The Hollow of Fear: Book three in the Lady Sherlock Mystery Series Page 8

  This was ludicrous. “No one could have cowed Lady Ingram into silence.”

  “Appearances are often deceiving,” said Lady Somersby, who until now had been happy to let her sister do all the talking. “You should trust us on this, Miss Holmes. It has been our vocation in life to see beneath the surface. Women who appear perfectly happy sometimes live in fear of their lives. And men who give every impression in public of kindness and amiability can be monsters in private.”

  “And you believe Lord Ingram—Lord Ingram—to be such a man?”

  “No one is above suspicion on such matters, because in private no one is entirely what they seem in public.”

  But wouldn’t Charlotte have known if he was a monster? Wouldn’t she have honed in on all the clues?

  Then again, as remarkable as Charlotte was, she was still only human. He was her faithful friend; his wife remained barely an acquaintance. Would her opinion have been swayed, as Livia’s most certainly would have been, by that unspoken hostility on Lady Ingram’s part?

  “Only last night you were telling me, Lady Somersby, that Lady Ingram might have run away from home. Now you portray her as a prisoner in her own marriage.”

  “Both are possible. We searched the manor not to look through anyone’s things but to see whether she might have left behind some clues to her fate.”

  “Her fate? What do you think has happened to her?”

  “What would your parents have done to your sister if she hadn’t run away?” asked Lady Somersby.

  Livia felt her jaw unhinge. “You think Lady Ingram has been shoved into the attic like Mr. Rochester’s wife?”

  “Who is this Mr. Rochester?” asked Lady Avery. “Why have I never heard of such infamy?”

  “Fictional character, Caro. Dreadful mad wife in the attic, and with her there he tries to marry someone else.” Lady Somersby turned back to Livia. “At least Lord Ingram won’t be able to commit bigamy with your sister, since we all know he’s already married.”

  Livia could barely keep her voice from rising an entire octave. “Why do you keep bringing everything back to my sister?”

  “Everything comes back to her because she is an understandable motive. Think of this, what if Lady Ingram had something to do with her downfall? What if, instead of Mrs. Shrewsbury, it had been Lady Ingram who organized that mob who marched in on her and Mr. Shrewsbury? And what if Lord Ingram, in punishing his wife, thinks of himself as having righted a wrong perpetrated against Miss Charlotte Holmes?”

  “Ladies, I begin to weary of declaring your ideas preposterous. It isn’t so simple to hold someone prisoner!” Livia had tried writing something like that in her Sherlock Holmes story and the problems had immediately become apparent. “How does he feed her? Who empties her chamber pot? How does he prevent her from screaming without suffocating her in the process?”

  A scream pierced the peaceful afternoon.

  Livia started. The ladies looked at each other in confusion. The scream came again, a man’s scream. The three women picked up their skirts and ran.

  The path led downhill. Soon Livia saw the man. The boy, rather, an adolescent dressed in a dark jacket and dark trousers. A servant of the house.

  He was on his knees. When he saw the women coming toward him, he rose unsteadily to his feet and attempted to speak.

  “She’s—she’s—” He swallowed. “She’s in there. She’s in there!”

  He pointed to an grassy mound to their left.

  “Who is in there?” demanded Lady Avery.

  But the boy trembled, as if he’d come down with a case of palsy, and couldn’t get another word out.

  Livia peered at the mound. “Is that the icehouse?”

  “I believe so,” said Lady Somersby grimly.

  They found the entrance on the north side of the mound. The heavy door hadn’t been locked but had shut by its own weight. With some effort, Livia pulled it open.

  What in the world was she doing? She should be staying with the poor, traumatized boy. Why was she headed for a destination that had made him run out screaming?

  And who was she?

  They passed through three antechambers, each chillier than its predecessor. The second one smelled of a badly kept latrine. Livia grimaced. Why should there be such a disagreeable odor in an icehouse?

  The third antechamber was quite large. The lit taper that had been set into a wall bracket illuminated shelves built to either side, holding all kinds of foodstuff that benefited from cold storage. A wheelbarrow lay sideways on the floor, which was wet from a pail of milk that had been knocked over.

  And fortunately here the air smelled mostly of milk and cold, nothing foul.

  They skirted the puddle and headed for the last door.

  Which opened to greater brightness than Livia anticipated—the lamp just inside had two lit tapers and a mirrored back. The ceiling domed above the ice well, the lip of which rose a foot from the floor.

  Nothing, as of yet, looked out of place.

  “So . . . he left his wheelbarrow outside to open this door and light the tapers,” Livia heard herself say.

  She had not advanced farther toward the ice well. She felt as if her blood was congealing, the warmth in her veins draining away.

  “Once they were lit,” said Lady Avery, her voice almost a whisper, “he would have gone to the edge of the well to take a look at the ice level.”

  Her sister took over. “Then he rushed out so fast he knocked over the wheelbarrow. For all we know, he might still be screaming outside.”

  Livia shivered—and not only from the fear that seemed to crawl out of her very marrow. The ice well was at least ten feet across in diameter and probably just as deep. How much ice did it hold? Two tons? Three? Her breaths emerged in visible puffs.

  “Shall we”—Lady Avery swallowed audibly—“shall we step forward together?”

  They did, inch by inch, as if they were approaching the edge of a cliff. The first thing that came into view was wood shavings on the far side of the ice well, providing insulation for the ice underneath.

  And then an outstretched hand.

  Her hand, whoever she was.

  Livia whimpered. She, too, wanted to turn around and sprint away. But her feet kept carrying her forward.

  At last they stood at the edge of the ice well and stared down onto Lady Ingram—Lady Ingram’s body—lying on top of the wood shavings.

  Someone patted Livia’s hand—she’d been clutching at Lady Somersby’s sleeve, with fingers that had been chilled to the bone.

  “Well,” said Lady Avery, her voice low yet harsh, “I guess this place is as cold as Switzerland.”

  6

  Mrs. Watson was disappointed. Two days had passed since their visit to Stern Hollow, and Lord Ingram had not called. Granted, he had a houseful of someone else’s guests. But still, he should have been able to get away for an hour or two and come to pay his respects.

  “Really, he ought to know that I, at least, would have been anticipating his presence.”

  She fully expected Miss Holmes to make no comments. But Miss Holmes set aside the newspaper she had been perusing and said, “It is rather odd.”

  And that, apparently, was all she would say on the subject, for she picked up and glanced through the mail that had just arrived. “Mrs. Farr wrote back.”

  Mrs. Watson had to think for a moment to remember the name. Mrs. Winnie Farr, who had been given the idea to write Sherlock Holmes by Sergeant MacDonald, Inspector Treadles’s subordinate.

  “What did she say?”

  Miss Holmes scanned the letter and handed it to Mrs. Watson.

  Dear Mr. Holmes,

  Thank you for your kind letter.

  My sister, Miss Mimi Duffin, has been missing for almost three weeks. She is a grown woman and leaves London sometimes. But ten days ago my daughter Eliza turned seven. Mimi loves Eliza as her own and has never skipped her birthday before.

  When she didn’t come—or send any word—I
worried. Her friends hadn’t seen her. Her room was already let to someone else, because she hadn’t paid rent.

  Her landlady told me that when she saw her last, Mimi was in high spirits because she was about to take up with a fine gentleman who was going to keep her in style. If I can find this gentleman—if you can help me find him—maybe I will learn what happened to Mimi.

  I hope she is alive and well, but I don’t believe it.

  Sincerely yours,

  Mrs. Winnie Farr

  “It would be a difficult search,” said Mrs. Watson. “And most likely fruitless.”

  “True,” said Miss Holmes. She tapped a finger against her chin. “Mrs. Newell’s guests will depart Stern Hollow soon. Should Lord Ingram call upon us afterward, I might mention that we are headed to some of London’s rougher districts.”

  Oh, that was genius. “He will insist on accompanying us. We won’t wish to trouble him, of course, but who are we to keep saying no to such chivalry?” enthused Mrs. Watson. “Should I write back and arrange for an appointment with Mrs. Farr for, let’s say, three days hence?”

  Before Miss Holmes could reply, the doorbell rang. This being the maid’s afternoon off, Mrs. Watson answered the summons herself. A young man who identified himself as a groom from Stern Hollow greeted her.

  “I have an urgent message for the ladies of Rampling Cottage, mum.”

  Mrs. Watson had taken off her reading glasses before she came to the door—oh, the vanity. Now she found it difficult to make out the exact letters on the envelope—at least without holding the letter as far from her eyes as her hand could reach and squinting unattractively.

  “An urgent message for us from Stern Hollow,” she said when she returned to the sitting room. “I wonder if it’s from Lord Ingram. Drat my old eyes.”

  Almost immediately Miss Holmes said, “That’s my sister’s handwriting.”

  “Oh? What news does she have?”

  Miss Holmes took the letter. Her expression changed—changed so much that even someone not at all acquainted with her would be able to tell that something dreadful had happened.

  “My goodness, what’s going on?” cried Mrs. Watson.

  Miss Holmes did not answer. She turned the letter over and read it again from the beginning, much slower this time, as if committing every word to memory. When she was done, she set it down on the tea table and pushed it across to Mrs. Watson.

  Dear Charlotte,

  I hope my hand will stop shaking long enough for me to write.

  Although what I really want is for what I’m about to tell you to never have happened at all.

  Lady Ingram is dead. Her body was discovered in the icehouse by a kitchen helper. The poor boy ran out screaming. Lady Avery, Lady Somersby, and I, who happened to be passing nearby, ran to his aid. We then went into the icehouse to see what had so frightened him, when he couldn’t say anything beyond, “She’s in there. She’s in there!”

  We saw her in the ice well. I’m not sure what happened afterward. I think one of the ladies tasked me to inform Lord Ingram, because the next thing I can remember is insisting to the house steward that I must see his master without delay.

  When he received me, I found myself as inarticulate as the kitchen helper. “We—we were near the—the icehouse,” I stammered, “the icehouse, you—you see.”

  Then I stared at him, as if he could divine what I could not bring myself to say. He looked back at me steadily, but with such weariness that my heart broke.

  At last the words came. “Lady Ingram—Lady Ingram is in the icehouse. And she is no more.”

  Now it was he who stared at me, as if I were a chair that had spoken. His lips moved, but no sounds emerged.

  “I think you will wish to see it—to see her—for yourself,” I managed.

  An eternity passed before he said, “Lady Ingram? Lady Ingram in the—in this icehouse?”

  I nodded helplessly, wishing I’d never agreed to be a harbinger of evil tiding.

  “Are you absolutely sure?” he asked, his voice so quiet I had to strain to hear.

  I could only nod with unhappy certainty.

  He rose, poured a measure of whisky, and pressed the glass into my trembling hands. “I’ll have Mrs. Sanborn send up a tea tray to your room. It has been an awful shock. Please go and take some rest.”

  I did not need to be encouraged twice.

  But now, with the tea tray beside me, my cheeks scald as I recall my utter uselessness. He’d remembered to see to my well-being but I didn’t even possess the presence of mind to comfort him. To declare my belief in his innocence. My faith that the universe would not be so cruel as to saddle him with the blame for Lady Ingram’s death.

  Alas, all I did was babble something incoherent. Worse, as I left, I wished him good luck.

  I should have at least told him that you would get to the bottom of the matter. That he was not alone in this dire misfortune. But at the time I fled with an unholy haste, only to moan and shiver in the tranquil loveliness of my room, no longer able to hold on to any illusion of sanctuary.

  Please, Charlotte. You must help him.

  Please.

  Livia

  Someone was whimpering, pitiful, wounded sounds.

  Mrs. Watson. She clamped a hand over her mouth, her mind a battlefield of fear and chaos.

  Miss Holmes stood by the secretary, sealing a note. “Ma’am, will you kindly hand this to the messenger?”

  Her request pulled Mrs. Watson out of her paralysis. Yes, disaster had fallen. And no, it was not the time to hide in a dark corner, rocking herself.

  “Of—of course.” She’d forgotten entirely that the messenger was waiting for a reply.

  She did not forget to tip the boy. When he’d left, she rushed back to the sitting room, where Miss Holmes already had two fingers of whisky waiting for her.

  “Oh, thank you, my dear.” She finished the entire glass in one continuous gulp, her eyes watering from the fiery eau-de-vie.

  “Are you all right, ma’am?”

  “Please don’t worry about me. I am most awfully unhappy but I shall be fine. We must think only of Lord Ingram now. And goodness gracious, those poor children of his.”

  It was a moment before Mrs. Watson could go on. “And you, Miss Holmes, are you all right?”

  “As of yet, nothing has happened to Lord Ingram,” said Miss Holmes quietly. “I will be busy in the coming days. And I will require a great deal of help. May I count on you, ma’am?”

  “Of course!” said Mrs. Watson, almost shouting.

  Had Miss Holmes some floors to scrub, Mrs. Watson would have attacked them with religious fervor, if only to keep herself from sinking further into this pit of anxiety. A “great deal” of work to help her help Lord Ingram? Mrs. Watson would have climbed over a mountain of fire to pitch in.

  “Excellent. You’ll need your notebook to write everything down.”

  Mrs. Watson leaped up to retrieve her notebook. The more tasks, the better.

  Miss Holmes dictated for the next forty minutes. Some of what she needed would have occurred to Mrs. Watson herself, others she couldn’t even guess the purposes of. Why, for instance, did they need to hire two houses in London, in two very different districts?

  Miss Holmes gave no explanations and Mrs. Watson asked for none. When they finished, Miss Holmes rose. “Mrs. Watson, will you help me dress?”

  It was only a while later, when Mrs. Watson was alone in the sitting room again, that she had the sense that something else was wrong. She paced for several minutes before her gaze fell on the tea tray: They had been about to have their afternoon tea when the messenger had arrived with Miss Livia’s note.

  And in all that time since, Miss Holmes hadn’t touched anything that had been laid out: slices of butter cake, plum cake, and Madeira cake lay neglected on their respective plates.

  Before the immensity of Lord Ingram’s misfortune, Miss Holmes, with her otherwise constant and unfailing adoration of baked goods,
had lost her appetite.

  The dread in Mrs. Watson’s heart froze into terror.

  Lord Ingram gazed at his wife.

  He had not believed Miss Olivia Holmes. Seeing her petrified bewilderment and feeling the tremor in her hand had not shaken him from the belief that it must all be an enormous misunderstanding.

  And only an enormous misunderstanding.

  His wife’s dead eyes killed that particular belief.

  Alexandra, her name came to him unbidden. He had not thought of her as such in a very long time. Had referred to her, even in the privacy of his mind, only as his wife. And not with the pride and possessive zeal of a new husband, who had held her and whispered, My wife.

  My wife.

  My wife.

  My wife.

  My heart, he had meant then, my sky, the center of my universe.

  He had been all goodwill and shining innocence. A man incapable of imagining that someday my wife would signify my error, my shame, my ineluctable punishment.

  “My deepest condolences, my lord. It is a terrible misfortune.”

  Slowly he turned his head. Lady Avery stood beside him, peering up.

  “A terrible misfortune indeed,” he echoed woodenly, returning his attention to the woman in the ice well.

  She looked . . . ungainly. After the birth of their second child, she had never moved as easily or gracefully as she had earlier. But even so, she would have been displeased, had she seen herself thus: her chin jutting out, her lips slack, her feet inelegantly splayed.

  The urge rose to do something so that her posture would have met her own standard of acceptability.

  Instead he tightened his fingers into a fist.

  Her face, during the years of their marriage, had become squarer, harsher. Despite that, she would have remained lovely for at least another decade, before settling into middle-aged handsomeness, her erstwhile incandescent beauty something for others to reminisce about, and perhaps sigh over.