Page 41 of The Vanished Sister

The maid Dawkins, as Mrs. Wellesley had mentioned, had served Mrs. Carstairs for only two years and thought her mistress a very grand lady. But very grand ladies did not confide in their maids, and Dawkins had never heard Mrs. Carstairs mention a Mrs. Whitehill or any connections in Shropshire.

She confirmed what other senior servants at High Burrow had already said about the Carstairses’ itinerary: At the beginning of August, when the family left London, Mrs. Carstairs made for High Burrow directly, the younger generation went to the Isle of Wight for sailing, and Mr. Carstairs toured his income-generating properties in the company of solicitors and managers, not rejoining his wife until the day before their children and the Newells did. Charlotte and Inspector MacDonald did learn that Dawkins herself also arrived in High Burrow on the same day, having been given a holiday to spend with her sister after the busy whirl of the London Season.

“Eight in the evening—that was when I walked into the service entrance. I’d reached Ilfracombe midafternoon but it was a half day for the staff so there was no need for me to show up earlier than that.”

Perhaps the only thing of interest that she was able to tell the investigators was that though some of Mrs. Carstairs’s garments were missing, the travel satchels she’d brought to High Burrow were all there, leading Dawkins to wonder how she’d taken those clothes with her.

At the end of the interview, Charlotte offered Dawkins a lift back to High Burrow—she’d driven into Ilfracombe by herself in the morning and had a vehicle at her disposal. Dawkins gratefully accepted.

Outside the constabulary, they ran into Sergeant Perkins, who had just returned from settling Mr. Broadfield at a nearby inn.

“How’s the poor man?” asked Charlotte.

“Stunned and overcome by nerves,” answered Sergeant Perkins. “Par for the course, I’d say, sir.”

As “Sherrinford Holmes” helped Dawkins up the pony cart Charlotte had borrowed from Sans Souci, Dawkins asked hesitantly, “Would that be the gentleman who recognized the lady who died?”

The constabulary was small. Dawkins, waiting in the front room for her turn to be questioned, had probably heard Sergeant Perkins’s excited announcement, just down the corridor, that he’d brought someone who was looking for “his mother.”

“Yes,” answered Charlotte.

“How odd,” mused the lady’s maid. “I’m almost sure I’d seen him somewhere recently. Maybe on a railway platform when my sister and I were on holiday? But we got off at lots of stops to stretch our legs so that could have been anywhere between here and the Lake District.”

People sometimes remembered things if they stopped trying to recall them. Charlotte asked her about her holiday, her summer in London, and her life in general.

Dawkins was cautious, not wanting to say too much. But she eventually warmed up to the subject and commented that she did think Mr. Carstairs valued his wife highly.

“Why, her jewels. Such jewels. And her gowns—I’ve never looked after a superior wardrobe. And they aren’t the sort of husband and wife who hardly ever say anything to each other. They take a walk together every day in London, twice a day in the country. I’ve seen gentlemen who are all solicitous of their wives in front of others, but at home they become impatient and petulant. Not Mr. Carstairs. He always speaks to her softly and respectfully, always takes her opinions into consideration.”

The maid sounded halfway in love with Mr. Carstairs herself. But then again, was it surprising that the master of Noble House should have this effect on women?

“So you believe Mr. Carstairs to be in love with your mistress?” asked Charlotte.

“I shouldn’t like to speculate, sir. But if you’re only wanting my opinion, then yes, I dare say he is.”

Charlotte did think that in his interview Mr. Carstairs had cleaved close to the truth. Or at least a version of the truth that could be corroborated.

“And Mrs. Carstairs? Is she equally in love with him?”

The maid blinked. “Well, Mrs. Carstairs is very reserved. A bit sphinxlike, if you would. She always listens to Mr. Carstairs most attentively and looks after his every need. But I’m not sure I’d be able to tell whether she’s in love with him to the same degree.”

Again, what Everett Carstairs had said.

With the wrought iron gates of High Burrow in view, however, Dawkins piped up again. “But do you know what, Mr. Holmes, maybe I’m wrong. One day I went into Mrs. Carstairs’s dressing room in Noble House, and she was there looking at this lovely blue gown. When I exclaimed over how beautiful it was, she told me that it was her wedding dress—her second wedding dress, of course, for her marriage to Mr. Carstairs. And then she packed it up with the greatest care back in its box and we went on to discuss what she needed me to do that day.

“But my, how tenderly she regarded that wedding gown. Maybe that was when she could be a little less reserved, not in front of Mr. Carstairs but in front of something that symbolized their commitment to each other all those years ago.”

Dawkins sighed. “I don’t understand why she left. I really don’t understand at all. If I had her life…”

She did not continue, but only sighed again.

As Charlotte deposited Dawkins before the Gothic manor, Mr. Gables, the butler, rushed out with a note.

“Mr. Holmes, you came at the perfect time,” he said. “I was just about to find someone to take this to Inspector MacDonald. I imagine you will see him no later than tomorrow morning?”

“I imagine so,” answered Charlotte and took the sealed envelope—Emaline Carstairs’s response to the policeman’s query—from the butler.

The envelope safely tucked away, she drove home to Sans Souci, looking forward to taking off her beard. But before she’d reined her pony cart to a stop, Lord Ingram already appeared in an open window, waving a cable in his hand.