Page 47 of The Vanished Sister

Until now.

She still greeted him fondly and asked after his wife and daughter. And when he recounted the latest antics from his little Violet, whose arrival two years ago had been an ecstatic surprise, she’d laughed and clapped with delight. So it was not that her joie de vivre had diminished, but rather that she’d been thrown out to sea by her sister’s action.

The part of Shropshire from which Mrs. Whitehill hailed had been labeled Little Switzerland on account of its proximity to the valleys and scarps of the Long Mynd, which straddled Wales and West Midlands. The Swiss would likely laugh at the green lumps that the English considered Matterhorn-esque, but viewed from the plains, they were imposing enough.

And beautiful just now, with their stony slopes covered in purple heather.

The village of Boxton-on-Mure would have been pretty even without this dramatic backdrop. It boasted woods and pastures, well-maintained houses peeking out from behind beech and hawthorn hedges, and a stone bridge that spanned a tranquil little stream, with a white church spire rising in the distance.

“Nice place,” said Treadles.

“I concur,” answered Miss Holmes, possibly to save Mrs. Watson the trouble of having to do so.

They’d last seen each other in April, when Treadles had brought a colleague to consult with Sherlock Holmes. In recent years, Sherlock Holmes had developed the habit of spending May, June, and most of July abroad. When the great consulting detective took up residence in London again in autumn, Treadles usually made a formal call to 18 Upper Baker Street, to welcome her back and to exchange the latest news.

So this was a little earlier than he’d expected for their reunion. But of course he’d help with a case that involved both Mrs. Watson and MacDonald, even if it meant time away from Alice and Violet.

“This might be the last time we work on a case with you as Inspector Treadles, I understand,” said Miss Holmes as they neared their destination.

Treadles raised a brow—he himself had just learned that he would become Chief Inspector Treadles by the beginning of next year and he’d told only Alice, no one else. Ah, of course, he forgot that Miss Holmes was now friends with retired Chief Inspector Talbot, who still had a great many admirers inside Scotland Yard.

“Thanks in no small part to Sherlock Holmes,” he said.

“Sherlock Holmes is Sherlock Holmes thanks in no small part to you,” she replied.

This was a surprising statement. He glanced at Mrs. Watson for her reaction but she seemed to have heard nothing, staring out at the village green with its small duck pond.

“If that’s the case, then I’m glad to have made my minor contribution,” he answered.

Mrs. Watson still showed no reaction. She only stirred when their hired carriage stopped in front of a handsome villa with pink granite walls and dark slate roof tiles.

“Very fine place,” she murmured as Treadles helped her down.

That, too, was Treadles’s first impression. Mrs. Whitehill was a wealthier woman than he’d anticipated.

The door of the villa, on which they had yet to knock, was opened from inside by a woman of about forty-five in a black dress and a long white apron, her entire face so red and puffy that her eyes were nearly invisible.

“Mrs. Hawthorn?” asked Treadles. “Inspector Treadles of Scotland Yard. I have with me Miss Holmes and Mrs. Watson, here on behalf of Sherlock Holmes.”

“Do please come in,” croaked Mrs. Hawthorn, Mrs. Whitehill’s housekeeper.

In the entry a sizable portrait of a woman gazed down at the viewer. She had large, slightly bulbous eyes, a long nose, and wide, thin lips. Yet she was far more attractive than those descriptors would suggest. The artist captured the hint of a smile and a light in her eyes, as if she were about to step off the canvas and offer a convivial handshake to each guest.

“This is the best picture we have of Mrs. Whitehill, but still it didn’t come close to her in real life. She was so lovely to look upon. And to think what happened to her face—” Mrs. Hawthorn gulped. “This way, please.”

She guided them into a drawing room that was old-fashioned yet spry: The furniture probably hadn’t changed since the days of the Regent but the wallpaper, the carpet, and the upholstery were all William Morris, perfectly of the moment.

The windows and mirrors in the drawing room—and elsewhere in the house—had not been covered with crepe, as was the custom upon a death in the family. Mrs. Hawthorn, who noticed the direction of Treadles’s gaze, said, “She hated everything about mourning, especially all that black crepe. So I thought…I thought I’d let her have a bit more light and brightness in her own home.”

Under normal circumstances, Mrs. Watson would have clasped the woman’s hands and reassured her that her late employer would have wanted precisely that. But here she only smiled wanly as she sat down in a corner, well behind the large, high-back canapé the housekeeper indicated for the guests. Once Miss Charlotte and Treadles took their seats, she’d be entirely invisible to them.

Mrs. Hawthorn, after pouring tea for everyone, perched on the edge of a plain high stool, as if to show whoever might be watching that she hadn’t taken the mistress’s place.

“Mrs. Whitehill read your brother’s story only a few months ago,” she said to Miss Holmes, “the one about the massacre in Utah. She was very taken with it. I never thought…”

She clenched her hands. Her throat worked.

“You have our condolences, Mrs. Hawthorn,” said Miss Holmes gravely. “It is always with great sorrow that we arrive in the wake of a tragedy. We cannot undo the tragedy, but we hope to find out what happened and to offer answers to those who need them.”