Page 72 of The Vanished Sister

“We have met the husband and wife, who were as you described, less than handsome but greatly amiable.”

And not even tangentially involved in Mrs. Whitehill’s death.

“Perhaps we might have spared ourselves the trip to Church Stretton,” continued Miss Charlotte, “had we remembered to ask you whether the couple had registered here before or after Mrs. Whitehill.”

“Oh, they all came after Mrs. Whitehill that day,” said Tilly Brownstone, sweeping her hand in an arc before her person in a gesture of absolute certainty. “Mrs. Whitehill arrived before luncheon, took her meal in the dining room, and then sat with a tea tray and a book until a room could be made ready for her.”

Mrs. Watson remembered how Lady Holmes, Miss Charlotte and Miss Olivia’s mother, had instantly fallen under Mr. Gregory’s spell aboard the RMS Provence, even before the latter had had time to say hello.

“In that case,” said Miss Holmes, “let me ask about when the mother and daughter and the elderly gent made their reservations with you. Or did they simply walk in on the day of and ask after availabilities?”

“The mother and daughter wrote for a reservation at least a fortnight ahead of time. The old gentleman walked in much as Mrs. Whitehill had.”

Mrs. Watson tensed.

“Did he give a reason for wanting to decamp to the Old Inn at the Bridge?” continued Miss Charlotte. “Not that he needed a particular reason, now that we’ve experienced your gracious hospitality ourselves.”

Tilly Brownstone beamed at the compliment. “Why, thank you, miss. We’re very proud of our little establishment, my sister and I. We saved for twenty-three years to buy the place and it was a dilapidated heap. Nearly ruined our backs making the inn sound and beautiful. And the work never ends. But still, it’s our dream come true.”

This was much too close to the trajectory Justina had envisioned. Mrs. Watson couldn’t imagine her life without the maharani or her Dr. Watson, she couldn’t imagine it without the adventures with Miss Charlotte, and she certainly couldn’t imagine it without her brilliant, perfect Penelope. But for a moment, she could imagine herself as Tilly Brownstone, standing in a parlor with cheerful curtains of birds and palm fronds, talking to interesting guests from afar.

She could imagine herself recounting the conversation to her sister, while they performed boring yet essential tasks. She could even imagine herself wiping down the front door, then standing back to admire the painted sign over the lintel, The Old Inn at the Bridge, est. 1791.

And then she could imagine Justina sticking her head out of the door and telling her to quit her woolgathering because she was needed inside. And she’d groan and perhaps nag Justina a bit in return, but she wouldn’t really have minded because while young Joanna Redmayne hadn’t known this about herself, middle-aged Mrs. Watson liked—needed—to be needed.

It would have been a different kind of happiness, to know that she was indispensable to someone every day of her life.

She swallowed the lump in her throat.

“But I digressed, didn’t I?” Tilly chortled. It was really a cackle, straightforward and good-natured. “You wanted to know about the old gent and here I was going on about the Old Inn instead. Now, the old gent. He simply walked in and said that the victuals where he was staying weren’t up to par and he’d heard we served a good supper. We were of course happy for him to come and taste our cooking for himself.”

“He made his inquiry after Mrs. Whitehill had made hers?”

“Yes, he did. They both made their inquiries that Thursday, in fact. She came in the morning, hoping for a room that same afternoon. But we were fully booked that night, which was why we could only promise her a room on Friday. The old gent must have come around teatime, I should think. And of course he got the same answer she did.”

Mrs. Watson was tense again. No, more than tense. She was unaccountably nervous.

“This old gentleman, what was he like?” asked Miss Charlotte, whose own nerves were probably coated in titanium carbide. “And how old did you estimate him to be?”

“Seventy if he was a day—he stooped over and shuffled along. But he was of good humor and no trouble at all. In fact, we didn’t see much of him.” Tilly stopped and scratched her left sleeve. “Come to think of it, I can only remember him being in the dining room for supper that first night, and maybe breakfast the next morning. But he was very complimentary of our food when he came to return the key and said our bread was particularly toothsome.”

“I agree wholeheartedly with that assessment,” said Miss Charlotte. “Now, if I recall correctly, the previous time we spoke, you said that you did not see any guests talking to Mrs. Whitehill.”

“Indeed not. We were particularly busy those couple of days.”

“But did you see either the old gent or the mother and daughter speak to Miss or Mr. Gregory, who were also guests of yours during that time?”

Tilly Brownstone tittered rather girlishly. “Oh, them. A very handsome pair of siblings. We must give thanks that Mr. Gregory was the perfect gentleman. I dare say if he had a mind to lead anyone to sin, sin they would.”

The crown had truly put Mr. Gregory to the perfect use.

“Sorry, I digressed again, didn’t I?” said Tilly Brownstone, reddening slightly. “To your point, miss, I did see the old gent speak to Miss Gregory. They were seated at nearby tables at tea shortly after he arrived as a guest.”

“You wouldn’t happen to have overheard what they were saying to each other?”

Mrs. Watson leaned forward and held her breath.

“As far as I could tell, opera.” Tilly nodded. “Yes, opera. She was telling him about a performance at some fancy opera house in Paris, I believe. Of course I only approached their tables to serve them, not to chat, and didn’t hear much.”