Page 68 of The Vanished Sister

When even the gossip ladies doubted their memory, it was easy to imagine how quickly everyone else forgot the aberration. Like a stone falling into a pond, it caused a disturbance. But the agitation soon faded, leaving behind a mirror-smooth surface upon which no past ripples could be detected.

Inspector Treadles, professional investigator that he was, had wired an official inquiry to the Bermuda constabulary. “Bermuda is a small place. The officer there called on Lady Vardon himself. He wired back that she’s very much alive and well, if rather disturbed by the sudden visit from the police.”

Miss Charlotte took the news in stride. Mrs. Watson was disappointed that the line of inquiry led no further—and relieved for the same reason: She’d rather the foolish Lady Vardon be all right.

The service that followed was solemn and graceful. Mr. Broadfield, for all his nerves and an occasional stammer, gave a moving eulogy. Because he hadn’t wished for yet another stepfather—this got a robust laugh from the congregation—he’d opposed his mother’s sightseeing plans and had therefore missed a great deal of what had given her the most pleasure in her final years.

“I had no idea that those would be her final years—I was convinced that we had time. Time enough for me to find a wonderful wife who would serve as a liaison between us. Time enough for me to see her not just as my mother but as the woman beloved by everyone who had ever met her. Time enough for everything. But as it turned out, there was not enough time. There had never been.”

Mrs. Watson fought back tears. There was always enough time, unless one needed to seize an opportunity that had already disappeared.

But she had to pull herself together by the time the pallbearers carried the casket out of the church. Miss Charlotte had given very specific instructions to Mrs. Hawthorn, Mrs. Whitehill’s faithful housekeeper: After the service, she was to stand behind Mr. Broadfield and inspect those who shook hands with him for any gentlemen who were unfamiliar to her and who looked unusually sad, possibly devastated.

Those gentlemen she was to point out to Inspector Treadles. Charlotte and Mrs. Watson would station themselves a little farther away and scrutinize those mourners who chose to bypass the handshake line.

Mrs. Hawthorn singled out a gentleman of about sixty-five. Inspector Treadles learned, after a quick conversation, that the man, twice a widower, had maintained a regular correspondence with Mrs. Whitehill, exchanging a letter every fortnight or so for the past two years. He had been a member of Reverend Whitehill’s flock and had always admired her greatly. And a few years after his second wife passed away, he had dared to write to Mrs. Whitehill, also long widowed by then, in the hope of someday forming a tighter bond.

But no, Mrs. Whitehill had not called on him in the days immediately preceding her untimely passing. Three times she’d permitted him to take a round with her in the park when she came to Shrewsbury for other business, but the last time was in April of this year.

Soon the number of mourners dwindled. Not long after that, Mr. Broadfield departed for the interment. Even the vicar had returned to his vestry.

“Shall we take a look at the cemetery?” proposed Miss Charlotte.

The little cemetery behind the church had filled to capacity long ago—Mrs. Whitehill’s plot lay elsewhere—but a man treaded wearily between the headstones, looking lost.

“He was at the service,” said Miss Charlotte decisively, “standing near the door.”

She sidled up to him, a vision in her walking dress of black shantung silk, a black lace parasol held jauntily aloft.

“Sherlock Holmes?” the man mumbled after she introduced herself. “My goodness, I thought Sherlock Holmes was fictional. I mean, Mrs. Whitehill—”

Here his breath caught. “Mrs. Whitehill relished A Study in Scarlet. I hunted down a copy of the magazine with the next story and meant to make her a present of it next time we saw each other. But the next time never came.”

Mrs. Watson and Inspector Treadles had fallen in step a few feet behind Miss Charlotte and the man. They turned to each other in astonishment. Had they found the right man this time?

The man himself, oblivious to their excitement, shook his head. “What would she have thought, to have Sherlock Holmes himself looking into her death?”

“We shall never know what she would have made of the situation but speaking for myself, the more I learn about her, the more I regret her abrupt departure,” said Miss Charlotte. “How long have you known her, Mister…”

“Arbuthnot—Wentwood Arbuthnot at your service, miss.” The man half bowed to Miss Charlotte. Not forgetting his manners, he also turned around and shook hands with Inspector Treadles and Mrs. Watson. He was in his late forties, tall and spindly, his thin face, with its slightly crooked features, framed by a shock of premature grey hair. “Mrs. Whitehill and I met last summer at a dinner party hosted by her friend Mrs. Morgan. I took it upon myself to write to her afterward, and she graciously returned my correspondence.”

Yet another suitor felled by the magnificent Mrs. Whitehill.

“Have you had other opportunities to meet with her in person?”

Four years in as Sherlock Holmes’s emissary, Miss Charlotte had become very good at conveying an interest that was professional but not clinical. And when she wished to, as she did now, her words carried with them a sympathetic understanding.

Mr. Arbuthnot knew that he was in the presence of a Scotland Yard investigator—they had not omitted Inspector Treadles’s title or place of employment—yet he spoke to Miss Charlotte as if they held a private conversation. “I had the honor of attending a lecture with Mrs. Whitehill in Ludlow. We also took a few walks along the River Teme. The last time we met, just before she participated in a congregation of Christian ladies, she allowed me the pleasure of sitting down to tea with her at a very fine tearoom on the high street.”

Miss Charlotte peered up at Mr. Arbuthnot. “So your last meeting was truly not too long ago then?”

“Which made it all the more shocking, the news of her abrupt passing,” he said heavily.

“Did she by any chance entrust a parcel or a bundle to you, Mr. Arbuthnot? Not a gift to be opened, but something to be held in your keeping?”

At this Mr. Arbuthnot’s wistful expression vanished. He glanced back at Inspector Treadles and Mrs. Watson and looked as if he suffered from a combination of a stomachache and a cardiac crisis.

“How did you guess?” he managed eventually.