearance. They had no good guesses but felt that the writer was unlikely to be a member of Lord Ingram’s staff, because of its imperious tone.

  “Even an upper servant, writing anonymously, wouldn’t address a ladyship in this manner. Would have been more deferent.”

  Attesting to Sherrinford Holmes’s skillful insinuation, Fowler concluded by asking whether the ladies knew anyone who might wish Lord Ingram harm. The question surprised the ladies and made them thoughtful but yielded no useful answers.

  Treadles took good notes, as he should. But it was difficult to maintain his concentration.

  Lord Ingram. In love. With Miss Holmes.

  It shouldn’t have shocked him. Hadn’t he sensed something between the two, from the very beginning? He hadn’t wanted to let his thoughts go down that direction, hadn’t wanted to believe that Lord Ingram, the very embodiment of manly virtues, could feel more for Miss Holmes than an exasperated friendship.

  The exasperated friendship had most certainly been there. As well as a deeply frustrated protectiveness, a constant awareness, and a fierce and fiercely repressed yearning.

  What did he see in her? Treadles supposed that one must admire Miss Holmes’s mind. He himself still did, however reluctantly. And he supposed there were Miss Holmes’s looks, which were not displeasing. But her femininity was only skin-deep. Underneath that . . .

  Near the end of the Sackville case, Miss Holmes had sat calmly and unspooled one revelation after another, as he, the professional, reeled from the ugliness that came to light. The woman had no feelings. No horror at the vilest human deeds. No regrets about running away from home. No shame over the conduct that had brought her low.

  And certainly no need for a man.

  Lord Ingram might as well have fallen in love with a pretty dress—or an advertising poster featuring a woman with blond ringlets.

  Lady Avery and Lady Somersby were leaving. Fowler rose. So did Treadles, a moment too late.

  “I must confess,” said Fowler, rather conversationally, after he thanked the women, “that I’m now highly curious about this Miss Charlotte Holmes.”

  Treadles’s conscience chafed again. Why was he keeping this silence? And for how much longer?

  “If you find her,” replied Lady Avery in all seriousness, “please tell her we wish to speak to her.”

  When they had left Fowler turned to Treadles. “Did you notice what she said? If we find her, not when. We are policemen, are we not? Let us find her.”

  The interview with the boy who first discovered Lady Ingram’s body was a great deal less interesting, notable only for the confirmation that yes, the last time he’d been sent to fetch ice was indeed a while ago. But that ice hadn’t been needed didn’t mean he didn’t visit the third antechamber, either to fetch or to store foodstuff, only that it hadn’t been necessary to proceed all the way to the ice well.

  In other words, the body could have been there for weeks without anyone knowing. Anyone, that is, except Lady Ingram’s murderer.

  Chief Inspector Fowler made quick work of the rest of the indoor staff, seeing them in groups. Most had little of value to impart. But the policemen did learn several interesting things.

  First, there had been a minor fire in the house a little less than a month ago. Second, Lord Remington, the youngest of Lord Ingram’s three elder brothers, had visited Stern Hollow not once, but twice in the recent past, the first time apparently incognito. He’d been met at the front of the house by Lord Ingram himself. They had then sequestered themselves in the library for most of the rest of the day, emerging just before dinner for Lord Remington to take his leave.

  The head footman, who had delivered tea and food into the study and therefore had a good look at this visitor, was thoroughly surprised when Lord Remington had visited again, this time as the master’s brother. Lord Remington, having lived abroad for most of his adult life, hadn’t been known to Lord Ingram’s staff. But he’d endeared himself to them when he came again.

  The third oddity involved complaints from the French chef and the housekeeper. They had been asked whether they’d noticed strange goings-on in the household and had both mentioned small quantities of food going missing, for weeks on end, in a way that couldn’t be easily accounted for.

  “Once I went down to the stillroom late at night and saw the light on,” said the housekeeper, Mrs. Sanborn. “I thought I’d catch the thief at last but it was only Lord Ingram, fetching himself a few extra ginger biscuits.”

  “Does that happen often?” Fowler asked.

 
“I’m sure it does sometimes. His lordship is very considerate of the staff. Unless there are guests, we are not expected to work after dinner. Anything he needs at night, he sees to himself.”

  Fowler moved on to other questions. But before he let the housekeeper return to her duties, he asked, “Does Lord Ingram like ginger biscuits?”

  “Not particularly—his lordship doesn’t care for sweet things. I keep some on hand because Miss Lucinda and Master Carlisle enjoy them, but Lord Ingram doesn’t eat them very often.”

  At that answer, Fowler gave Treadles a delighted look. Treadles felt his stomach twist.

  They went on to interview the rest of the guests.

  A few of the gentlemen had returned from Scotland recently, having enjoyed some excellent Highland shooting while there. Another fancied himself an amateur astronomer and had actually set up his telescope near the icehouse one night but saw and heard nothing remotely useful to the police.

  Most of the other guests, ladies by and large, had been at various other gatherings before they alighted at Mrs. Newell’s. None of them seemed to have any cause for wanting Lady Ingram dead. Many knew her only minimally.

  Mrs. Newell gave the reason. “She had never cared for me, nor I for her. You will excuse an old woman’s pride, but I have always been a good judge of character and I knew from the beginning that she did not love him. That woman did not have his best interests at heart, not for a day of her life.

  “I never invited her to my house and she returned that favor. Our circles did not intersect very much. Lord Ingram always called on me here and in London, when I still went for the Season, but she never accompanied him.”

  Fowler glanced down at Sergeant Ellerby’s notes. “You are related in some way to Lord Ingram, am I correct?”

  “My late husband’s sister was married to Lord Ingram’s maternal uncle. It’s hardly a close kinship, but I’ve always been fond of him. And Remington. Their two elder brothers, not so much.”

  Mrs. Newell then went on to berate Fowler for even harboring the slightest suspicion concerning Lord Ingram. “I don’t know who killed her and I don’t particularly care—if there weren’t children involved I’d say good riddance. But her husband did not do it.”

  Fowler waited until she had finished testifying to Lord Ingram’s general saintliness before asking, “Madam, you must have heard Lady Avery’s report on the meeting between Lord Ingram and Miss Holmes in the summer, after she’d disappeared from Society. What do you think is going on between those two?”

  “I will not stoop to speculations. But I will tell you this, Chief Inspector. That young lady knows everything. I’ve known her since she was a little girl—her father is my cousin—and it was the most disconcerting thing to hear her tell people things about them that she couldn’t possibly have known in advance.”

  “What things, if you don’t mind my asking?”

  “Once she told the late Duchess of Wycliffe, Lord Ingram’s mother, that she was sorry about the news from the doctor. Her Grace had just learned that she had a tumor—the tumor that would kill her—and she hadn’t informed anyone. Not a soul, because she refused to believe it herself.”

  “Hmm,” said Fowler.

  “Precisely. Later she learned not to say such unsettling things to people—or at least to do so less frequently. But trust me when I tell you that her powers did not disappear when she came of age. If Lord Ingram killed his wife, then he could never again appear before Miss Holmes. Even if no one else ever knew, she would. And I don’t think she would countenance a cold-blooded murder, not even on the part of a very good friend.”

  The policemen asked to see Lord Ingram again and were received in the library. This time, Lord Ingram was alone, the heavily disguised Miss Holmes nowhere to be seen.

  Chief Inspector Fowler got to the point. “You mentioned, my lord, that Lady Ingram consulted Mr. Sherlock Holmes. We should like to speak with the detective as soon as possible.”

  Lord Ingram nodded. “Naturally. I will ask his brother to send a message.”

  “Excellent,” said Fowler. “There is someone else we would like to see—Miss Charlotte Holmes.”

  “I’m afraid I have no idea how to get word to Miss Holmes,” answered Lord Ingram, without any change in tone or expression.

  He looked at Fowler, but Treadles felt himself at the center of Lord Ingram’s attention.

  He didn’t know whether Lord Ingram and Miss Holmes had expected him as an emissary of Scotland Yard. Nor could he be sure whether Miss Holmes had been aware the exact moment he had seen through her disguise. But when Lord Ingram had made it known that Sherrinford Holmes was brother to Sherlock Holmes, who, as a fictional character, could have no flesh-and-blood brothers, he had announced to Treadles loud and clear that Miss Holmes was among them.

  Had, in effect, asked him, out of friendship, not to inform anyone of her presence.

  Because Chief Inspector Fowler was not the only one conducting a murder investigation at Stern Hollow.

  Miss Holmes, despite Treadles’s unease at her unchaperoned attendance, was not there to engage in an illicit affair with Lord Ingram—or at least not only that—but to find out the truth of what had happened to Lady Ingram.

  For her work to continue unhindered, there could not be any challenge to Sherrinford Holmes’s identity.

  But this went against everything Treadles believed about how a man and an officer of the Criminal Investigation Department ought to conduct himself. He would be breaking so many rules that he might as well set Buckingham Palace on fire too, while he was at it.

  Not to mention, by allowing Lord Ingram to get away with this massive lie, he would open himself up to accusations of criminal misconduct, of a magnitude to end his career with the C.I.D.

  “Are you sure about that, my lord?” he heard himself ask. “That you have no means of reaching Miss Holmes?”

  Lord Ingram looked him in the eye. “I am sure.”

  If Lord Ingram killed his wife, then he could never again appear before Miss Holmes.

  Treadles said nothing else.

  Fowler sighed. “I do wish that were otherwise.”

  A knock came at the door. When Lord Ingram gave his assent, Miss Olivia Holmes walked in.

  Her gaze landed on Lord Ingram first, a look full of concern and sympathy. Upon seeing Chief Inspector Fowler, her expression turned wary. When she realized Treadles was also present, her features twisted with loathing.

  He had never done this woman any harm, never done anything except speak factually of her sister’s misdeeds.

  It should not matter that Miss Olivia Holmes detested him. Yet her animosity was like a bludgeon across the cheek and something inside him cracked with a flash of searing bewilderment.

  She, who had never set a foot wrong, was now saddled with near-certain spinsterhood, because of her sister’s reckless amorality. She should be angry at that sister—should blaze in the dark with the heat of her outrage. Yet if she could cause it with the force of her will, at this moment it was Treadles who would be flying out of the window in a spray of glass and wood splinter.

  And she was not alone in her devotion to Charlotte Holmes.

  Standing beside her in comradeship was Lord Ingram, a man of otherwise incorruptible virtues. A man who would, Treadles was beginning to see, never, ever repudiate Charlotte Holmes.

  Not to his last breath.

  Not even if that last breath was drawn with a noose around his neck.

  “Ah, Miss Holmes,” said Fowler, “just the person we wished to see.”

  “How may I be of assistance, Chief Inspector?” said Miss Olivia Holmes, her tone cautious—and more than a little prickly.

  “We find ourselves in need to speak to Miss Charlotte Holmes and we were hoping you could help us.”

  “But I already told you that Charlotte has nothing to do with any of this.”

  “Nevertheless, we would like to ask her some questions.”

  Miss Olivia Holmes
looked toward Lord Ingram, her gaze beseeching, as if a word from him would send the policemen packing.

  “At this moment, it would be best if Fowler could speak directly to Miss Charlotte,” Lord Ingram said with great gentleness. “I can offer no advice on how to locate her. If you can, it would be of help to me.”

  Still Miss Olivia Holmes hesitated.

  “Miss Holmes,” said Fowler, his tone grave to the point of heaviness, “may I remind you that—”

  “I know you are the law, sir. But I have no idea where my sister is. It is our agreement that I remain ignorant on the matter, so that I cannot inadvertently inform my parents of her whereabouts.”

  “I see,” said Fowler, frowning.

  “But before she left home, Charlotte told me that if I needed to contact her, I can put a notice in the paper, in a simple code of her devising. I will give you the cipher. Is there anything else you need from me?”

  Fowler took a step in her direction. “You are not leaving, are you, Miss Holmes?”

  “We are here because of an unfortunate mishap at Mrs. Newell’s house. Now that her place is habitable again, Mrs. Newell has invited me to return there.”

  “And the other guests?”

  “Most of them will leave directly from Stern Hollow to their next destination. Mrs. Newell expressed the wish that I should remain with her a little longer, and I will.”

  “Very good. We were hoping you will remain in the vicinity for some more time, in case we need to speak with you again.”

  Miss Olivia Holmes smiled, a smile at once brittle and icy. “I will, of course, render every assistance.”

  When she had left the room, Fowler said, “A very spirited young lady. Is her sister at all like her?”

  The question was addressed to Lord Ingram, who said, almost as if amused, “I shouldn’t think so.”

  “How would you describe Miss Charlotte Holmes, then?”

  “She . . . rather defies description.”

  Fowler would not take that for an answer. “Lady Avery and Lady Somersby characterize her as odd, grandly odd. What do you think?”