Page 57 of The Vanished Sister

“He used to organize games of cricket with members of his congregation every Sunday afternoon. I’d been to a few of those. He was an athletic marvel, Reverend Rutherford, poetry in motion.

“And Reverend Whitehill gave beautiful sermons that held a congregation spellbound. Not to mention he was an accomplished painter. You must have seen the portraits he did of dear Amadea? While they were married he painted her every year. And he’d pursued her most ardently, too. She had not wished to marry another clergyman, especially not one ten years younger than her, but he wore her down.”

“I love a story in which love conquers all,” said Miss Charlotte, with the sort of deep conviction she’d probably never felt about romantic love.

Mrs. Watson, on the other hand, was beginning to develop a slight case of hero worship for Mrs. Whitehill, Aphrodite’s favorite.

“Oh, dear Amadea was extremely fortunate in love,” confirmed Mrs. Morgan, with no less awe than Mrs. Watson felt.

Inspector Treadles immediately exploited that opening. “Do you think there was any chance, Mrs. Morgan, that she might have met someone when she came for the congress of Christian women?”

Mrs. Morgan sat up straighter. “She didn’t say anything—never been the confiding kind, Amadea—but she did change her plans on me rather abruptly. She arrived in Ludlow Tuesday evening and was going to stay until Saturday, the day after the congress ended, and spend all four nights here, in my house. But halfway through her stay, she told me that she’d changed her mind and would head home a day early.”

“Did she?”

“She certainly left here on the last day of the congress.”

Yet she was very much still in Ludlow the day after the congress, when Mr. Gregory met her on the stone bridge outside his hotel.

“How did she look as she bade you good-bye?” Inspector Treadles wanted to know.

“Rather cheered up, I’d say. She was a bit distracted when she first arrived. Tense, even fretful. But in a much more anticipatory mood when she left.”

Anticipatory. Mrs. Hawthorn had made a similar assessment.

“Did she say what was bothering her when she first arrived?”

“She said that she was upset about our friend Mrs. Osmond’s passing.” Mrs. Morgan cocked her head. “But we both knew Mrs. Osmond wasn’t long for this world. So it probably wasn’t about Mrs. Osmond—or at least not only about Mrs. Osmond.”

At the end of the call, as they stood up to leave, Miss Charlotte asked, “Mrs. Morgan, given that Ludlow isn’t far from Boxton-on-Mure, did you and Mrs. Whitehill see each other often?”

“Oh, every fortnight or so. My Amadea couldn’t sit still. She came to Ludlow at least once a week.” Mrs. Morgan patted her legs, covered by a thick blanket. “If I weren’t so arthritic I’d have seen her more often—we’d have gone around the shops all the time. But I haven’t been able to walk much in the last few years so she called on me every other time she was in town.

“She went to Shrewsbury a few times a month, too. It was a shame that her husbands all died early. She could have done with a bit more companionship.”

Mrs. Watson walked across the bridge upon which Mrs. Whitehill had spoken to Mr. Gregory. She’d expected something…daintier, not this bulky stone structure with solid parapets. Perhaps in the light of the day, with the tree-lined banks of the river visible and the ramparts of Ludlow Castle in the distance, it might acquire a more romantic air. But at night it was plainly medieval.

Still, she felt something of Mrs. Whitehill’s excitement and that sent chills down her spine.

The Old Inn at the Bridge, where the Gregorys had stayed in Ludlow, had boxes of geraniums upon every windowsill, gingham tablecloths in its dining room, and cheerful chintz curtains of strawberries on the vine, an establishment that appealed to travelers who liked the feeling of home—except prettier and with better food—and were willing to pay for it.

It was nearly nine o’clock but Mrs. Brownstone, the plump white-haired innkeeper, was going over accounts at the small reception. She immediately recognized that the three people who walked in were not looking for lodging, but nevertheless greeted them in a friendly and interested manner.

“Ladies, sir, what can I do for you?”

At the sound of Mrs. Brownstone’s inquiry, a woman a few years younger and a few stones lighter came out of a door behind the reception. Sisters, by the similarity of their features. Mrs. Watson felt a sudden pang. In a different life, would this have been Justina and herself, a pair of elderly innkeepers?

Inspector Treadles briefly stated their business and showed the women a photograph of Mrs. Whitehill. The two women held the photograph between them, both frowning.

“We did not have anyone by the name of Mrs. Whitehill register as a guest,” said the latecomer.

Inspector Treadles was not discouraged. “What about Mrs. Rutherford or Mrs. Broadfield?”

The two women shook their heads in unison.

“Miss Fairfax? Miss Amadea Fairfax?”

Fairfax had been Mrs. Whitehill’s maiden name.