Page 27 of The Vanished Sister

“And they’re still there?”

“Some of them, at least, as of yesterday afternoon.”

The sergeant sent the constable who’d accompanied him off to High Burrow on horseback. He then asked everyone how they knew Mrs. Carstairs and learned that Lord Ingram, Miss Olivia, and Mrs. Watson had all been guests at High Burrow in the extremely recent past.

He immediately focused his attention on the sister of the likely deceased. “Do I understand correctly, ma’am, that your sister did not say her good-byes when you left yesterday morning?”

Lord Ingram winced. The question had to be asked, but Mrs. Watson must already blame herself for not having acted differently. Yet what could she have done? Kidnapped Justina Carstairs to keep her safe?

Mrs. Watson twisted the cap of the flask in her hand, left, right, left again. “She’d told me the night before that she wouldn’t, so at the time her absence didn’t strike me as noteworthy.”

“And the night before your departure was the last time you saw her?”

“Correct.”

“And you, Miss Holmes, was that when you also saw her last, day before yesterday at night?”

Miss Olivia, almost as colorless as Mrs. Watson, nodded. “I last saw Mrs. Carstairs that night when the ladies withdrew to the drawing room after dinner. I retired within half an hour, when the lady for whom I serve as companion declared herself worn out from the day.”

The Stanmore Newells, who had come down to breakfast when Lord Ingram rushed out of Sans Souci for the second time, now made their way to the harbor. Mrs. Stanmore Newell took a look at the rowboat—and the outline of the body beneath the canvas—and slapped both hands over her mouth.

Lord Ingram let the sergeant know that those two had also been at High Burrow during the relevant time period. Mrs. Stanmore Newell needed no further prompting to talk volubly about Mrs. Carstairs’s absence the day before. How she had thought it was odd that they hadn’t seen her at breakfast or luncheon. How Mr. Carstairs went upstairs after he returned from escorting his late wife’s cousin back to her current hired house. And how next time anyone came into the drawing room, it was to politely let them know that it was time to leave.

She waved her handkerchief in the air. “I would never have thought—”

Lord Ingram had to pull her aside so that she wasn’t run over by Charles Carstairs’s arrival.

Her future son-in-law leaped off his mount. His hair was uncombed, he had neither waistcoat nor tie, nor even a hat—it was obvious that he had been roused directly from bed and left in a blazing hurry. “Sergeant Benson? Charles Carstairs. Your constable tells me that—”

His voice broke as he saw the rowboat. He rubbed his hand over his face. “I understand that you have a body you wish me to identify?”

“My apologies, sir,” said the police sergeant sympathetically. “The deceased, though somewhat disfigured facially, is said to resemble your mother in build and coloring. And I understand from those who have recently visited High Burrow that Mrs. Carstairs hadn’t been seen since yesterday morning?”

“That is unfortunately true. But whoever the person is underneath the sheet, it cannot be my mother.” Charles Carstairs closed his bloodshot eyes for a moment. “My mother has left for parts unknown.”

Nine

Livia was afraid for her young man.

Everyone else she loved was where she could see them—or in Mrs. Newell’s case, close enough at hand. But not her Stephen, who had left the very night Moriarty’s name was mentioned at dinner, sailing across Bristol Channel with Mr. Mears. Mr. Mears had brought back the sloop the next day and Stephen had caught a train out from Swansea.

When Lord Ingram had arrived at High Burrow, accompanying Mrs. Watson on her visit, he’d made sure to inform Livia that Stephen had sent word. And yesterday evening, after Livia had relayed the news concerning Mrs. Carstairs, Charlotte had handed her a letter from him, written under an assumed name.

But the letter was by now more than a day old and Livia had not forgotten that cold December morning in 1886. The night before they had dreamed of traveling to Andalusia together; but when the sun rose again, he’d promptly disappeared from her life. Because of one message from Moriarty.

How was she to know that things hadn’t taken a catastrophic turn for him in the past twenty-four hours?

Off to one side, the police sergeant was still questioning Charles Carstairs, his future mother-in-law standing behind him, her eyes gleaming in either devoted moral support or pure nosiness.

Fifteen feet away, the company from Sans Souci, Livia included, huddled together. Miss Redmayne, who’d been rubbing Mrs. Watson on the back, glanced at the body in the rowboat and murmured, “Surely, this can’t be why Mrs. Carstairs wanted Sherlock Holmes’s involvement?”

Livia’s head throbbed. Because she expected to meet with an untimely end? But she did not voice that thought aloud.

Everyone looked at Charlotte, who shrugged and said, “I don’t know enough to decide one way or the other.”

“Could—” Livia forced herself to ask the question. “Could this be something Albrecht wants?”

Herr Albrecht was another one of Moriarty’s aliases, used more often on the Continent.