Page 4 of The Vanished Sister

Penelope’s bell-like laughter rang out. “Well, if you put it like that, then of course we must do all we can for total victory.”

Mrs. Watson chortled as she sank more deeply into the pleasant woolliness that was the inevitable by-product—at least at her age—of vigorous exercise followed by a great deal of delicious food.

She felt Penelope leaning forward and heard the splash of limeade falling into a cup. Lord Ingram, at the helm, asked whether they ought to sail faster so that they’d sit down to tea sooner. “No need,” replied Miss Charlotte. “Let’s not jostle Mrs. Watson.”

Mrs. Watson meant to protest that she didn’t mind a little jostling in exchange for greater speed. But the words, right on the tip of her tongue, disappeared into the ether. And it was so very agreeable, their current pace, bobbing just enough to let her feel the boat’s progress.

Rather like how life had been in the past three years, ever since Miss Charlotte had outmaneuvered Moriarty: more or less smooth sailing for the two women responsible for the operations of Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective.

In fact, with Moriarty in hiding, life had been good for everyone on the sloop.

Penelope, five years into her seven-year French medical education, remained fascinated by everything that could go wrong—and right—with the human body.

Lord Ingram had written a well-received archeological treatise on Celtic Britain and gone on a standing-room-only lecture tour the previous year. His children thrived in spite of the absence of their mother. And at thirty-one, he was fitter and more striking than ever.

Miss Olivia thrilled Mrs. Watson by publishing not one but two novels featuring the great consulting detective. In addition, she’d written several short stories in which Sherlock Holmes flexed his deductive prowess, with the goal of making them available as a collection at a later date.

Mr. Stephen Marbleton, Miss Olivia’s beau, had perhaps profited the most from Moriarty’s retreat: After losing his entire operation in Britain, Moriarty had left the Marbletons, his sworn enemies, alone.

As a result, Mr. Marbleton no longer needed to be constantly on the move, as had been the pattern his whole life. This greater stability worked wonders for his courtship of Miss Olivia. Instead of always meeting each other in passing, he could now remain near her for an extended period of time.

“I will never not love the sea and I would like to live within view of it, if possible.” Miss Olivia’s words, despite the enthusiasm in her voice, sounded a little faint. “Not directly hanging on a cliff over the waves, as much as I love that house in Lynton—the one that you said used to have a private cable car—but a mile or so inland, with the sea in walking distance.”

“My cousin has a place on the Sussex downs that might be perfect for you,” said Lord Ingram, his words, too, a bit indistinct, for all that he stood only a little aft of Mrs. Watson.

“Really?” Miss Olivia’s voice was becoming inaudible. “I like Sussex. It’s sunnier than…”

Mrs. Watson rested her head on Penelope’s shoulder. The dear girl only ever smelled of good Provençal soap, not like Mrs. Watson, who used to reek of attar of jasmine.

You can’t live like this, Joanna. You can’t waste so much money on perfume and other fripperies.

How odd. She actually agreed with Justina’s chastisement. She had been too spendthrift, and her purchases had been no proper essence but badly diluted who knows what. But ah, the joy she’d felt applying those drops to her inner wrists, the contentment of feeling a veritable Salome at that silly, marvelous age…

“…very nice dress. What do you think, Miss Charlotte?” came Penelope’s voice.

“Oh, I agree. And that is probably a very beautiful woman, too.”

“Too bad we can’t see her face behind her binoculars,” said Miss Olivia.

“I wonder if she’s from that house on the bluffs.” Mr. Marbleton added his voice to the discussion.

Mrs. Watson slowly opened her eyes. The sun still shone. A few puffy clouds now drifted across the vast blue sky. Lord Ingram’s cottage, its terrace overhanging the bluffs, was visible a mile or so ahead. Were they that close to home then? How long had she slept?

She sat up straight and turned in the direction of everyone’s gaze. Two great conical outcrops, the Hangman Cliffs, came into view. Great Hangman, at just over a thousand feet in elevation, was the highest sea cliff in all of England.

But the sloop had already sailed past Great and Little Hangman, and now cut across the waters before a secluded beach. At the very edge of the precipice that loomed over the beach stood a slender figure in a white dress. Her skirts danced in the breeze; the long ends of a green sash belt levitated sinuously.

A pair of binoculars hid her face. She could be looking at anyone on the sloop, yet Mrs. Watson felt herself under scrutiny.

She tensed. “Who’s that?”

“The house across the bay from ours, the one you said you wanted to see up close? It’s hidden from us right now because the land dips down,” said Penelope cheerfully, “but it’s right beyond these bluffs, a quarter mile due south. What is it called again, Ash?”

“High Burrow.”

From the terrace of his cottage, one had a panoramic view of the Hangman Cliffs and the sheep-dotted moors beyond. On such an expanse of moorland, high above the little town of Combe Martin, perched a Gothic house that, at first glance, appeared incongruous with its surroundings.

Then again, such an edifice rather embodied the spirit of the age: Architectural vernaculars were ground together as if put through a vegetable mill, and new owners transformed old dwellings with wild abandon.