Page 9 of The Vanished Sister

Miss Charlotte took a bite of her bread. “After I posted my letter, I made the decision not to inform Mrs. Watson. Chances were, she and this sister she’d never mentioned were severely estranged. But that didn’t mean it wouldn’t wound her anew to know that Mrs. Carstairs had besmirched her to a tenant.”

Mrs. Watson pushed away her wineglass. “My sister would not have considered it that. Maybe to her, alerting my tenant to the truth served as an act of kindly enlightenment. And you’re right: I would not have enjoyed knowing that sooner than I must.”

She cackled in bitter self-mockery. “To think, I was feeling a little vindicated just now, when she invited me to attend the house party she’ll be hosting for the Newells.

“And no, before you ask, she did not mention the letter she wrote to Sherlock Holmes. I can forgive something she did a generation ago, but not something so recent, and so malicious. Naturally, when her invitation arrives on the morrow, I will send my regrets.” Mrs. Watson turned to Lord Ingram. “Ash, I would be grateful if you will also turn her down.”

Lord Ingram glanced toward Miss Charlotte, who said, after a spoonful of soup, “Ma’am, I have not yet told you everything.”

Three

Livia was indignant on Mrs. Watson’s behalf, but something in Charlotte’s tone made her tense. Under the table, she braced her feet apart as if the dining room were a runaway carriage about to careen into a brick wall.

“What is it that I still don’t know?” asked Mrs. Watson, her voice low.

Charlotte had a famously inscrutable face. But tonight, a stranger could decipher from her slight frown and downcast gaze that she felt terrible for what she was about to say. And Charlotte had delivered all kinds of bad news to all kinds of people without a flicker of emotion.

Livia swallowed.

“When I stole into Mrs. Carstairs’s London town house three summers ago,” said Charlotte, lifting her eyes, “I didn’t discover only the typewriter on which she composed her letter to Sherlock Holmes. I also found a typewritten letter to her. Allow me to recite it from memory.”

Dear Mrs. Carstairs,

It has come to my attention that your sister, Mrs. John Watson, is the proprietor of 18 Upper Baker Street, where dwells one Sherlock Holmes, the London consulting detective who has achieved a certain celebrity within the past year.

You may wish to know then, dear madam, that Sherlock Holmes does not exist and the “sister” who serves as his oracle and general envoy is none other than Charlotte Holmes, daughter of Sir Henry Holmes, a young woman ejected from polite society a year ago due to her egregious and unrepentant conduct with a married man.

One is almost obliged to admire the breathtaking cheek of Miss Holmes, foisting a fictional creation upon an unsuspecting public. But I’m sure you wouldn’t wish for Mrs. Watson’s hard-won respectability to be stripped away, should the matter of Miss Holmes’s deception come to light in the not-so-distant future.

Yours truly,

Alain de Lacey

The moment Charlotte’s name was mentioned, the inside of Livia’s head became a magma chamber, nothing but molten rock under pressure. But when Charlotte reached the valedictory closing, the rumble in Livia’s ears ceased, replaced by an eerie silence.

“Moriarty?” she rasped. “Surely not!”

De Lacey Industries had been the front for Moriarty’s operations in Britain, and his chief lieutenant therein always referred to as de Lacey.

Livia pivoted toward her Stephen, seated next to her. He took hold of her hand, smiled slightly, and mouthed, I know. Of course Charlotte always made sure to provide relevant information to those whose lives might be affected. But that knowledge did not comfort Livia. Moriarty’s very existence was a stain upon her happiness.

Upon the happiness of everyone at this table.

And when did it become so dark outside? Her reflection in the window was now clearly visible, a pale, wide-eyed woman, her shoulders pulled in and up as if trying to make herself smaller.

“I recognized the typewriter that produced this letter,” said Charlotte. “It was the same one used for those notes we received three years ago from Lord Bancroft.”

Lord Bancroft, Lord Ingram’s second eldest brother, had thrown in his lot with Moriarty in order to escape from custody and exact his revenge upon Charlotte. He had not succeeded, thank goodness; to the contrary, Charlotte had taken advantage of the opportunity to cripple De Lacey Industries and place Moriarty firmly in the sight of Scotland Yard.

“De Lacey would have thought twice about signing his name to such a note,” said Stephen, his hand, warm and steady, still around Livia’s. “There’s a fair chance the letter was typed not at his behest but at Lord Bancroft’s.”

“As insurance against the failure of his original plan?” asked Miss Redmayne. “To make sure that if he couldn’t get rid of Miss Charlotte, that she should at least have her livelihood taken away?”

“We’ll never know now as both Lord Bancroft and the woman who did the typing for him are dead,” said Charlotte, looking toward Lord Ingram.

Despite her distraction, Livia’s heart ached for Lord Ingram. Moriarty was Stephen’s natural father, but he would never see the man as anything other than an adversary. Lord Ingram was different. Once upon a time, he’d loved and respected Lord Bancroft as a brother.

“I can believe it of Bancroft—this has an odor of his vindictiveness,” said Lord Ingram calmly. “My brother, however, had the unfortunate tendency to underestimate women. He underestimated Holmes three years ago, and he might have also underestimated Mrs. Carstairs. He reasoned that since the two sisters were estranged, Mrs. Carstairs would be happy to see Mrs. Watson go up in flames. But if Mrs. Carstairs felt that impulse, she did not act on it right away.