Page 75 of The Vanished Sister

And then this wordy poet went on to enumerate every loving gesture he aspired to perform the next time they met—and the many and passionate responses he hoped to incite. Mrs. Watson hadn’t read a great deal of erotica but this uncomfortably sincere, strangely arousing, and vaguely hilarious feat of imagination had to rank at the very top.

Thank goodness for Miss Charlotte, who ate the rest of her biscuit and appeared thoroughly unmoved. And when no one spoke, she said to Inspector Treadles, “Inspector, I think it would be a good idea for us to ask a few more questions of Mr. Arbuthnot. Would you mind seeing whether he’s still up?”

Mr. Arbuthnot came almost immediately, having not yet changed out of his travel clothes. Nor did he look more relaxed after having spent some time in the privacy of his own chamber.

“Mr. Arbuthnot,” Miss Charlotte began without preamble, “we noticed that your letters to Mrs. Whitehill, except for the first one, were addressed not to her house in Boxton but to the post restante office in Ludlow.”

“That’s correct. She preferred to pick up my letters when she came into Ludlow.”

The staunch churchwoman understood human nature. She lived in a small village. Even if her admirers did not put their names on the backs of envelopes, so many letters in so many different masculine scripts might in and of itself cause tongues to wag.

Or maybe it wasn’t even that. Maybe Mrs. Whitehill simply didn’t want her housekeeper to know that she was keeping up with multiple admirers and still looking for her next great love.

“With regard to the letters she gave into your care,” continued Miss Charlotte, “you said that Mrs. Whitehill did not give you any instructions in person. But did she send anything via the post?”

Mr. Arbuthnot began to shake his head, then stopped. “Well, in the first week after she gave me the satchel, I came into Ludlow twice and called for letters each time at the post office. But there was nothing for me, at least not from her.

“After that I went to Cheshire to attend the wedding of a nephew. When I returned, I learned of her death. So I haven’t checked at the post office in at least seven or eight days.”

“Mr. Arbuthnot,” said Miss Charlotte solemnly. “We are much obliged to you for the help you’ve given to the investigation this day. Will you do us yet another favor? Will you call on the post office first thing tomorrow morning?”

Twenty-Four

Mr. Arbuthnot turned around from the post office window, a large envelope in hand. Very slowly, he walked to the corner where Miss Charlotte, Inspector Treadles, and Mrs. Watson stood waiting, and held it out.

“If there’s a personal note to you, perhaps you’d like to read it first?” suggested Inspector Treadles.

Mr. Arbuthnot nodded weakly and complied. Then, with a bittersweet smile, he handed the letter over, and Miss Charlotte and Mrs. Watson crowded around Inspector Treadles to read together.

Dear Mr. Arbuthnot,

I vacillated as to whether I ought to send this letter, for it is certain to alarm you. Yet not sending it might be the height of recklessness. So let me state as clearly as I can that this is only a precaution. Please do not worry on my behalf.

That said, if something untoward should befall me, please convey the enclosed envelope to—I am drawing a blank as to who would have jurisdiction. Scotland Yard would do in a pinch, I suppose, if you cannot think of a better choice.

By the way, did you ever find out whether Sherlock Holmes is a real person? I remain most curious about that.

But I digress. Pray set this aside and do not dwell on it. I will return in good time and put your mind at ease.

Yours sincerely,

Amadea Whitehill

P.S. Thank you for your friendship. I am most grateful.

P.P.S. In the box I gave into your keeping, there is a letter in the secret compartment that must be—should the worst happen—submitted to the police alongside the contents of this sealed envelope. But please, dear sir, for all that is good under the sun, do not open the box unless some great misfortune has waylaid me.

Mr. Arbuthnot, who had his hand luggage with him, bade Miss Charlotte, Inspector Treadles, and Mrs. Watson good-bye: He meant to return home on an early train.

They shook his hand and thanked him for his assistance. And when his spindly figure had shuffled off to the railway station, Inspector Treadles sliced open the sealed envelope referred to in the letter with his pocketknife, and the women again pulled close to him to read.

To whom it may concern,

I, Caroline Anne Osmond, née Gramercy, do hereby solemnly avow, under the gaze of the Almighty, that everything I shall set forth here is the utmost truth.

As a young girl, I grew up in genteel but persistent poverty. During those difficult years, my widowed mother and I came to rely on our dear cousin Reverend Geoffrey Hammond Robinson—

Mrs. Watson gasped aloud.