Page 70 of The Vanished Sister

Had she removed that evidence from her house in the expectation that otherwise it might come to public attention?

In light of the theft of the note to her son, it would seem that she had been justified in her prudence.

Yet she’d forgotten to take a similar precaution when it came to her life.

The reading of Mrs. Whitehill’s will produced no surprises, at least not for the investigators, who had already reviewed it in her solicitor’s office. Mrs. Hawthorn, however, was moved to tears. She no longer needed to work for anyone and could go on as many holidays as her heart desired.

On his way out, Mr. Grantham, the solicitor, handed a sealed letter to Mr. Broadfield, the one that had been in his keeping for five years and which he’d refused to let Inspector Treadles read without a warrant. Broadfield, alone in the study with Miss Holmes, Mrs. Watson, and Treadles, did not immediately open the envelope.

“I am almost certain, Inspector, ladies, that the content of this letter has nothing to do with your case.”

“I’m sure you’re right, Mr. Broadfield,” said Treadles. “Nevertheless, we cannot in good conscience overlook anything.”

Broadfield, standing by the side of the study’s desk, gritted his teeth and slid a letter knife under the flap of the envelope, leaving the monogrammed wax seal undisturbed. He took out a piece of paper, unfolded it, and squinted before he began reading. No, not squinting. He half closed his eyes, as if he were about to survey a gory crime scene and didn’t want its full details imprinted on his mind.

As he skimmed the letter, his head turned, his hands stretched farther and farther away. At the end of a quick scan, his face screwed, his eyes almost shut, he read it again.

“As I thought, it has no bearing at all on my mother’s death.”

Treadles held his hand out. Broadfield, who understood the suspicion he was still under, surrendered the letter, his entire person now turned away from it.

Treadles, scanning the page, became glad that Broadfield was not looking at him. He managed not to make any sounds, but his features might have moved around freely from sheer astonishment.

Almost before he’d finished reading, Broadfield already had his hand stretched out again. Treadles hesitated a moment and acceded.

Miss Holmes did not react. Mrs. Watson glanced at the letter Broadfield snatched back and chose to look down. Treadles was thankful that neither asked any questions; Broadfield might die of mortification even if nobody said anything.

Mrs. Whitehill of five years ago informed her son that Reverend Broadfield, whom he and the world believed to be his father, had in fact not sired him. A few years into their marriage, Reverend Broadfield had suffered an unfortunate injury. Knowing how much his wife wished for a child, he reached out to his good friend Reverend Rutherford for aid.

Mrs. Whitehill then proceeded to berate her son for always rebuffing Reverend Rutherford’s efforts to build closer ties between father and son. He died saddened that you always treated him as a stranger.

“I don’t know why she thought I didn’t know,” Broadfield cried out suddenly. “Heavens above, how could I not know when I was the spitting image of him, especially when I was younger. I never dared to bring friends home, for fear they’d ask why I looked not like my father but my stepfather. I was embarrassed whenever I had to stand next to him.”

He covered his face with his hands. “But this injury of my father’s—that I had no idea. I always thought she and Rutherford had an affair and pulled the wool over my poor old dad’s eyes. I wish she’d told me the truth instead of just hinting over the years.”

Silence.

Broadfield braced a hand at the edge of the desk and pushed back his hair with the other. Without quite looking at any of the three other people in the study, he said, “I was afraid it was going to be about this, her letter. But do you believe me now, Inspector? Do you believe me that this has nothing to do with her death?”

Twenty-Three

The night’s lodging for the investigators was the Old Inn at the Bridge, where Miss and Mr. Gregory had stayed, as well as Mrs. Whitehill on her last evening in Ludlow: Miss Charlotte wanted to ask the innkeepers a few more questions.

At eight in the evening, Mr. Arbuthnot arrived with a large satchel—that which Mrs. Whitehill had entrusted to him. When they learned that he, too, had taken a room at the inn for the night and was therefore in no hurry to go back home, a village ten miles in the other direction of Ludlow, they invited him to sit down and join them for supper. Over the inn’s cold cuts and greengage tart, he asked about Mrs. Whitehill’s final days. They did their best to answer, without saying in so many words that she might have gone to the Devon coast with romantic hopes in her heart.

But Mrs. Watson wondered whether Mr. Arbuthnot hadn’t guessed the truth.

After dinner, they retired to the private parlor of the suite the ladies had taken. Mr. Arbuthnot proffered the satchel he’d brought. His fingers tightened on the handle just before he allowed Inspector Treadles to take it from him. And then he exhaled audibly. Mrs. Watson hoped that what he felt was a burden lifted, and not another pang in his heart.

As Inspector Treadles unbuckled the satchel and extracted the carved and red-lacquered box from inside, Mr. Arbuthnot’s lips trembled just perceptibly. “Inspector, is it—is it possible for the content of the letters—mine and those other gentlemen’s—not to be made public?”

Inspector Treadles met his beseeching gaze and answered solemnly, “Unless they contain information relevant to Mrs. Whitehill’s death, in my report I would only describe them as ‘correspondence of a private nature, unhelpful to the investigation at hand.’ ”

Mr. Arbuthnot nodded wanly and rose. “In that case, I will leave you to your professional duties.”

Mrs. Watson was tempted to intercept him in the passageway and say something consoling. But in the end she didn’t. The pain of not having been chosen by one’s beloved—no words from strangers could soothe that, however kindly meant. Mr. Arbuthnot would hurt until the day his devastation muted into a dull ache that merged with all the other sorrows and disillusionments of his life.

After his departure, Miss Charlotte, Inspector Treadles, and Mrs. Watson took the three bundles of letters from the box and read them in turn. The correspondence covered a wide range of topics, but offered no clues that could be considered useful—or even germane—to their investigation.