Page 98 of The Vanished Sister

Once upon a time, Justina had not been so adroit a manipulator. But at High Burrow she had been just the right combination of perfect and vulnerable to make Mrs. Watson care. All those chess-themed topiaries at their properties—had husband and wife spent all the years of their marriage in such a subtle yet constant match, trying to make sure the other person still cared so that they could tell themselves they had not lost?

Footsteps on the staircase. Miss Charlotte walked in. She’d already removed her beard but was otherwise still dressed as a man, the lower portions of her trousers flecked with rain.

Mrs. Watson smiled tremulously. “My dear, was your outing fruitful?”

Sherlock Holmes had been working to retrieve Rebecca’s jewels from her late husband’s mistress. The Baker Street Irregulars had located both the woman and her new protector. Today, Miss Charlotte and Mumble, one of the Irregulars, were going to mount a bit of theater, with Miss Charlotte as Rebecca’s solicitor, calling on Mr. Tyser, the protector, for the return of Rebecca’s property and Mumble as an insurance agent, knocking on the mistress’s door to verify that the jewels the late Mr. Wellesley had insured were still in her possession for the ten-year, prepaid policy to continue.

“I ran into some delay,” said Miss Holmes. “But Mumble was prepared and managed to stretch out his session until we walked in. And once Mr. Tyser saw the pieces on display, their description exactly matching those on the invoices that I’d shown him, he said we may take the jewelry and he’d buy his new inamorata replacements that were at least as valuable.”

Miss Holmes’s voice sounded as uninflected as ever, but Mrs. Watson thought the young woman was pleased to have accomplished her goal in a relatively untaxing manner. “Rebecca will be pleased about the return of her property but I’m not sure she’ll like this part of the story. It might upset her that this woman found a protector of a higher caliber.”

“Then she does not need to be told this part of the story,” said Miss Charlotte, with her straightforward logic.

She walked to the window and opened it. Cool, fresh air blew in, along with a few specks of moisture. Mrs. Watson inhaled deeply—she hadn’t realized how stale the air in the morning parlor had become. Miss Charlotte closed the window after a few seconds, so the room wouldn’t become too chilly.

She turned around. “I also met with Inspector MacDonald.”

“Oh, he’s in town? How is he?”

“Pleased, I’d say.”

Inspector MacDonald, puzzled by what hold Mr. Carstairs had over Mrs. Albright, because it didn’t seem to be the other way around, had called on the woman again. But she’d vanished into thin air. After some good old-fashioned police work, Inspector MacDonald learned that Maggie Simpson, Cordelia Carstairs’s cousin, had died long before Cordelia Carstairs had made her debut. The woman now known as Mrs. Albright had been an imposter from the moment she’d shown up at the Nesbitts’ door, a poor relation looking for a refuge.

“There’s a good likelihood that Mr. Carstairs had found out and blackmailed her into assisting him in his courtship. We aren’t sure yet what she’d been up to all these years abroad, but Inspector MacDonald said that he wouldn’t be surprised if she’s wanted by the law elsewhere. And he paid a visit to Scotland Yard to make sure that now she’s also wanted by the law here.”

Mrs. Watson had nearly forgotten Mrs. Albright and her ready cooperation with Everett Carstairs. “Poor Cordelia Carstairs, besieged from both within and without.”

“True,” said Miss Charlotte. “Instead of being sent off to find the least scheming man among those who would marry her for her fortune, she should have been given reins to the family business. Mrs. Treadles is doing very well in that position.”

And she had not forgotten Mrs. Watson. Dear Alice had sent flowers, a lovely shawl, and even theater tickets in a sustained effort to lift Mrs. Watson’s spirits.

Miss Charlotte went about the room and lit a few sconces. It wasn’t dark yet outside, but the spread of gentle golden light dispelled much of the rainy-day gloom that had settled upon the morning parlor.

The young woman leaned on the armrest of a padded chair. “Ma’am, were you not planning on telling me about the caller you received today?”

Mrs. Watson started. But the tea stuff that had been brought in during Everett Carstairs’s visit had already been cleared away. How did Miss Charlotte know?

But of course, she was still seated in the morning parlor. And she never came to the morning parlor unless it was to receive someone she did not consider an intimate friend.

“It was Justina’s husband.”

Miss Charlotte did not look surprised. “Is he in town only to call on you?”

“No. He and Reggie have been here for several days to cut off the entail on Noble House.”

Most large estates were entailed, which restricted the property from being sold, divided, or wasted, and made sure the entire asset passed to a single heir, by and large the oldest son, as the practice had risen alongside the custom of male primogeniture.

But together, the current holder and his heir could break the entail. Then the current owner could dispose of the property in whole or in pieces as he wished.

“And you were correct about Reggie and Rebecca’s actual parentage.” Mrs. Watson exhaled. “But he said he hasn’t told Reggie yet. He believes that Reggie agreed to it out of the belief that he deserved to be disinherited for having killed Justina, however accidentally.”

“Will he disinherit your older nephew?”

Mrs. Watson had wondered the same. She’d already begun to consider changes to her own will so that Reggie would not be left penniless. “Mr. Carstairs has invited me to be a witness for his new will—we shall find out then. And he has asked that I go down to Noble House for when he does tell his children the truth, to offer everyone moral support.”

“And you will go, of course.”

Mrs. Watson levered herself out of her chair—she’d been stuck in one place long enough. “Of course,” she said. “I’m their aunt.”