Page 62 of The Vanished Sister

Time, however, had ways of answering questions better than any prophets. And time had informed Charlotte that she, at least, had plenty of stamina and enthusiasm left for this arrangement of theirs.

The problem was that there were too few examples to follow. They were not each stuck in a marriage of their own, nor did she depend on his support. When Charlotte had been younger, she’d studied marriage with a scientific vigor. But now what should she study?

“Lucinda and Carlisle are happy that they may stay longer with their cousins, although they probably would have been happier if I also remained with them.” He smiled briefly. “In a few more years they would wish me to melt into the background and stop bothering them.”

“Lucinda, maybe. Carlisle, not for a while yet.”

“And that might prove a problem in and of itself, a boy who’s reluctant to go out into the world.” He looked up. “Children, there’s no end of things that can go wrong.”

“Can, not necessarily will,” she murmured.

Was she talking about the two of them also?

Before he could reply, she heard the sound of a key turning in the front door. “I guess Mrs. Watson has joined us,” said Charlotte to her lover. “She will be happy to see you.”

Charlotte made sure to explain, when Emaline Carstairs arrived in the parlor of number 18, that Sherlock Homes and his loyal caretaker were to be found behind the door to the bedroom—it seemed only right to let the woman know that besides herself and Inspector Treadles, her words would be heard by two other people.

Emaline Carstairs, pale, drawn, only nodded. Then, after she accepted a cup of tea from Charlotte, she said, “Thank you for your discretion.”

At the Carstairs town house she might be overheard by her in-laws or their loyal servants. An interview at 18 Upper Baker Street better preserved her privacy.

“But of course,” replied Charlotte.

Inspector Treadles chose to sit to the side and some distance away, deferring to Charlotte’s position as the hostess of the venue, but also probably out of a belief that a woman was more likely to confide in another woman. Charlotte did not believe that to always hold true. When that other woman was Mrs. Watson, perhaps. She herself did not inspire gushing disclosures.

But she was at least as good at applying pressure as a Scotland Yard detective.

Emaline Carstairs wore a visiting gown of dull grey, her hair pulled back so tight her pale blue eyes appeared slightly elongated. Her hands rested heavily against an unadorned reticule in her lap. Was there a telegram from Mr. Broadfield inside, warning her of their exposure? As for Mr. Broadfield himself, he had borrowed Squire Greeley’s horse the previous afternoon to take him to a village ten miles away that had a faster train service out of Shropshire.

Emaline Carstairs’s boots had mud spots at the toes. The rain in London had stopped overnight. It would not be unreasonable to suppose that she had visited Mr. Broadfield at his hotel last night, when the pavements were still wet and bespattered—and returned too late for either herself or her maid to clean the boots.

Perceiving the direction of Charlotte’s glance, Emaline Carstairs drew her feet behind the circumference of her skirts. And then she realized what she’d done and grimaced.

“We asked to speak with you, Mrs. Carstairs,” Charlotte began slowly, “because Mr. Chester Broadfield refuses to cooperate fully with the police. He has admitted to being in Combe Martin earlier in August. But as for the rest, if he continues to withhold information, the police will have no choice but to believe that he has something significant to hide.

“To a judge or a jury, his silence could appear even more damning. I believe both you and your husband have come to regret your marriage?”

Emaline Carstairs glanced down. Her gloves were tight-fitting; missing was the outline of a wedding ring on her left hand. “You could say that.”

“With both spouses in agreement and no children to think of, there are remedies.” It would require the Reginald Carstairses to lie through their teeth but an annulment was not out of the question. “In which case, the greatest obstacle that stands between Mr. Broadfield and the happiness that he desperately wants is not your current status as a married woman but his mother, who most likely would have opposed his marriage to you with every fiber of her being, going so far as to disown him.”

Emaline Carstairs touched the spot where her wedding ring should have been. “The income my parents settled on me supports a single woman comfortably. But stretching that per annum to provide for a growing family will become an increasingly harrowing proposition.”

In the silence that followed, Inspector Treadles flipped a page in the notebook in which he was recording the interview. Emaline Carstairs glanced sharply in his direction, as if she’d forgotten that there was someone else in the parlor.

Charlotte turned the screw tighter. “You can see how easily a jury would be persuaded of Mr. Broadfield’s motive. Additionally, though he refused to say anything, we know a great deal of Mr. Broadfield’s movements, almost to the minute when he arrived at and departed from High Burrow the night before your mother-in-law was found missing. We also know that on the day itself, you were at the Red Schooner, and not shopping in Ilfracombe, as you’d told your husband.”

Emaline Carstairs flushed scarlet. She picked up her tea, perhaps hoping to buy herself a moment to think. But her hand trembled and the teacup rattled against the saucer.

“Some whisky?” Charlotte offered. “We also have brandy and bitters.

Emaline Carstairs set aside her teacup and buried her face in her hands. She looked lost and defenseless. Charlotte picked up a ratafia biscuit. It was fresh, soft, and chewy—very much as she remembered from Eastleigh Park. Inspector Treadles helped himself to a coconut biscuit—he, like her, was not so easily moved by the sight of a pretty young woman in distress in the middle of an interrogation.

“Are we—are we doomed?” mumbled Emaline Carstairs from behind her hands.

“Hardly,” said Charlotte. “Unless you, too, choose silence.”

Emaline Carstairs panted, her shoulders heaving. Inspector Treadles, his coconut biscuit only half eaten, watched her carefully. Charlotte broke a second ratafia biscuit in two and took a bite.