Page 36 of The Vanished Sister

Everett Carstairs departed. Inspector MacDonald had Sergeant Perkins escort Mrs. Albright inside to the interview room. Alone with Charlotte outside the constabulary, he murmured, “What do you think, Mr. Holmes? I’m inclined to believe that he didn’t lie about not caring two figs for her.”

The police officer was probably commenting as much on Mr. Carstairs’s attitude as he was on Mrs. Albright’s lack of outstanding attractiveness.

“I am of the opinion that Mr. Carstairs largely adhered to the truth today,” replied Charlotte, adjusting her boutonniere of small heather florets.

But in a sea of truth, it became difficult to spot the lies and the omissions.

Inspector MacDonald let out a long breath. Was he disappointed that the victim was most likely not Mrs. Carstairs or relieved that soon he’d be able to wash his hands of the Carstairses?

In the interview room, he waded through the usual pleasantries and asked, “Mrs. Albright, how well do you know the Carstairses?”

Mrs. Albright fluttered a handkerchief. Unlike Mr. Carstairs’s spare specimen, hers was splashed with large red and gold dahlias.

Mrs. Watson, whose distress over her sister had nowhere to go, had been incensed by the gaucheness of Mrs. Albright’s attire. But Charlotte saw something eager and accepting in her mien. Had Mrs. Watson deigned to offer guidance on how to dress to better effect, she might have had a grateful and diligent pupil in Mrs. Albright.

This did not imply that Mr. Carstairs had ever found her worthy of his time and attention. But Charlotte wouldn’t be surprised that someone, somewhere, had felt themselves well rewarded for taking Mrs. Albright in hand.

“I know Mr. Carstairs, of course,” said Mrs. Albright, seemingly pleased to be of use. “We met many, many years ago, when my cousin made her debut. She was uncomfortable in public, so I accompanied her to most functions. I wasn’t exactly her chaperone, you see, but it often fell to me to trail behind them on walks—or to sit in a corner of the room while they talked. Before he proposed, Mr. Carstairs even asked me what kind of stone Cordelia preferred for an engagement ring. And of course I served as maid of honor at their wedding.”

“What did you think of Mr. Carstairs during his suit?”

“I admired him greatly,” said Mrs. Albright. She sounded terribly sincere. “There were other poor gentlemen who courted Cordelia. They pretended to be enchanted by her accomplishments, her wit, and her beauty. My cousin, however, was not so easy to deceive. She was a handsome, well-read woman who spoke three languages and understood the intricacies of double-entry accounting. Yet she’d always viewed herself as too spindly and too plain and was sure that none of her virtues would make the least impression on her suitors if she hadn’t also inherited an immense fortune.

“Mr. Carstairs understood that. He was fascinated by the inner workings of mining and manufacturing. And he in turn analyzed for her the management of a great estate such as Noble House, and the social pitfalls that awaited a newly minted peeress who originated from the haute bourgeoisie.”

“He promised a partnership rather than a fairy tale,” said Inspector MacDonald.

“Precisely! And I cannot emphasize enough his great success.”

Mrs. Albright regarded her listeners, as if waiting for one of them to exclaim in excitement, as she had.

“Ah,” said Inspector MacDonald after a moment. “You mean, because Mr. Carstairs isn’t a peer of the realm.”

Mrs. Albright’s eyes shone. “Noble House might be as majestic a manor as any ever built in this country, but an heiress’s father wants a title in exchange for his money. He wants a grandson who’s going to be a milord. The Carstairses turned down the crown’s offer of a letter of patent not once but twice. A hundred years ago, it was a point of pride for the entire county, a family so grand they could afford to be plain misters, men of the people. But when money became scarce, that became a disadvantage. What great industrialist would care that Mr. Everett Carstairs could have been a marquess? He wasn’t, it was as simple as that.

“Of course Cordelia was already an orphan by the time she made her London debut, but I remember how much she minded her mission to marry as high up the ladder of nobility as possible. Yet in the end she accepted Mr. Carstairs—she abandoned her quest to be a peeress to marry him.”

“Very strong sentiments on her part,” said Inspector MacDonald. “Did Mr. Carstairs return her strength of feelings?”

“I believe he was extremely grateful that she accepted his suit. I believe that he valued and respected my cousin and dealt with her in a forthright manner befitting her dignity and intelligence. And I for one believe that they would still look upon each other with favor today if she hadn’t perished in childbirth.”

In other words, he had not been in love with his first wife the way he claimed to be with Justina Carstairs.

“Do you know the second Mrs. Carstairs?”

“Our acquaintance was extremely brief. We met only days before—well, before everything that’s happened since.”

She sounded as if she was trying to be circumspect, but Charlotte could not detect any reluctance on her part to speak of Justina Carstairs. Due to a perfectly clear conscience or had she been told, in that moment Mr. Carstairs helped her off her hired trap, that the body in the police station belonged to someone else?

“There have been murmurs that Mr. Carstairs’s conduct toward you was a little overwarm—he sang for you, for instance, when he’d never sung for his wife or his children.”

Inspector MacDonald made his statement in an admirably neutral manner. Nevertheless, Mrs. Albright blushed, two obvious patches of red on her cheeks. She tucked her handkerchief into her sleeve and Charlotte caught a flash of different colors—black and green—on the reverse of the square of cloth. “Mr. Carstairs’s singing voice was a large reason my cousin fell in love with him—maybe he didn’t wish to duplicate that with the current missus. But in any case I do not believe his solicitude was truly meant for me. Rather he wished to make a certain impression on his wife—he looked to her a great deal.

“This is not to say I didn’t feel flattered—of course I did. But I can swear on my late husband’s soul, bless him, that Mrs. Carstairs had nothing to fear from me. Being a woman I understand her unease—the day I arrived in the house Mr. Carstairs hired for me she was waiting for me. But really after one look she must have known that I had no hold whatsoever on her husband.”

She sounded so cheerful about not being the object of Mr. Carstairs’s affection that it bolstered his claim of having only ever used the idea of her to make his wife jealous.

Inspector MacDonald slanted his lips, then asked Mrs. Albright for an account of her whereabouts during the house party. Her narrative of the evening Mrs. Carstairs was last seen, after everyone retired, accorded mostly with what Mr. Carstairs had said, including their half-finished chess game in the library and her subsequent departure when Emaline Carstairs came in.