Chapter 19
Chief Inspector Fowler and Treadles arrived at the Hounslow tea shop a quarter hour before the appointed time.
But Miss Holmes was already there. Treadles felt his superior’s momentary disorientation.
He was a little surprised himself, because Miss Holmes, for this particular interview, had dressed with considerable simplicity.
No excessive rows of bows on her skirt, no acreage of lace trailing from her sleeves.
To him, who had only seen her in splashes of riotous color adorned by a surfeit of trimming, as if her dressmaker had been paid by how much spangle the latter could attach to a garment, her russet jacket-and-skirt set seemed as austere as a nun’s habit.
Were he to view her from Fowler’s vantage point, however, he would see a young woman attired with tremendous propriety, her eyes clear and somber, her demeanor hinting at a gravitas well beyond her years.
Another woman, twice her age but still ravishing, had accompanied her to the tea shop. She was dressed with greater flair but in a way that spoke of wealth rather than wildness.
Treadles was slightly uncomfortable with sitting at a table in public with a woman—or two, for that matter. Things were changing, of course, but for men and women to dine together in public—suffice to say he had never been at the forefront of such changes.
But it would be worth any amount of discomfort if Miss Holmes would give him a sign that all would be well. That Lord Ingram had not entrusted his fate to her in vain.
Not a flicker of recognition, however, crossed Miss Holmes’s features—Treadles remembered that by formal rules, they had never even met. The parties presented themselves. Miss Holmes introduced the older woman as Mrs. Watson. “My patroness, for whom I serve as companion.”
The men exchanged a look. What lady would have a fallen woman as a companion?
Mrs. Watson smiled and said, “I was an actress and as such, not a very good fit for the very respectable young women who usually seek positions as companions. Miss Holmes and I, on the other hand, are a perfect match.”
Miss Holmes inclined her head toward her “patroness.”
Treadles had to marvel at the number of associates Miss Holmes could lay claim to. How did a young woman who ran away from home manage to establish a reliable network in such a short time?
Tea, sliced cake, and finger sandwiches were swiftly served. They spoke for a few minutes about the weather, and then Fowler got to work.
“Thank you for meeting with us, Miss Holmes. You have heard of Lady Ingram’s passing, I imagine?”
“What the papers had to say, yes.”
With a start, Treadles realized that until she gave this answer, he had not thought of her as Sherrinford Holmes, who had studied Lady Ingram’s body in the icehouse alongside the police.
“You didn’t hear directly from Lord Ingram?” asked Fowler, sounding dubious.
“He and I are not in regular contact.”
Miss Holmes was an extraordinarily efficient liar, every word delivered with naturalness and calm conviction. Gently but firmly, she fended off Fowler’s questions.
Yes, the meeting with Lord Ingram the past summer, at this very tea shop, had been a coincidence.
How likely was such a coincidence? No more unlikely than that the waitress who served them should in turn serve Lady Avery at a place hundreds of miles away.
Hostility on Lady Ingram’s part? Nothing to it. Not being liked by her was the norm—her antagonism was a broad and catholic entity, aimed at no one in particular.
Did Miss Holmes not feel distraught that her old friend was a prime suspect in the murder of his wife? No, she had complete faith that Scotland Yard would discover the truth.
“And if that truth should be unfavorable to Lord Ingram?”
“Then what could anyone do?”
Treadles could only hope this was not her true sentiment. As delivered, her words fell with a disheartening detachment.
Fowler leaned forward an inch. “Are you aware, Miss Holmes, that Lord Ingram is in love with you?”
Mrs. Watson sucked in a breath.
Miss Holmes, who had known this for days—if not years, as Lord Ingram had declared—remained unmoved. “He has something of a preference for me, certainly. But love? I would have thought he’d had enough romantic love to last a lifetime.”
Fowler sat back in his chair and regarded her, no doubt recalling Lady Avery’s comment on her oddness. Oddness, what an anodyne description for a woman who might not be entirely human.
“You are in difficult circumstances, Miss Holmes,” Fowler began again.
“Am I?”
This question gave Fowler even greater pause. She did not conduct herself as a woman in trouble. That extraordinary poise, for one thing. For another, Mrs. Watson, her patroness, was clearly a little in awe of this “companion.”
“As a result of your choices, you can no longer be part of your family.”
“You have not met my parents, Chief Inspector. I do not know of many who would want to remain a permanent part of their household.”
“What about your sister?”
“You contacted me via a cipher I created for the two of us, specifically. I assume you have already met her?”
“We have.”
“Did you receive the impression that she blames me for what happened?”
“No, I did not.”
“Then in what way am I in difficult circumstances, sir?”
Fowler couldn’t answer that.
“No doubt it will be difficult for you to understand, but my fall from grace has opened an entire new world for me. I enjoy my life far more than I ever have. I have the freedom to do as I wish. And I do not suffer from a lack of funds, thanks to dear Mrs. Watson here. Indeed, by my own estimation, I am a woman in an enviable position.”
Fowler gave his tea a stir. “Very well, then. But would your position not become even more favorable, were you to marry Lord Ingram?”
“How so? I do not care for Society. I have little interest in household management and even less in childbearing. I am my own mistress right now; why should I take on a lord and master in the form of a husband?”
“Does Lord Ingram himself not present any attraction for you?”
“He does, most assuredly. I have propositioned him three times.”
Even Fowler’s jaw dropped. “Not proposed, but propositioned?”
“Correct. I thought then and I think now that it would be a fine idea if he were to become my lover.”
“But you will not marry him, the surest way to turn him into your lover?”
“No. I want him for one thing and one thing only. That is no reason to marry a man.”
“And Lord Ingram knows that?”
Lord Ingram knew it emphatically, but Treadles was breathless to hear how she would answer that.
“He knows it better than anyone else. But it’s a moot point, whether I will marry him. He will not marry me.”
“Because you have propositioned him three times?”
Miss Holmes smiled slightly, as if she found Fowler’s question risible.
“Because he does not trust that I will love him. And he is correct in that regard. I find romantic love a difficult concept to grasp—at least with regard to marriage. Men and women change. Sentiments change. Yet we are expected to make lifelong contracts based on fleeting emotions.”
“That isn’t what marriage is about,” Treadles found himself saying. “One goes into a marriage knowing that changes are always afoot. The point is to weather the vicissitudes of life together.”
“Is that so, Inspector? Or does one go into a marriage expecting everything to remain as it is on the wedding day? Most of the marriages I have seen close up do not inspire confidence, because always, at least one spouse rues the changes that have been brought on by the passage of time.”
She looked squarely at him, as if she already knew about the fragile new bond between him and Alice. As if she already perceived his fear that he would not be able to nourish this new bond as he ought to. And that it, too, will someday fray and snap.
He looked away, ashamed that he couldn’t say more to defend either his own marriage or the idea of wedded bliss as a whole.
Her gaze returned to Fowler. “No, Chief Inspector, Lord Ingram will not offer for my hand—not even for love.”
She paused and considered a moment. “Especially not for love.”
“Three times? Three times?” Mrs. Watson exclaimed, once they were inside her carriage.
Charlotte shook out her skirts. “Two and a half times, strictly speaking. The second time I needed only an instrument for the riddance of my maidenhead. He wouldn’t oblige.”
Roger Shrewsbury had obliged instead, in his largely incompetent manner.
Mrs. Watson let out a breath, as if she couldn’t quite believe what they were talking about, even as she herself drove the conversation. “If you’ll pardon my incurable nosiness, what about the other two times?”
A murder investigation was truly a unique phenomenon.
Now there were two policemen in London with intimate knowledge of the amorous history—or the longtime lack thereof—between Charlotte and Lord Ingram.
And here was Mrs. Watson, quite justified in wanting to know a bit more about her friend and protégée than did a pair of coppers.
“The third time was at 18 Upper Baker Street—before you had your brilliant idea to monetize Sherlock Holmes’s gifts.
He proposed to sponsor me to emigrate to America, where no one knew me, and where I could go to school and find respectable employment.
I told him I would agree to those terms if he would take me as his mistress. He refused.”
Even though at that point he no longer needed to worry about compromising her, since she was already hopelessly compromised. The man could be needlessly stubborn.
“And the first time?” Mrs. Watson sounded a little breathless.
“Shortly before I turned seventeen. We’d known each other for a while by then, and I decided that he would make for a good—or at least interesting—lover.”
“But you were so young, practically children!”
For someone who had led a rather scandalous life, Charlotte reflected, Mrs. Watson was rather easily scandalized. At least by Charlotte.