Page 87 of The Vanished Sister

Mr. Gables guided them into a white-and-gold drawing room with huge mirrors on every wall, which made the already large space appear cavernous. He winced, however, as they stated their purpose. “I’m afraid that in the absence of any members of the family, I cannot permit you to search the house.”

“I appreciate your loyalty and dedication, Mr. Gables. But I have some unwelcome news for you.” Sherrinford Holmes lowered “his” voice, so as not to be overheard by anyone who might be loitering outside the drawing room’s doors. “We have rather damning evidence against both the mistress and the master of this house.”

Mr. Gables looked perplexed. “That cannot be true. The Carstairses—I have worked in this household for nearly twenty years. They are upstanding employers. Never took advantage of the staff, never mistreated us, never even uttered an unkind word to anyone!”

But much malice could be accomplished without an unkind word. Justina probably whispered soothing endearments to Reverend Robinson as he lay dying. She never castigated Mrs. Osmond, only calmly handed her a letter from her former lover. And Mrs. Whitehill, did she ever have any idea that she would never leave the lovely Villa Inglese?

“That we must now point an accusing finger at the Carstairses has indeed dismayed everyone involved in the investigation,” said Sherrinford Holmes. “But rest assured that Inspector Paulson here did not accompany us merely on my say-so. He has been officially tasked by Scotland Yard, on behalf of the Devon Constabulary, to lend us his authority and the force of the law.”

“I fear it is indeed as Mr. Holmes states,” said Inspector Paulson. He had a square face and a deep voice, well suited for just this type of situation. “We are here today because we are compelled to be here.”

Mr. Gables opened his mouth to protest some more. Sherrinford Holmes pulled him aside to whisper in his ear. The butler blinked, his eyes glazed over, then he blinked some more, but now with only the dullest expression on his face.

“I’m sorry.” Sherrinford Holmes rested his hand briefly against the man’s shoulder. “Now, Mr. Gables, will you kindly escort us to Mrs. Carstairs’s private quarters?”

On the way to Justina’s apartment, however, Miss Charlotte asked to pass through all the public rooms. It was as Emaline Carstairs had said: The only needlework pieces on display in Noble House were some old tapestries and two Japanese embroidered screens.

In the apartment, Inspector Paulson set to work on Justina’s correspondence and appointment books, in case she’d handwritten anything in the codes she’d designed—on the train he’d had some time to study the rubbings Lord Ingram had taken of the embroidered ribbons found in the library at High Burrow. Mrs. Watson and Miss Charlotte, after checking curtains and bedlinen, ventured into Justina’s Delft toile–papered dressing room.

No wonder her maid had been convinced that her husband loved her. Mrs. Watson took great pride in her own wardrobe, but Justina’s collection was of a different order of magnitude altogether in terms of quantity and splendor.

And had this been enough, this and the rest of Noble House? Had she told herself that she’d do it again if she’d had the choice? Or had she put it out of mind altogether, what she’d done to get here?

At half past eleven, her head spinning from a surfeit of silk, cashmere, and seed pearls, Mrs. Watson panted. “Do you think Inspector MacDonald or Inspector Treadles would have better luck than us?”

Had Justina hidden the thing she wanted Sherlock Holmes to dig up in High Burrow or the London town house?

Miss Charlotte, her shoulders drooping—the dear girl was not fond of working late—wandered about the large dressing room. The pegs on the wall, where Dawkins would have hung Justina’s favorite dresses, were empty, as Justina had not lived here since the family departed for the London Season months ago. All the items Miss Charlotte and Mrs. Watson had examined today had been taken out of armoires and chests. And placed back afterward exactly as they’d found them—meticulously folded and wrapped in tissue—costly garments must be respected and properly cared for.

Bending down, Miss Charlotte picked up a sequin from the carpet: Some gowns were so heavily embellished that beads and spangles fell off no matter how gentle the handling.

Holding up the small sparkly object to the light from a sconce, Miss Charlotte studied it for a minute. Then she rushed out of the dressing room. Mrs. Watson, her mind dull from fatigue and despondency, stood in place several seconds before she hurried after her partner.

She found Miss Charlotte speaking to Mr. Gables, who had remained outside the mistress’s apartment.

“Dawkins?” The butler sounded as subdued as Mrs. Watson felt. “Yes, she’s here. She came back when I did.”

“I would like to speak to her,” said Miss Charlotte.

She set herself to wait before a large window in the passage. It was not as if she stood taller or glowed with excitement, but to Mrs. Watson it felt as if there was a renewed patience to her stillness.

Dawkins arrived sooner than Mrs. Watson expected, neatly dressed and properly coiffed. She must not have gone to bed yet—had news of the police presence already spread among the staff?

“You wish to see me, Mr. Holmes?”

“Yes, Miss Dawkins. If you’ll recall, we met in Ilfracombe.”

Dawkins inclined her head. “You were most kind to me that day, sir.”

“It’s only right to do what one can for a lady in distress,” said Sherrinford Holmes, and returned a half bow. “Now, we drove together back to High Burrow. On the way, you mentioned that you once saw Mrs. Carstairs looking at her wedding gown.”

“That’s right.”

“I did not see her wedding gown here in her dressing room. Is it stowed elsewhere in the house?”

“Yes, sir. It’s in the smaller lumber room.”

With the mistress of the house absent and the housekeeper in London, looking after the younger Carstairses, Mr. Gables had to go himself to get the spare key from the housekeeper’s office.