Page 21 of Murder on Cold Street

Once the door had been secured, the woman, who must have been the housekeeper, inclined her head respectfully. “Mrs. Treadles has the police inspector in the drawing room, miss. But she said to bring you by should you call. Do please come with me—I’m just about to take the tea tray up.”

They walked down a spotless service corridor. The housekeeper picked up a laden tea tray; Charlotte divested herself of her mackintosh and her basket. Together they mounted the service stairs and exited two floors up.

The housekeeper indicated a nearby room to Charlotte, while she herself trundled toward a different one. Charlotte opened the door the housekeeper had pointed to with her chin and found herself in a dimly lit private parlor. In fact, the only light came in through a connecting door that had been left ajar.

On the other side of the connecting door must have been the drawing room, from which came the faintly ceramic thuds of teapots and teacups being placed upon a tablecloth.

“Thank you, Mrs. Graycott,” said a woman. Mrs. Treadles.

The housekeeper left, closing the drawing room door softly behind herself.

Tea trickled gently into cups.

In the private parlor, the wall opposite the opening of the connecting door was dominated by a large mirror. Charlotte tiptoeduntil she had the best possible reflected view of the drawing room, standing almost immediately next to and behind the door.

The slice of the drawing room visible in the mirror showed the back of a man’s head and Mrs. Treadles’s pale face. She was trying to smile and not succeeding very well. “Milk, sugar, Inspector? Sergeant?”

“Both, thank you,” said Inspector Brighton in a crisp, clear voice.

“Neither, please,” said another man, who sat some distance behind Inspector Brighton, out of sight. He would be the one taking notes.

“Do please help yourself to the biscuits and the finger sandwiches,” said Mrs. Treadles after she’d distributed the teacups. “It must have been an exhausting day for you.”

“No more than it has been exhausting for you, Mrs. Treadles.”

Inspector Brighton sounded cordial, yet Charlotte was put in mind of a serpent in the grass, flicking its forked tongue.

“I visited Mr. Sherlock Holmes today, and engaged him to help my husband,” said Mrs. Treadles.

“Indeed.”

“On my way back I heard a paperboy shouting about the murders, so I had my coachman take me to Scotland Yard, hoping to see Inspector Treadles.”

Had she bought a paper? And had that newspaper also gleefully pointed out the small notice that aimed to goad Inspector Treadles into descending upon Cold Street?

“I do apologize that you weren’t able to see him,” said Inspector Brighton. “I spoke to him about an hour and a half ago. He is in reasonable fettle, if you are worried.”

“I took him some food and two changes of clothes. I was told they would be given to him.”

“I will make sure that they are.”

“Thank you.”

Mrs. Treadles’s expression was one of weary relief, as if the assurance that some comfort would reach her husband was the most shecould hope for from this encounter. And now that reassurance was out of the way...

No one spoke for some time, until Inspector Brighton said, “This is an excellent sandwich, Mrs. Treadles. My compliments to your cook.”

Mrs. Treadles straightened abruptly, as if she were a small creature in that same grass, sensing the approach of a predator. “Thank you, Inspector.”

“If you don’t mind my asking, you and Inspector Treadles come from very different walks of life. How did you meet?” inquired Inspector Brighton, his tone conversational.

Mrs. Treadles’s answer was muted. “At one of Lord Ingram Ashburton’s archaeological lectures.”

“And that led to your marriage.”

“In time, yes.”

“What manner of man would you say Inspector Treadles is?”