Page 59 of The Vanished Sister

Outside the inn, a stiff breeze blew—the morning was chilly and the day promised rain. But for now, the clouds rolling in had yet to obscure the entire sky, and a few rays of morning sun illuminated the village green.

The investigators were taking a constitutional after breakfast. Everyone was quiet. Inspector Treadles seemed to be in a state of professional introspection. Miss Charlotte’s silence was a deeper, calmer hush, nothing like Mrs. Watson’s wordless frustration, a great relief—thank God that hadn’t been Justina and Everett—mixed with just as great a disheartenment that they couldn’t seem to find out anything about anything.

After two more rounds around the green, when Mrs. Watson was sure she’d memorized the storefront of every place that sold Little Switzerland souvenirs, she finally asked, “Young people, may I know the direction of your thoughts?”

“Oh,” said Miss Charlotte, “I was simply listening to the further collapse of elegant theories.”

Treadles gave a bark of laughter. “We’ve come to a fine cul-de-sac, haven’t we?”

Mrs. Watson groaned in accord.

“I’ve always thought of cul-de-sacs as very fine things,” commented Miss Charlotte. “They tell you unequivocally that you’ve reached the end of a particular path, far better than trails that meander on to nowhere.”

“But what do we do now?” asked Mrs. Watson, unable to help her impatience.

“We are builders of elegant theories, are we not?” Miss Charlotte pointed the tip of her slender umbrella south of the village green. “I see that the post office has opened its door. I propose, Inspector, that we cable Inspector MacDonald and ask him to look into the whereabouts of Mr. Chester Broadfield, the grieving son, around the time of Mrs. Whitehill’s death and Mrs. Carstairs’s disappearance.”

Nineteen

Mrs. Watson should not be astonished. They’d investigated enough cases, hell, she’d lived long enough to know that for some people, self-interest truly came before anything else. And for such people, a well-off mother could inspire plenty of impatience.

But she’d skimmed through Mr. Broadfield’s letters and hadn’t sensed anything that would translate into murderous action toward his mother in mere weeks.

“What makes you suspect him?” asked Inspector Treadles.

“Other than that he is the greatest beneficiary of her death, I would not have suspected him above anyone else,” answered Miss Charlotte. “However, I had the opportunity to observe him closely in Ilfracombe, when he came to identify his mother and I saw smears of clay around the rim of his boots and tiny dried bits of mauve florets on the cuffs of his trousers—even on his sleeves.”

“Heather?” exclaimed Mrs. Watson. The moors around Combe Martin had been awash in heather. And the soil around the area more often than not featured clay in the top layer.

Miss Charlotte pulled Mrs. Watson out of the way of a lamppost she hadn’t seen, because she’d been looking so intently at the young woman. “Heather by itself was not enough to place him in Devon, let alone near High Burrow—we’ve seen plenty of heather here in Shropshire. But that his shoes and clothes hadn’t been properly cleaned caught my attention—as if he’d just reached Birmingham and immediately left again, without even unpacking his luggage.

“Curiously enough, Dawkins, Mrs. Carstairs’s maid, who’d also been at the police station that day, wondered where she’d come across him recently. She’d visited the Lake District before going to Devon and thought perhaps she’d seen him on a railway platform along the way. But what if she’d seen him not in some faraway station but in Barnstaple or Ilfracombe?”

Inspector Treadles hooked the handle of his walking stick on his arm and opened the post office’s door for the ladies. “Mr. Broadfield is due back in Boxton today, isn’t he, to make funeral arrangements?”

“Correct,” said Miss Charlotte.

They’d been in daily communication with Inspector MacDonald, who had made sure to convey all the developments.

“Then let’s direct Inspector MacDonald to send his replies to Boxton,” suggested Inspector Treadles. “It’s time I spoke to Mr. Broadfield.”

Inspector MacDonald’s reply, when it came, said, A man, description matching Broadfield’s, lodged at the Red Schooner in Combe Martin August 6-9.

“I am enjoying the silence of an elegant theory that remains standing after it’s been put to the test,” murmured Inspector Treadles in Mrs. Whitehill’s drawing room, its windows and mirrors darkened by expanses of black crepe this time around.

“I shall indulge in a celebratory biscuit or two when the tea tray arrives,” said Miss Charlotte dryly.

Mrs. Watson, however, felt bleak. She had no way of knowing whether in life Mrs. Whitehill would have approved of a woman like her, but she liked Mrs. Whitehill. A lot. And she would feel personally injured if her son had had something to do with her death.

A slightly pudgy man of around twenty-eight entered the drawing room. He was tall but stood with the hunch of a man who had been self-conscious of his height in youth and never corrected his posture. His eyes were shadowed with fatigue. On his sleeve he wore a black crepe mourning band.

Treadles introduced himself and the ladies.

“I’m not sure whether you’d remember him,” said Miss Charlotte, “but my brother Sherrinford assisted Inspector MacDonald in Ilfracombe.”

Mr. Broadfield frowned. “I’ve a vague memory of someone telling me to breathe slowly—that must have been him.”

On closer inspection he was actually classically handsome, but his demeanor was awkward, that of a proud man who wasn’t entirely sure what reason he had to be proud. In a room full of people, Mrs. Watson could see Mr. Broadfield as the one sitting by himself in a corner.