Page 50 of The Vanished Sister

“I’ve kept her rooms locked since I found the letter missing,” said Mrs. Hawthorn. “But I can’t tell you on which day it disappeared. Whoever took it left a blank envelope in its place, with the same paperweight on top.” She indicated a snow globe–sized mound of glass with a great many loops and swirls of color inside. “So it was only when I moved the paperweight to dust the nightstand that I realized the letter had been switched.”

“If it had been taken by burglary, how do you think the burglar got in?” asked Inspector Treadles.

The housekeeper’s already puffy red face turned a shade of scarlet. “We modernized our plumbing a while ago, but I’m afraid it’s never worked as advertised. The commode across the corridor”—she cleared her throat—“well, it tends to emit a bit of odor. I thought that I’d take advantage of Mrs. Whitehill’s absence and feed it plenty of lime and whatnot. And I left the window open because the weather was dry just then—”

“So the burglar could have simply climbed in?”

“I’m afraid so—we even had a ladder in the garden,” answered Mrs. Hawthorn, her voice rising with frustration. “But you must understand, Inspector, that we’ve never had to worry about break-ins in Boxton. I did lock all the doors and latch all the downstairs windows when Mrs. Whitehill was away, as I was alone in the house. But I never thought a window on an upper story, one that faced the rear garden, no less, would catch anyone’s attention.”

“Was anything else missing?”

Mrs. Hawthorn began to shake her head but stopped. She pointed at a shelf with various boxes of woven rattan and wood. “Those are the letters Mrs. Whitehill received in the past few years—older correspondences are either in her bedroom or in the attic. But the day after she left, when I came in to air out the room, I noticed that a red-lacquered box was missing. I’ve dusted it many times. It has carvings of shells and flowers, is about the size of my two hands put together, and eight inches deep.”

“You wouldn’t happen to know what was inside?”

This time Mrs. Hawthorn shook her head firmly. “The box was always locked.”

Inspector Treadles looked at her significantly. “At a moment like this, things that she’d kept to herself might prove exceptionally helpful.”

“I’ve never pried. People should have privacy—ladies especially,” said Mrs. Hawthorn, shaking her ring of keys in emphasis. The next moment, however, that hint of stubborn pride disappeared from her countenance and she looked completely lost. “Maybe I should have looked into her letters. Maybe that way I’d now have something useful to tell you, Inspector.”

Seeing that Mrs. Watson was at least interested in pictures of Mrs. Whitehill’s husbands, Treadles invited her to assist him with Mrs. Whitehill’s accounts and documents—Mrs. Watson’s expertise in that area had been put to terrific use in rooting out hidden problems with Cousins Manufacturing, his wife’s company.

Mrs. Watson hesitated briefly but agreed. With her help, he quickly established that Mrs. Whitehill’s affairs were in good order. She owned her house free and clear, as well as two other properties that generated a tidy income every year. In addition, she held the deed of a town house in Birmingham. And her various bank accounts held a combined sum that, while not jaw-dropping, was extremely respectable.

A well-dowered bride, if she’d had the chance to walk down the aisle a fourth time.

On the other side of the private parlor, Miss Holmes, who had scanned through several years of post from Mr. Broadfield to his mother, reported that his correspondence was formulaic to the point of interchangeability, except in two areas.

One, letters from two or three years ago assured his mother that he was diligently searching for a bride. But more recently, when he chose to answer her query on the subject, he had become less optimistic and bemoaned the lack of suitable ladies.

Two, apparently he lived in the Birmingham town house left to Mrs. Whitehill by her second husband. And apparently she must have admonished him from time to time to think of Reverend Rutherford with greater, well, reverence, for Mr. Broadfield replied in more than one letter, somewhat impatiently, that while he did appreciate his good fortune, Reverend Rutherford was long gone and it hardly mattered whether his stepson remembered him worshipfully or otherwise.

Treadles would still check the son’s movements carefully, but children who killed their parents for inheritance typically did not proceed to murder straightaway. Instead they made larger and larger demands for money, gifts, or other favors, until their parents’ frustration deteriorated into a discontent so great that disinheritance became not only an option but the preferred choice.

Between Mrs. Whitehill and her son, there was distance, but no record of unreasonable insistence, at least not on the son’s part. Though they did not have on hand the letters from mother to son, it was a near certainty that she exhorted him regularly to be more than what he was and that might be part of the reason he left home early and kept fifty miles between them.

After the investigators looked through Mrs. Whitehill’s papers, they examined the water closet, which smelled strongly of lime from the window having been closed since the moment Mrs. Hawthorn discovered the theft of Mrs. Whitehill’s note.

The rest of the day passed in a blur of information gathering from various sources.

First they spoke to Mrs. Whitehill’s neighbors, all of whom were dismayed by her death so far away, but none had anything useful for the investigation. Mrs. Whitehill was an exemplary lady, they agreed: helpful and generous of spirit. And her housekeeper was most respectable, too. They knew Mrs. Whitehill enjoyed traveling, but they could not fathom what had lured her to Devon.

As for the burglary that might have taken place, no one recalled any suspicious strangers—or even perfectly innocent ones, as this was the sort of place where any kind of outsider drew immediate and sustained attention.

Did they hear any carriages at night?

To this question, several people answered in the affirmative, but thought the carriage must have belonged to Dr. Shoemaker, who had been summoned to a late-night delivery in the recent past.

Treadles, Miss Holmes, and Mrs. Watson’s visit to Dr. Shoemaker caught the latter as he returned from calling on a patient—he’d been especially busy of late as the doctor several villages over retired but his replacement had yet to arrive. The delivery? Yes, indeed, he’d been gone half of the night, but thank goodness both mother and child had come through safely in the end.

Had he by any chance observed strange traffic in and out of the village on that night?

He had, come to think of it: On his way back, a mile out of Boxton, he’d encountered a rider who was leaving. Did he not think it odd? He did think it odd but the truth of the matter was, in the countryside one came across a great many eccentrics. More than once he’d returned from a late call somewhere and run into Squire Greeley on his way to a midnight séance. This time the séance must have taken place at Squire Greeley’s place and the rider was but an occult enthusiast leaving after communing with the spirits.

Treadles exchanged a look with Miss Holmes. They’d examined the grounds behind Mrs. Whitehill’s house and found marks left by a ladder beneath the window of the water closet. Some of the plants in the flower bed looked trampled, but there were no scuff marks left on either the outside or the inside windowsill, nor on the floor of the water closet, except one blade of grass that could have been stuck to the sole of the intruder—or deliberately placed there by Mrs. Hawthorn.

But with the physician’s tale of the midnight rider…