Chapter 1
Several months later
Inspector Robert Treadles accepted hat, lunch, and walking stick from his wife with an approximation of a smile. “Thank you, my dear.”
Alice smiled back and kissed him on his cheek. “Good day, Inspector. Go forth and uphold law and order.”
She’d been saying that for years, upon bidding him good-bye in the morning. Lately, however, those words set him on edge. Or perhaps it wasn’t the words, per se, but the feeling that from the moment he got up, she’d been waiting for him to leave.
Near the end of summer, her brother, Barnaby Cousins, had died. As he had been without issue, in accordance to their late father’s will, Cousins Manufacturing, the source of the family’s wealth, had devolved to Alice.
She had told Treadles quite firmly that it would not change anything between them. And she was right, but not for the reason she gave—that she would still be the loving spouse he’d known and that he would not feel the least diminishing in the care and affection he received from her.
No, the reason nothing had changed was that everything had already changed before her brother’s death. Treadles had learned that she had always wished to run the family business and only her father’s firmest refusal had turned her gaze from that path.
He still couldn’t completely articulate to himself the turmoil this had unleashed in him, except to conclude that until that moment, he had believed them to be a unified whole. Afterward, they were only two individuals who lived under the same roof.
She saw him out the front door with another smile. He started in the direction of Scotland Yard. But once a week or so, on his way to work, he stopped around the corner to look back. Each time her carriage had drawn up precisely a quarter of an hour after his departure.
And the woman who entered the carriage, smart, gleaming, and coolly self-assured, was a stranger.
No, that wasn’t entirely true. She had always known her own mind and been competent at everything she did.
And he had always taken great pride in her—when she’d been the feather in his cap, the envy of his colleagues, a woman who, despite the elevated circumstances into which she had been born, had found in him everything she needed.
Except that had never been true, had it? She’d always needed more. And now she had it.
He walked faster, suddenly as impatient as she must be, to put distance between himself and his marital home.
His day, however, did not improve when he reached Scotland Yard. The Farr woman was there again, harassing Sergeant MacDonald.
“I understand, Mrs. Farr,” said Sergeant MacDonald patiently.
“But you see, ma’am, I checked all the reports for unclaimed bodies first thing this morning, and we still don’t have anyone who matches your sister’s description.
And without a body, we can’t declare this a murder case.
We haven’t the slightest evidence, in fact, that your sister is deceased. ”
“But if she were alive, she would never have missed her niece’s birthday—at least not without any word.”
“Sergeant, I have work for you,” said Treadles as he walked past.
The Farr woman raised her head. She was blind in one milky blue eye, her other eye a dark, almost periwinkle blue. She might have been good-looking once, but all she had now were a few lines and angles that, like the ruins of a palace, hinted at yesteryear’s grandeur.
She regarded Treadles steadily, expressionlessly. But he sensed the scorn she chose not to show. What was it with those less-than-respectable women who somehow felt superior enough to hold him in animosity and contempt?
As he marched off, he heard Sergeant MacDonald say, in a lowered voice, “I have to go, Mrs. Farr. Think about what I said. Sherlock Holmes.”
“What did we tell you?” said Lady Holmes triumphantly. “What did we tell you?”
Livia gaped, unable to believe her own eyes.
She had expected the worst. The worst. Her parents did not possess good judgment.
They were, furthermore, profligate and nearly bankrupt.
When they had informed Livia, after returning from a mysterious trip, that they had found an exceptional place for their second-eldest daughter, Livia had not believed in the least their description of this earthly paradise.
Bernadine did not speak, nor did she respond when spoken to. She rarely left her room and spent her days spinning spools hung on a wire. She had never been able to look after herself, and Livia had no hope that she ever would.
In fact, Bernadine’s very existence filled Livia with despair. What if she outlived everyone in the family? Who would look after her? Would she escape to the woods and become feral, the kind of creature around which adolescents spun eerie tales to give younger children nightmares?
Yet upon being told that Bernadine would soon depart for an institution that took in women with similar conditions, Livia had been outraged, especially at her parents’ delight in the reasonableness of the fees.
Bernadine didn’t bite the maids or disturb the neighbors. She never needed new clothes and barely required any food. Yes, she was a burden to her parents, but so was Livia, and all the other unmarried daughters in the land. That she must be looked after was no reason to send her off to bedlam.
But if this was bedlam, then Livia could only wish she herself was the one taking up permanent residence.
The ivy-covered house boasted wide bay windows on the ground floor and deep, cushioned window seats perfect for reading book after book.
The gardens were not too big or formal, but as trim and comfortable-looking as the house, with hydrangeas and delphiniums still in bloom.
Her favorite was the narrow walkway that led out from the back, passing under a long arching pergola and disappearing beyond a wrought iron gate.
The lane probably ended someplace excruciatingly ordinary, a kitchen garden or a caretaker’s cottage.
But Livia was free to imagine that it was a magic path that led to a different beautiful and exciting destination each time she set foot upon it.
The inside of the house was as pretty and cozy as she’d hoped it would be, with an air of contentment rather than ostentation.
Even the residents didn’t seem particularly lunatic.
To be sure, there was a woman spinning slowly in the corner of a parlor; another sitting on a large Oriental rug, gazing at her bare toes; and a third stacking books on the opposite end of the rug with the intent and seriousness of the builder of the Colosseum, only to knock the stack down and start all over again.
Livia eyed the fourth woman in the room, expecting her, too, to do something bizarre.
The woman, in a large starched cap and a long black dress, stood close to the rotating woman, her back to the visitors.
Only after a while did Livia realize that she must be a minder employed by the institution, there to make sure the spinner didn’t fall and hurt herself.
Livia’s parents had already moved on, pulling along an unhappy Bernadine.
Livia hurried after them. In the next room, a combination of a library and a small picture gallery, two women sat at adjacent desks, both writing.
The scene appeared normal and serene, until Livia realized that one woman was simply drawing lines again and again across the page and the other’s paper was full of crude, grinning skulls.
Would Bernadine really be all right, surrounded by all these other women with their conditions?
But Bernadine, apparently, had found her true home. Against the far wall of the room stood a large rack of rods. The rods threaded through dozens and dozens of objects, not only spools but gears and what looked like the sails of miniature windmills.
Bernadine, usually slow and shuffling in motion, crossed the room with the speed of a comet.
She slid onto the bench that had been provided and immediately began to spin the objects nearest her.
She wasn’t alone. Next to her sat a woman in a turban, who spun gears—and only gears—with just as much focus and interest.
“That is a perennial delight for some of our patients,” said Dr. Wrexhall, nodding with approval.
He was also a surprise. Livia had expected an unctuous quack. But Dr. Wrexhall was a man of dignified bearing and measured words.
“Which one of the patients is the benefactress’s daughter?” asked Lady Holmes, always curious about the wealthy and the very wealthy.
Dr. Wrexhall had explained to Livia, who had not made the previous trip with her parents, that Moreton Close was financed by the widow of an extremely successful industrialist. They had only one child, a daughter.
She had wanted the girl to make her debut in Society and marry into one of the finest families of the land.
Alas, the girl’s condition had precluded that from ever happening.
But at Moreton Close, the daughter was and would always remain in the company of other young women from the finest families of the land.
Livia had thought it a stretch to elevate the Holmeses to such stature, but her parents apparently considered it their due.
Sir Henry strutted; Lady Holmes, for the first time since Charlotte had run away from home, wore a smug expression.
Here at last they were being accorded the deference due their station.
And even better, no one seemed to know anything about the disgrace attached to their youngest child.
They preened in Dr. Wrexhall’s respectful attention until Livia reminded them that they must hasten to the railway station.
At their departure, Bernadine paid them as little mind as her parents paid her.
Livia was the only one to hesitate a minute.
She almost put a hand on Bernadine’s shoulders.
But whereas Charlotte had learned to tolerate a sister’s touch, Bernadine would have immediately pushed Livia’s hand away.