Page 25 of The Vanished Sister

Surely that wasn’t a woman’s wig floating alongside the dress—

No, not a wig, but hair that was still very much attached to a woman, hair the exact color and glorious thickness of Justina’s, except now, instead of coiling obediently into a regal coiffure, that hair drifted unbound, undulating with the waves.

The inside of Mrs. Watson’s head turned into a hive in winter, thousands of wings vibrating in a deafening crescendo. “Qui—quick. Go tell Ash. Tell him—”

“My God!” Miss Olivia sounded as if she hadn’t heard a single one of Mrs. Watson’s strangled words. “You don’t suppose that could be—”

“Go. Now!” Mrs. Watson managed. “Ash and your sister—tell them now!”

Eight

She never woke up this morning.

That had to be it, thought Mrs. Watson numbly. She had to be still dreaming, moaning in distress yet unable to escape the undertow of her treacherous slumber.

Running footsteps. Lord Ingram and Mr. Mears nearly plowed into the balustrade. She heard their collective intake of breath, felt their inquiring glances in her direction, and heard their low voices, discussing what to do next.

Quick hugs from the two men she trusted the most in the world. Then they raced off, their places beside her taken by Penelope and Miss Olivia, who reassured her that Miss Charlotte would be along as soon as she finished putting on her Sherrinford Holmes disguise.

Too logical. Everyone was acting exactly as they ought to when faced with such a crisis, making it difficult for Mrs. Watson to sustain her belief that she remained caught in a nightmare.

Except when she stared down the dizzying drop to the body below.

She wanted to look away—to look anywhere but at the hair that wouldn’t stop writhing. And she eventually did when Lord Ingram and Mr. Mears arrived in a rowboat. It was suddenly too much. A body in the water was a nightmare, but a body recovered was reality that must be dealt with.

She was vaguely aware that Penelope asked whether she wanted to go down to the small harbor, where the body would be brought, or up to her room for a liedown.

A liedown sounded desperately appealing. Yet a few minutes later she found herself at the little harbor, her fingers clasped onto someone’s arm, her jaw in pain from clenching.

It wasn’t even six o’clock but the sun was fully above the horizon, its reflected light on the water glaring against her retinas. Lord Ingram and Mr. Mears leaped from the rowboat and dragged the craft above the waterline. The harbor was empty: Fishing vessels had gone out to sea but most of the village was not yet abroad. A solitary angler, perched on the breakwater, showed little interest in this abrupt burst of activity.

Mrs. Watson stared at the supine figure on the rowboat, her face covered with a large handkerchief. She was shoeless, her feet in once-white silk stockings that were now translucent shreds, revealing soles a faint blue in color.

And several missing toes.

Mrs. Watson didn’t understand.

The arm she’d been hanging on to moved forward. Mrs. Watson gripped it more stubbornly.

“I need to take a look at her, ma’am,” said her human clutch in a masculine voice coming as if from inside a deep well.

Mrs. Watson stared at the elaborate handlebar mustache of the rotund young man who had just spoken to her. Miss Charlotte, of course, on the scene as Sherrinford Holmes.

Miss Charlotte moved again in the direction of the rowboat. Mrs. Watson moved with her.

Miss Charlotte spoke again, but Mrs. Watson couldn’t hear anything, her gaze glued to the deep gash across the back of the woman’s exposed hand. The wound looked as if it had been…gnawed.

“…crustaceans and other creatures,” said Miss Charlotte, causing a spike of nausea before Mrs. Watson even comprehended the meaning of her words. “I’m afraid her face will not be pretty—the softest parts will have been picked clean. Perhaps you’d best not look, ma’am.”

She was right. Mrs. Watson wasn’t equipped with the kind of sangfroid necessary for a situation like this. She would scream. She might even faint. She ought to avert her eyes to keep herself under control.

Surely her eyes were closed. Shut so tightly that a crowbar couldn’t pry them open. Why then did she see Miss Charlotte’s hand reaching down to lift the handkerchief?

Mrs. Watson spun around with a shriek. What had she seen before she’d instinctively turned away? Not much. The face had been dashed on sharp rocks, purple and blue everywhere except stomach-churning patches of white, which Mrs. Watson didn’t want to acknowledge might be abrasions so deep they exposed the skull underneath.

But that hadn’t been the worst part. She’d been actively prepared for empty eye sockets and had kept her gaze lowered. But the woman had no lips—the softest parts will have been picked clean. Even her gum had been devoured, revealing the long roots of her teeth.

God.