Page 69 of The Vanished Sister

Mrs. Watson gripped Inspector Treadles by the elbow.

“Her housekeeper believes that a box has gone missing from her correspondence shelf.”

They rounded a large yew tree near a corner of the cemetery before Mr. Arbuthnot said, “She did give me a satchel and said that she would like to have it back at a future date.”

Inspector Treadles and Mrs. Watson exhaled in unison.

“Did you inquire as to what was inside?” asked Miss Charlotte, whose voice remained even and friendly, betraying no hint of escalating excitement.

“I did. But she said she’d rather not divulge it at the time.”

“How did she look when she said that?”

“Very grave. She was serious and subdued during that entire meeting. I was worried afterwards that she might have been given a terrible diagnosis.”

“Did you open the satchel after you learned of her death?”

Another long silence. “Not immediately. She never did say what I was to do in case the worst happened. At first I thought I should give the satchel to her lawyers—or her son directly. But the more I thought about it, the more I hesitated. If she’d wanted her lawyers—or her son—to have it, wouldn’t she have entrusted it to them directly?

“Yesterday, faced with the prospect of her funeral, I decided that I’d best take a look before I made my decision.”

They were approaching the other end of the cemetery. A flock of sparrows took flight at their approach, rising from a half-leaning headstone to the wrought iron fences that enclosed the churchyard.

“When I unbuckled the satchel, I found a box inside.”

“Red-lacquered with carvings of shells and flowers?”

“Yes. It was locked but I had a locksmith come to open it for me. Later, in private, I looked inside and found, at the top of the pile, all the letters I’d ever written her.”

“Oh,” murmured Miss Charlotte. “And beneath them?”

At this Mr. Arbuthnot let out a long breath that sounded like a groan. “Beneath them I found letters from a gentleman who resides outside Shrewsbury. And beneath those, letters from a physician who specialized in parasitic diseases writing from Panama, where he’s been looking after the men excavating the canal.

“I see.”

Miss Charlotte’s tone was exceptionally neutral. Indeed, few people could react as little as she did in situations like this. But Mr. Arbuthnot, after opening and closing his left hand a few times, burst out, “Please do not form any adverse opinions of Mrs. Whitehill because of what I’ve just said. Her conduct had always been extremely decorous. And judging by the tone of the letters I’d read from the other gentlemen—one apiece—they were also highly solicitous and respectful.

“It was just that—I hadn’t anticipated the existence of these other gentlemen,” he added, defeated. “I’d hoped that I was more special to her than I was.”

“But Mrs. Whitehill trusted you enough to hold all the letters for her.”

Mr. Arbuthnot grimaced, the entire side of his face corrugating. “I suppose there was that. But now I’d rather she’d given them to someone else.”

Miss Charlotte nodded in grave sympathy. Then she glanced back at Inspector Treadles, who immediately understood the role he was to play as the official representative of Scotland Yard in this party.

“Mr. Arbuthnot, I very much wish I did not need to make this request, especially not now. But we shall need to examine the contents of the box, even if it’s only for form’s sake.”

Mr. Arbuthnot turned around, a rueful half smile on his face. “I was afraid of that from the moment Miss Holmes here introduced you, sir. At least I’d written nothing that I need to be ashamed of. I’m only mortified that I’d thought too highly of my place in Mrs. Whitehill’s heart.”

Now that Mr. Arbuthnot had given his assent, Charlotte arranged to meet with him again for the handover of the letters. Afterward they left him to wander around the cemetery in peace and made their way to the village inn.

The substantial crowd of mourners from the funeral had disappeared, back to their houses, away to the interment, or perhaps waiting at nearby railway stations to start their return journey. The village green felt unusually empty, melancholic even, trying to hold on to the last vestige of summer even as clouds closed in and the day threatened to end in rain.

“I assume, Miss Holmes,” said Inspector Treadles, “that you find it as significant as I do that Mrs. Whitehill got those rather personal letters out of her house before she ever laid eyes on the ravishing Mr. Gregory?”

“ ‘Rather personal?’ ” mused Miss Charlotte. “Do you mean potentially scandalous?”

Mrs. Watson started. Of course. Mr. Arbuthnot had defended Mrs. Whitehill staunchly; others, however, might view her handling of multiple suitors, especially at her age, in a much less charitable light.