Page 55 of The Vanished Sister

Mrs. Wellesley turned around, a frown on her face. Recognition dawned across her features, but her frown did not disappear. She nodded. “Miss Holmes. You’re in London?”

Livia gave a breathless answer about how the Stanmore Newells, who lived sixty miles from Mrs. Newell’s dower house, had already gone home, their daughter in tow, but how Mrs. Newell and herself had chosen to remain in London for a few more days. Mrs. Wellesley listened with such loud disinterest that Livia had trouble asking her questions. “And you, I hope you’ve fared tolerably? Have you heard from Mrs. Carstairs, by some chance?”

“No, I have not, very much to my disappointment.”

“I hope she’s well, Mrs. Carstairs.”

“I doubt it,” said Mrs. Wellesley bluntly. “Noble House is all she has. Noble House is all she is. Not being the mistress of Noble House must be a torment to her, wherever she may be.”

She did not sound very sympathetic to her own mother, but then again, Mrs. Carstairs’s unexplained disappearance had put the entire family in an upheaval.

“Are you still searching for her?”

“Of course,” said Mrs. Wellesley, her tone clipped.

“If there is anything I can do to help—”

“Miss Holmes, I appreciate the sentiment. But the last time you tried to help, you exposed the content of a private conversation to the police, a conversation that had absolutely nothing to do with their investigation.”

Livia’s face flamed. Carriages rolled past as thunderously as locomotives. And every shopper on Regent Street seemed to turn around from display windows to gawk at her.

She’d never been a snitch—she’d never had anyone, besides Charlotte, to snitch to, and Charlotte often knew much more about what was going on than she did. And even this time she’d written Charlotte strictly in confidence and it had been Charlotte who’d brought up the overheard conversation to Inspector MacDonald while they questioned Mrs. Wellesley.

“That said, you could do me a favor and I’ll consider the situation rectified,” continued Mrs. Wellesley, staring down at Livia.

“Favor?” Livia had only accosted her because she couldn’t not, when the opportunity presented itself. She had very faint hopes for a bit of information, and certainly not that Mrs. Wellesley would wish to involve her in anything. “What favor?”

“I left Devon in a great hurry—with only the clothes on my back, you might say. Which is why I have come to Regent Street to buy a few things.” Mrs. Wellesley waved her hand. The tall black plumes on her hat bobbed authoritatively. “Anyway, I wasn’t thinking clearly on that day. I had him right there, Sherlock Holmes’s brother, and I failed to make use of him. But I believe you’re acquainted with Lord Ingram?”

“Yes?”

“And he is good friends with Sherlock Holmes.”

“That is so.”

“Can you ask him to obtain an appointment with Sherlock Holmes for me?”

Once Livia, still half-dazed, had taken down the woman’s address, Mrs. Wellesley nodded and left with military speed, heedless of the attention she attracted from both men and women.

“I can’t tell whether you’re pleased or not with what transpired,” said Stephen, who had by now crossed the street.

“I can’t tell either.” Livia sighed and linked her arm with his. “Let’s cable Charlotte first. Then we’ll browse for fabric.”

Eighteen

Usually it was Mrs. Watson who reminded Miss Charlotte not to recline too much, especially after hours in trains and carriages. This time, upon returning to Shropshire and reaching their lodging in Ludlow, Miss Charlotte urged Mrs. Watson to stand up and stretch for a few minutes, lest her lower back bother her later on.

They each took one edge of the bed frame and bent forward at the hip—the athletic stays these days were much more forgiving of movement than whalebone corsets of old. Staring at the floral swirls on the rug at the foot of the bed, Mrs. Watson heard herself ask, “Miss Charlotte, do you ever think about your eldest sister?”

There were four Holmes girls: Henrietta, Bernadine, Olivia, and Charlotte. Miss Charlotte and Miss Olivia had always been close. They looked after Miss Bernadine, who could not speak or take care of herself, with kid gloves. But Mrs. Watson had never met Mrs. Cumberland, the only married woman of the four.

“Henrietta?” came Miss Charlotte’s voice on the other side of the bed. “I remember her from time to time. Can’t say I really think about her.”

“Why not?”

For better or for worse, for the longest time Mrs. Watson had thought about her sister every day. In the beginning, when it had seemed that London might swallow her whole rather than be the conduit of her dreams, Justina’s warning had rung in her head with the regularity of the bells of St. Clement’s. When her luck had improved and her life had acquired a sheen of fun and glamour, she’d thought of Justina with a feeling of superior sympathy: that poor woman, stuck forever in Lincolnshire, enduring a monotonous existence with her boring vicar husband.

Then one day she’d learned that Justina had become the mistress of Noble House, a demesne grand enough for any ducal estate. And every single decision she’d ever made in her life, it seemed, must now be refracted through the lens of Justina’s success. Had Mrs. Watson paid too highly and given up too much to be where she was? She had, hadn’t she?