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

  But death had robbed her of something essential. Her features were very much as he remembered, yet she looked a stranger, and not exactly an attractive one.

  Dimly it occurred to him that he didn’t want his children to see her like this. Let them remember the mother they loved as living and beautiful. Let them never witness the corpse that had nothing of her left, bad or good.

  “We didn’t know Lady Ingram had returned from Switzerland,” said Lady Avery, her voice an artillery boom in the silence.

  He turned to her again, still in a fog of numbness. “Neither did I.”

  “How do you suppose she came to be here?”

  “I am as bewildered as you are, my lady.” The deep-seated cold of the icehouse enveloped him, seeping in from every pore. He willed himself not to shiver. “Ladies, you will be much more comfortable in the manor. I will wait here for the police.”

  “We will wait with you,” said Lady Avery, without a moment’s hesitation. “We don’t mind a little cold.”

  “And we are not bewildered,” added her sister. “Only outraged.”

  Outraged.

  He supposed he ought to be, too. But he couldn’t summon enough outrage, not when Lady Ingram’s choices had led to the deaths of three agents of the Crown. Not when he could have told her that her own untimely demise would be the most likely outcome, once she lost her place at his side and could no longer supply intelligence to Moriarty.

  Those who betrayed Moriarty faced execution. And those who became useless—a slightly gentler riddance?

  He couldn’t tell how she had died. She wore a promenade dress, which seemed stiff with newness. There were no visible wounds, no markings on the throat, or telltale streaks of blood on her clothes.

  He stepped onto the lip of the ice well, intending to get inside and take a closer look.

  Someone grabbed him by his coat. “I don’t believe you should touch anything, sir.”

  He stared at Lady Somersby. This was his wife. His estranged wife, yes, but his wife nevertheless.

  It occurred to him at the end of a very long moment, during which Lady Somersby’s eyes blazed like Lady Justice’s, with her blindfold ripped off, that she meant to prevent him from tampering with the site.

  Him.

  Fear snaked down his spine.

  The gossip ladies believed that he was responsible for his wife’s death.

  That she had never been sent to Switzerland but had instead been murdered in cold blood.

  Here in her own home.

  7

  Dear Livia,

  I’m sorry to hear of your ordeal.

  Please convey Mrs. Watson’s and my deepest condolences to Lord Ingram, as well as our sympathy for his children.

  Charlotte

  This was not what Livia had hoped for from her sister. She needed a muscular, cavalry-coming-over-the-hills message. She craved for Charlotte to declare, The finest mind of her generation assures you with every solemnity that the culprit will be discovered in the next twenty-four hours. That Lord Ingram will emerge unscathed. And that all will be well, including you yourself, dearest Livia.

  A knock at the door startled her, but it was only a servant informing her that the guests were being assembled in the grand drawing room. Would Miss Holmes please go down as soon as possible?

  Livia reached the open doors of the grand drawing room as the din of excited curiosity abated to a sober, almost fearful silence.

  Lord Ingram stood by the fireplace, his hair windswept, his eyes hollow. “It is my great unhappiness to inform you that Lady Ingram has been found . . . dead on the property. The police have arrived to begin their investigation.”

  Silence. A cacophony of disbelief. Silence again as Lord Ingram raised his hand. “I do not know what happened—this has been a great shock. I do know that local constables will have some questions for you. Tomorrow an inspector from Scotland Yard might ask to speak to you again. Until then, please remain at Stern Hollow.”

  Again, a roar of incredulity and dismay.

  Lord Ingram waited. In the morning, he’d looked as if he hadn’t slept all night. Now, he appeared as if he’d never known a full-night’s rest in his entire life, his weariness etched into every feature.

  When the guests had quieted, he said, “Dinner will be served at the usual hour. I regret to say I will not be able to perform the duties of a host this evening. Forgive me. My staff will see to your needs. Ladies Avery and Somersby will answer your questions as best as they can.”

  He walked out of the drawing room, the crowd parting to let him through. Closing the doors, he held onto the door handle for a moment, as if not trusting that he would remain upright were he to let go.

  All at once Livia understood that he was afraid, so afraid that he couldn’t let anyone see it, lest everything he feared came true.

  Not wanting to be seen by those inside the drawing room, she had taken a few steps back, out of their line of sight. Now she rushed forward and took his hands.

  “It’ll be all right, my lord! Charlotte won’t let anything happen to you. She’ll find out the truth.”

  He looked as if he was about to say something but changed his mind. “Yes, I’m sure everything will be fine. I hope this has not been too distressing for you, Miss Holmes.”

  Livia had no idea what she said next. They spoke for a little longer before he excused himself and headed in the direction of the library. She squared her shoulders, took several deep breaths, and yanked open the doors of the drawing room.

  Lord Ingram had not named her to answer questions for the guests, but she intended her voice to be heard tonight. Ladies Avery and Somersby did not know what happened to Lady Ingram any better than Livia did, and she’d be damned if she allowed them to besmirch Lord Ingram’s good name with insinuations and irresponsible conjectures.

  Days of premonition had not prepared her for what awaited her in the icehouse, but she no longer had the luxury of cowering in her room and hoping someone else would ride to the rescue. By God, she would defend him or go down trying.

  Lord Ingram received the police sergeant in the library. The trio of constables he had brought would make a tally of guests and servants and question every last one. But Sergeant Ellerby had reserved for himself the initial interviews with the four witnesses who’d stumbled upon the body—and the master of Stern Hollow.

  Lord Ingram had met county inspectors who had spent decades dealing with the darkest underbelly of London, world-weary men who had seen every variant of greed, cruelty, and criminal ingenuity. Sergeant Ellerby was not such a man. He was visibly affected by both the opulence of the house and the possibility that the offspring of a duke had slain his own wife.

  Mrs. Sanborn, the housekeeper, entered behind Sergeant Ellerby, carrying a tea tray. She poured for the men and left quietly.

  “Cream? Sugar?” Lord Ingram inquired, his voice suitably courteous.

  “Neither, thank you.”

  “I’d offer you something stronger, Sergeant, but I imagine that would be frowned upon.”

  “Indeed it would. But please, my lord, take what you need. This is a day that calls for potent spirits.”

  Lord Ingram filled a glass with whisky. He didn’t love intoxicants a quarter as much as Charlotte Holmes relished baked goods, but his capacity for spirits rivaled hers for cake. And tonight he intended to put that capacity to use.

  A hard-drinking man was less likely to give the impression of being calculating.

  He took a large swallow of the amber liquid, wincing as his throat burned. “What may I do for you, Sergeant?”

  “The two ladies at the site, if you remember, sir, asked to speak to me.”

  He remembered very well. Lady Avery and Lady Somersby had all but grabbed the sergeant by the ear and demanded that he listen. Lord Ingram had left them to it and departed first. It would not surprise him if the ladies had spoken so much and at such a furious pace that Sergeant Ellerby’s head spun.

  “Lady Aver
y and Lady Somersby are Society’s premier gossip historians. They must have had a great deal of useful particulars to impart.”

  His words appeared neutral; they were anything but. Sergeant Ellerby might be an intelligent man who was good at his work, but he was not accustomed to the forceful personalities of the gossip ladies and might very well have been resentful of the way they attempted to educate him of everything they deemed he must know and understand.

  Out of deference to their age and rank, he would have tried to suppress his irritation at being told how to do his work. But when Lord Ingram pointed out that the women were known primarily for gossiping, he gave Sergeant Ellerby the excuse he likely already wanted to dismiss their theories.

  Lord Ingram knew that Lady Avery and Lady Somersby were meticulous. They knew they were meticulous. But Sergeant Ellerby did not. Between the master of this impeccable estate and two matrons of middling attractiveness who wouldn’t shut up, Lord Ingram had a very good idea whom the sergeant might believe more.

  But that was true of a hypothetical county sergeant. There was always the possibility that this man had listened closely to the gossip ladies and realized what an invaluable source of information he had stumbled across. He might also view the master of this impeccable estate with commensurate suspicion, because a man whose home was perfect to the last detail was unlikely to give anything of himself away, except by design.

  “Ah, no wonder they went on and on,” said Sergeant Ellerby, clarifying for Lord Ingram where he stood on the spectrum, which was not very far from where Lord Ingram preferred him to be.

  “I have heard from my staff that since their arrival, they have been inquiring into my wife’s whereabouts—and the details of the night of her birthday ball, when she was last seen.”

  On that night, he had confronted her—and told her to leave. And then he had waited twenty-four hours before informing Bancroft of her crimes, so that she would have time to run far, far away.

  Not far away enough, as it turned out.

  “Did the ladies’ meddling disturb you?” asked the sergeant.

  “Yes, but not for reasons they would consider likely.” Lord Ingram downed another drought of whisky. “I had hoped the truth would never come to light, because what happened to me is something I would not wish on my worst enemy.”

  Sergeant Ellerby had his notebook out. “And what exactly happened to you, my lord?”

  “Mr. Walsh, there is a gentleman by the name of Holmes to see you, sir,” said the young footman to Stern Hollow’s steward.

  Within the past hour, Mr. Walsh had fended off, on his master’s behalf, two men from two different county gazettes, a vicar and a rector, and three local ladies who had been acquainted with Lady Ingram and thought it their duty to call on her bereaved husband. Tragedy brought out the worst in people, he was now thoroughly convinced—and was very much in the mood to have the latest caller forcibly ejected from the house.

  Preferably on his rear.

  “And what does this Mr. Holmes want?” asked Mr. Walsh, scraping together what remained of his forbearance. “Any relation to our guest Miss Holmes?”

  “I don’t know, sir. He says he’s been sent from Eastleigh Park.”

  Eastleigh Park was the seat of His Grace the Duke of Wycliffe, Lord Ingram’s eldest brother. Mr. Walsh felt a tremor underfoot. Had the duke sent an emissary to berate his brother? Surely, tonight could not possibly be the time for it.

  And how long could Mr. Walsh stall the emissary, if it came to that? How long could he protect Lord Ingram from this wrath from above?

  “Where is he now? Still in the waiting room?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Have tea sent to my office immediately.”

  Mr. Walsh put on his haughtiest mien and marched into the waiting room. If the duke had sent a flinty-eyed agent, let him see that Lord Ingram was not without foot soldiers of his own, willing to brave the front lines.

  The young man in the waiting room sported a thick but well-groomed beard, topped off with a meticulously pomaded handlebar mustache, the ends of which curled up nearly an inch.

  At Mr. Walsh’s entrance, he rose. “Mr. Walsh, I presume? Sherrinford Holmes. I take it from your steely expression that you believe His Grace sent me.”

  Mr. Walsh blinked. “Do you mean to imply, Mr. Holmes, that you haven’t been sent by His Grace?”

  “No.” The young man smiled slightly. “Not to say he won’t dispatch someone, or perhaps even himself, in the coming days. But I have been tasked by Her Grace the Duchess of Wycliffe to see to Lord Ingram. Difficult days are ahead and she believes that he should have an ally at his side.”

  Relief and gratitude inundated Mr. Walsh.

  Briefly.

  It was all well and good to send an ally, but this Mr. Holmes . . .

  He was barely medium height and surprisingly portly for his age, which, despite his abundance of facial hair, couldn’t be more than twenty-five or twenty-six. Notwithstanding his rotundity, he was dressed nattily, his clothes of good material and superior workmanship. In fact, there was a great deal more than nattiness here: Mr. Holmes was dressed extravagantly.

  The gold-and-sapphire-striped velvet waistcoat; the complicated, multi-tiered knot of the necktie; the boutonnière of three round, bright yellow craspedia flowers arranged against the iridescent eye of a peacock feather. From his watch fob hung an enamel peacock feather that matched the real one on his lapel. As he drew his watch out to check the time, he also extracted a monocle and screwed it into the socket of his right eye—a monocle the rim of which was actually, when Mr. Walsh looked closely, a serpent eating its own tail.

  In his most desperate hour, Lord Ingram had received, for his only ally, a raging dandy.

  “And you are just the person I wish to see, Mr. Walsh,” said the dandy. “I will need to speak to the outdoor staff first thing tomorrow—and will depend on you to take the arrangement in hand. But tonight, the indoor staff are my object.

  “You will please send me, one by one, those who have already spoken to the police. Any lists you have of their names, ages, positions, et cetera, would be profoundly appreciated. I shall need to borrow a corner of the domestic offices, preferably a quiet and secluded one, to conduct these interviews. And if Mrs. Sanborn would kindly make ready a room on the nursery floor, so I will be out of the other guests’ way, she would have my eternal gratitude.”

  Mr. Walsh blinked again. “Would that be all, Mr. Holmes?”

  “I should like to take a quick look at his lordship’s and her ladyship’s apartments before I speak with your underlings. Would you be able to accompany me there?”

  Mr. Walsh hesitated.

  “Is Lord Ingram speaking to the police at the moment?” inquired Mr. Holmes.

  “Yes.”

  “If you need to, please ask him right now whether he will permit me into his rooms. Otherwise time is of the essence.”

  Mr. Walsh acquiesced. The tour of Lord Ingram’s rooms was quick. That through Lady Ingram’s, even quicker.

  When Mr. Holmes had taken a seat at Mr. Walsh’s desk and poured himself a cup of tea, he said, “By the way, even though Her Grace is more than capable of holding her own with His Grace, there’s no need to mention my presence to him or anyone he sends.”

  “How should I tell the rest of the staff who you are, then?”

  “You may say that I am a friend of Lord Ingram’s, here to do a friend’s duty.”

  He smiled as he spoke, a rather ironic smile at that, but his tone was firm to the point of severity. Mr. Walsh took note: Mr. Holmes’s arrival in Stern Hollow was not to be breathed to anyone from Eastleigh Park.

  “Do you think, Mr. Holmes, that anything we do can be of the slightest help to Lord Ingram?”

  The question wiped the smile from Mr. Holmes’s face. He sighed. “It is not a good situation, Mr. Walsh. There will not be any direct evidence linking Lord Ingram to Lady Ingram’s death, but circumstantial evidence will be prof
use and, almost without exception, unfavorable.”

  Mr. Walsh swallowed.

  Mr. Holmes looked him squarely in the eye. “But I am here now. And I am his last, best hope.”

  8

  It was eleven o’clock at night when Charlotte finished speaking to the last of the indoor staff. She jotted down a few notes from the final interview and looked over the list of men and women to whom she had spoken.

  Normally she wouldn’t need notes. But normally she did not meet forty strangers in a row.

  A knock came at the door. “Enter,” she said, expecting Mr. Walsh, back to conduct her to her room.

  Lord Ingram walked in. He looked drained. But as he saw her, a glimmer of light returned to his eyes.

  She leaned back and crossed her arms in front of her chest, her elbows resting comfortably upon the padding that formed Sherrinford Holmes’s paunch. “Hullo, Ash.”

  “I thought I heard the sound of cake disappearing from the—” He glanced at the tea tray, back at her, then at the tea tray again. “What is this? Did Mr. Walsh replenish the cake plates recently—or did you not touch anything?”

  Sweet things placed before her usually disappeared: Hunger wasn’t necessary; cake tasted just as good accompanied by preoccupation, concern, or even boredom. The moment she’d read Livia’s letter, however, it was as if her stomach had turned into stone. The refreshments Mr. Walsh had laid out might as well have been made of wax, for all the interest they stirred in her.

  But did she want Lord Ingram to know that—yet?

  She covered half of her face. “You must not think, sir, that this is a common occurrence. I . . . I don’t know what happened. I assure you that the vast, vast majority of the time my appetite is as stiff as a flagpole and just as sizable. I am as shocked as you are by this inexplicable inability to perform.”

  Different gradients of incredulity flickered across his face, as he no doubt tried to decide whether she truly was comparing her lack of appetite to an instance of impotence.