Page 92 of The Hollow of Fear

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.