Page 26 of The Vanished Sister

Miss Charlotte crouched down near the woman’s feet and spoke to Mrs. Watson. She had to ask her question three times before Mrs. Watson slowly shook her head. No, she did not know of any marks that distinguished Justina.

She’d been a child with her head elsewhere who did not pay close attention to her family. And she’d been the younger sister. She’d never bathed or dressed Justina. Frankly before this day she couldn’t even recall the last time she saw Justina’s feet.

Except to know that the last time she saw them, they’d been slender and beautiful, all ten toes clean and intact.

She covered her mouth. If this was Justina and if her soul hovered somewhere nearby, how horrified she would be to see herself like this.

She, who had spent her entire life presenting perfection.

Lord Ingram’s first instinct was still to shield Holmes from the horror of the body—and it took some doing to make sure his instinct did not interfere with her work.

When she’d had as close a look as she could get without disrobing the dead woman, all the men present, Sherrinford Holmes included, spread open a large canvas sheet to cover the victim. Lord Ingram and Mr. Mears returned to the cottage to change out of their wet clothes. When they returned, two policemen, a sergeant and a constable, were on the scene—before Lord Ingram left to retrieve the body, he’d instructed Lawson, Mrs. Watson’s groom and coachman, to fetch the law from Ilfracombe.

He slipped a flask into Mrs. Watson’s hand. “Coffee with whisky, ma’am. Have some.”

She stood at an angle from the coppers and stared up toward High Burrow, only the roofline of which was visible from sea level. At his offer, she gripped the flask, but made no other move. He closed his hand over hers briefly.

Holmes was busy watching the police sergeant. Lord Ingram handed Penelope, who had her arm around Mrs. Watson, a few biscuits wrapped in a napkin: The girl could eat right after her dissection class; this body would not affect her appetite. He skipped Miss Olivia, who probably did not want her stomach tested until the afternoon, and crossed over to Holmes.

“Are you hungry?”

“Yes, but first I’ll need to wash my hands properly. Are you hungry?”

He shook his head. Unlike her, his appetite evaporated in the face of uncertainty.

“Should have at least packed some coffee for yourself,” she said softly, in Sherrinford Holmes’s voice. “Don’t just think of everyone else.”

He smiled. He liked being chided by her: It felt like being coddled, which, once in a while, was highly enjoyable.

“I had a cup of tea at the house,” he reassured her. “I brought an extra flask of whisky, by the way. You can use that to wash your hands if you get too hungry.”

She smiled up at him. “Thank you, Ash.”

He would have needed much more willpower to resist the urge to tug at the pomaded ends of her mustache if the police sergeant hadn’t pulled the canvas over the dead woman and stood up at that moment.

He asked about the discovery of the body. Miss Olivia and Lord Ingram answered his questions.

“Does anyone know the identity of the deceased?”

Holmes shook her head. Her decisiveness struck Lord Ingram. Had she gleaned some vital information from the body—or was she only signaling that she would not discuss details at the present?

Penelope glanced at a stone-pale Mrs. Watson. “We are…not certain. The features of the deceased are damaged.”

“But you have a guess?” asked the alert sergeant.

Everyone looked at Mrs. Watson. Penelope took the flask from her hand, unscrewed the cap, and handed it to her. Mrs. Watson stared at it for a moment, put it to her lips, and tilted her head back for a long draught.

She had left Sans Souci hatless. The wind had blown loose tendrils from her coiffure and the morning sun fell rather harshly upon the greying strands in her hair. “In her height, figure, and coloring,” she croaked, “the deceased bears a certain resemblance to the mistress of High Burrow.”

Instead of Lynmouth and Lynton, Lord Ingram now desperately wished they’d sailed to Woolacombe the other day, in the opposite direction. Would Mrs. Watson have been spared this agony if she and Mrs. Carstairs had not clapped eyes on each other?

“High Burrow?” the sergeant asked, puzzled.

Lord Ingram pointed out the manor across the bay.

The policeman’s eyes widened. “That grand house? They aren’t from hereabouts, are they?”

“The Carstairses hail from Lincolnshire,” answered Lord Ingram.