Format: 333 pages, Paperback
Release Date: September 29, 2026
Publisher: Berkley
Source: Publisher
Genre: Historical, Mystery
Publisher: Berkley
Source: Publisher
Genre: Historical, Mystery
In Victorian England, It’s been three years since Charlotte Holmes struck a decisive blow against Moriarty's operations in Britain, three years of relative calm and benign developments. In a buoyant mood, everyone gathers at Lord Ingram's seaside cottage in North Devon for what promises to be a perfect summer holiday. Until Mrs. Watson receives an invitation from Mrs. Carstairs, her long-estranged sister, to attend a house party nearby.
Mrs. Carstairs has married spectacularly well. She is the mistress of a great manor, a doyen of all domestic arts, and still an unforgettable beauty. Now she clamors for a reconciliation with her sister. Mrs. Watson does not trust Mrs. Carstairs's motives. Yet she cannot help but feel tremors of the old admiration for this once-beloved sister.
Then Mrs. Carstairs disappears without a trace. The next day a woman is discovered floating on the waves, her build and coloring matching those of Mrs. Carstairs. But her husband insists that the corpse fished out of the Bristol Channel cannot be his wife. So where is the real Mrs. Carstairs? Would she have purposely dragged Mrs. Watson into a murder investigation? Or was it Sherlock Holmes's involvement that she needed from the very beginning?
The Vanished Sister, by Sherry Thomas, is the Ninth installment in the author's Lady Sherlock series. Three years have passed since Charlotte Holmes dealt a serious blow to Moriarty’s operations in Britain. The interval has been unusually quiet. Charlotte, Mrs. Joanna Watson, Lord Ingram (Ash), and Penelope gather at his seaside cottage in North Devon for what looks like an ordinary summer holiday. Then Mrs. Watson receives an invitation from Justina Carstairs, her elder sister, whom she has not seen in years.
Justina has married twice and well. She is mistress of Noble House and High Burrow, a holiday estate near Ash’s cottage; a beauty and a model of domestic accomplishment; and the granddaughter of a country curate who calculated every step of her rise. She cut Joanna off so that Joanna’s past—as an actress, a courtesan, and a duke’s longtime mistress, later the wife of a middle-class doctor—would not stain that ascent. Now she wants a reconciliation, during a house party, with her son’s engagement in the balance.
Joanna does not trust the motive, but she goes anyway. Soon thereafter, Justina vanishes. The next day, a woman’s body is pulled from the Bristol Channel, similar in build and coloring. Everett Carstairs insists the corpse is not his wife. Charlotte and the others, including Inspector Treadle, are left with a missing-person case, a possible murder, other missing women who may or may not connect, and the question of whether Justina engineered Sherlock Holmes’s involvement from the start.
Moriarty remains a shadow rather than the engine of the plot. Joanna, to the women Justina now moves among, might as well be a parrot: even if she recited Cicero, she would still belong to an inferior species. Justina’s own cost is quieter and meaner—the loneliness of a woman not born to the manor, standing in front of senior servants and a web of bloodlines, afraid her children will be marked by a mother who was once “of no consequence whatsoever.”
The Carstairs marriage has love, but also deception, jealousy, and dangerous games. The investigation peels Justina off her pedestal and forces Mrs. Watson to revise the story she has told herself about which sister was the righteous one. Series readers who have wanted more of Joanna’s history get it here, and the emotional payoff is the reason to read the book. The mystery itself is busier than it needs to be. There is a large cast, several locales, class lines that matter to motive, and breadcrumbs that blur if you don't track them closely.
Charlotte’s methods are still clever, and the ensemble is the pleasure it has become over nine books, but the solution asks for patience more than it invites the reader to race her. The romance between Charlotte and Ash, as well as Olivia and Stephen, has progressed to the point where nothing should surprise you. Read the books in order. Taken on its own terms, it is an eloquent, slightly overplotted Victorian mystery whose best scenes are not the reveal but the cost of the life Justina built and the sister she discarded to keep it. One last comment: if you were waiting to find out if Penelope would know who her mother really is, then your wait, SPOILER, is finally over.
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One
August 1890
On the coast of North Devon
What a perfect day, thought Mrs. Watson drowsily.
A breeze billowed the sails of the gaff-rigged sloop. To the starboard stretched the sunlit waters of the Bristol Channel, the silhouette of Wales faintly visible in the distance. On the other side reared the magnificent coastal bluffs of North Devon, carpeted in purple heathers.
They were sailing due west, but the green-lensed carriage specs Mrs. Watson sported-a fashionable gift from her dear Penelope-blunted the strongest rays of the afternoon sun. Across from her, Miss Charlotte Holmes examined the inside of their picnic hamper with the solemn concentration of an archeologist.
Mrs. Watson wanted to laugh-the dear girl would not find much. They'd sailed to Lynmouth this morning and, despite Miss Charlotte's preference for the newly constructed cable railcar, zigzagged up the steep path on foot to the clifftop hamlet of Lynton.
From there they'd explored the otherworldly Valley of Rocks, noted for its unusual rock towers, and walked past the abbey to Woody Bay before returning to the outskirts of Lynton for a picnic luncheon.
The picnic hamper, which had traveled up the cable railcar in the care of Mr. Mears, Mrs. Watson's butler, had seemed a veritable cornucopia. Yet it had proved barely sufficient for the appetites of six hungry ramblers in addition to Mr. Mears himself. Mrs. Watson, who usually watched what she ate, had indulged in two large servings of a glistening tart, topped with wild raspberries they themselves had harvested near Lord Ingram's seaside cottage.
"I thought there was nothing left of the food," said Miss Olivia Holmes from the bow of the vessel, where she sat next to Mr. Marbleton.
"It's all gone," replied Miss Charlotte. "I am but surveying the scene of the carnage. Does anyone want limeade, by the way? If we finish that, too, then we can claim total victory."
Penelope's bell-like laughter rang out. "Well, if you put it like that, then of course we must do all we can for total victory."
Mrs. Watson chortled as she sank more deeply into the pleasant woolliness that was the inevitable byproduct-at least at her age-of vigorous exercise followed by a great deal of delicious food.
She felt Penelope leaning forward and heard the splash of limeade falling into a cup. Lord Ingram, at the helm, asked whether they ought to sail faster so that they'd sit down to tea sooner. "No need," replied Miss Charlotte. "Let's not jostle Mrs. Watson."
Mrs. Watson meant to protest that she didn't mind a little jostling in exchange for greater speed. But the words, right on the tip of her tongue, disappeared into the ether. And it was so very agreeable, their current pace, bobbing just enough to let her feel the boat's progress.
Rather like how life had been in the past three years, ever since Miss Charlotte had outmaneuvered Moriarty: more or less smooth sailing for the two women responsible for the operations of Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective.
In fact, with Moriarty in hiding, life had been good for everyone on the sloop.
Penelope, five years into her seven-year French medical education, remained fascinated by everything that could go wrong-and right-with the human body.
Lord Ingram had written a well-received archeological treatise on Celtic Britain and gone on a standing room-only lecture tour the previous year. His children thrived in spite of the absence of their mother. And at thirty-one, he was fitter and more striking than ever.
Miss Olivia thrilled Mrs. Watson by publishing not one but two novels featuring the great consulting detective. In addition, she'd written several short stories in which Sherlock Holmes flexed his deductive prowess, with the goal of making them available as a collection at a later date.
Mr. Stephen Marbleton, Miss Olivia's beau, had perhaps profited the most from Moriarty's retreat: After losing his entire operation in Britain, Moriarty had left the Marbletons, his sworn enemies, alone.
As a result, Mr. Marbleton no longer needed to be constantly on the move, as had been the pattern his whole life. This greater stability worked wonders for his courtship of Miss Olivia. Instead of always meeting each other in passing, he could now remain near her for an extended period of time.
"I will never not love the sea and I would like to live within view of it, if possible." Miss Olivia's words, despite the enthusiasm in her voice, sounded a little faint. "Not directly hanging on a cliff over the waves, as much as I love that house in Lynton-the one that you said used to have a private cable car-but a mile or so inland, with the sea in walking distance."
"My cousin has a place on the Sussex downs that might be perfect for you," said Lord Ingram, his words too a bit indistinct, for all that he stood only a little aft of Mrs. Watson.
"Really?" Miss Olivia's voice was becoming inaudible. "I like Sussex. It's sunnier than . . ."
Mrs. Watson rested her head on Penelope's shoulder. The dear girl only ever smelled of good Provençal soap, not like Mrs. Watson, who used to reek of attar of jasmine.
You can't live like this, Joanna. You can't waste so much money on perfume and other fripperies.
How odd. She actually agreed with Justina's chastisement. She had been too spendthrift and her purchases had been no proper essence, but badly diluted who knows what. But ah, the joy she'd felt applying those drops to her inner wrists, the contentment of feeling a veritable Salome at that silly, marvelous age . . .
". . . very nice dress. What do you think, Miss Charlotte?" came Penelope's voice.
"Oh, I agree. And that is probably a very beautiful woman, too."
"Too bad we can't see her face behind her binoculars," said Miss Olivia.
"I wonder if she's from that house on the bluffs." Mr. Marbleton added his voice to the discussion.
Mrs. Watson slowly opened her eyes. The sun still shone. A few puffy clouds now drifted across the vast blue sky. Lord Ingram's cottage, its terrace overhanging the bluffs, was visible a mile or so ahead. Were they that close to home then? How long had she slept?
She sat up straight and turned in the direction of everyone's gaze. Two great conical outcrops, the Hangman Cliffs, came into view. Great Hangman, at just over a thousand feet in elevation, was the highest sea cliff in all of England.
But the sloop had already sailed past Great and Little Hangman, and now cut across the waters before a secluded beach. At the very edge of the precipice that loomed over the beach stood a slender figure in a white dress. Her skirts danced in the breeze; the long ends of a green sash belt levitated sinuously.
A pair of binoculars hid her face. She could be looking at anyone on the sloop, yet Mrs. Watson felt herself under scrutiny.
She tensed. "Who's that?"
"The house across the bay from ours, the one you said you wanted to see up close? It's hidden from us right now because the land dips down," said Penelope cheerfully, "but it's right beyond these bluffs, a quarter mile due south. What is it called again, Ash?"
"High Burrow."
From the terrace of his cottage, one had a panoramic view of the Hangman Cliffs and the sheep-dotted moors beyond. On such an expanse of moorland, high above the little town of Combe Martin, perched a Gothic house that, at first glance, appeared incongruous with its surroundings.
Then again, such an edifice rather embodied the spirit of the age: Architectural vernaculars were ground together as if put through a vegetable mill and new owners transformed old dwellings with wild abandon.
"You think she's from that house?" Mrs. Watson asked, staring. Something about the woman was familiar. Too familiar. The figure. The air of authority. That head of shiny chestnut hair, not a strand out of place despite the air currents.
"Could be," answered Lord Ingram. "I've not met the family."
Abruptly, the woman turned around and walked away, disappearing rapidly. Mrs. Watson let out a breath, released her fingers from around the gunwale, and slowly turned around. "So who owns High Burrow?"
"The Carstairses of Lincolnshire," said Miss Charlotte, looking directly at Mrs. Watson. "Have you heard of them?"
Lord Ingram’s seaside cottage was a cottage in roughly the same sense that Chatsworth House was a house. He had bought it as a present for his former wife, who, as it turned out, had no use for it. For years it sat empty, seldom visited by either husband or wife, and certainly not the two together with their children. At one point it only had a single elderly caretaker who could barely keep up with the grounds, let alone cook and clean for visitors.
But things had changed since Lord Ingram's divorce. Or rather, since he took up with Miss Charlotte. Lord Ingram, thoughtful man that he was, quickly realized that while Miss Charlotte could visit him occasionally in disguise at Stern Hollow, his country seat, it was much more convenient for everyone if she didn't have to run the gauntlet of a large manor house that was both full of servants and surrounded by curious neighbors.
Subsequently, this long-neglected spot on the Devon coast became their love nest. It now boasted modern plumbing and a well-ventilated new kitchen, as well as new floors, new flues, new windows, and a new name. Mrs. Watson wasn't sure what the place had been called earlier, but Miss Charlotte had dubbed it Sans Souci-French for Without Worries-and Lord Ingram had had the name engraved upon a plaque and affixed it to the gate.
Mrs. Watson, prone to fretting, had felt unusually carefree at Sans Souci. But as the company reached the cottage at the end of their otherwise idyllic excursion, she was anything but happy and assured.
In fact, she made sure not to look toward High Burrow, now a looming presence in the distance.
Mrs. Watson had not needed to answer Miss Charlotte's question, for Miss Olivia had piped up at that moment, My goodness, that's the family Philana Newell will be marrying into! I knew that they had a place somewhere on the Devon coast, but I had no idea it was so close to Sans Souci.
For the past three years, though Miss Olivia spent a good bit of time with Mrs. Watson and Miss Charlotte, she officially resided with Mrs. Newell, distant cousin and great friend to the Holmes sisters. The world believed her to be Mrs. Newell's companion, though in truth she was more the latter's guest at her dower house in Derbyshire, not far from Lord Ingram's estate.
And so Mrs. Watson learned that Philana Newell, Mrs. Newell's granddaughter, had become engaged recently to none other than the Carstairses' younger son. Moreover, the Carstairses, who made use of their holiday house only sporadically, would presently be hosting the Newells at High Burrow to celebrate the engagement.
Miss Olivia deemed that the house party would not affect them and they'd continue with their own holiday as planned. But Mrs. Watson felt a tightening of her collar.
On the eve of this important social occasion for Justina, Mrs. Watson had blithely sailed by High Burrow, her grown-up daughter by her side, surrounded by their friends. Would Justina see that as merely the coincidence it had been, or would she extrapolate a wholesale insurrection on Mrs. Watson's part?
The tea that welcomed the ramblers back to Sans Souci was a substantial spread. As everyone else tucked into cakes and sandwiches, Mrs. Watson badly wanted to fortify her cup with a dram of whisky, or at least some brandy. But such a beverage would be difficult to explain on a warm day . . .
Penelope was already proposing a game of tennis. When the cottage was renovated, Lord Ingram had added a tennis court and his guests had made good use of it.
"I'm still surprised that you do, in fact, play tennis." Miss Olivia laughed as she addressed her sister. "You always wrote that 'Games of tennis were played' and I always imagined that someone was conscripted to play with Ash while you sat nearby with a Victoria sponge and a stack of books."
"You're not wrong about the Victoria sponge," answered Miss Charlotte while biting into a slice of Victoria sponge. "Ash knows how to dangle a carrot. He always promises a grand picnic, but only after games of tennis or long rambles for which we must start at dawn."
Miss Olivia tittered. "So you were the conscripted one."
They scattered amid peals of laughter-which were beginning to take on a fey and brittle tone in Mrs. Watson's ears-to change into tennis costumes. Mrs. Watson did so grimly and sat in her room for a quarter hour, her head in her hands, before she went down to join the company at the rear of the house.
Newly shorn grass, smelling of green sap and deep summer, fresh lines of chalk dust, laid down to mark the boundary of the court, young people in tennis whites stretching and limbering up-nothing but peace and unmarred contentment everywhere Mrs. Watson looked. Yet fear swirled in her heart.
"Where's Ash?" asked Penelope.
As if to answer her question, their host emerged from the house and headed straight for Mrs. Watson, a slight frown on his face. "Ma'am, Mrs. Carstairs from High Burrow is here to see you. Are you at home to her?"
Mrs. Watson did not remember what she said to Lord Ingram in turn. It didn’t even occur to her, until she was walking into the house, that he must already know, from a single look at Justina, that the two women were closely related.
Inside the drawing room, her caller, clad in a simple white dress cinched by a green sash-the same attire as the woman on the precipice-stood before the mantel. She looked up at a charcoal drawing of a Greek temple in ruins set against a stony mound that resembled nothing so much as a half-melted sugar loaf. Mt. Cynthus on the island of Delos, where Lord Ingram had recently carried out excavations on behalf of the French School of Athens.
Her silhouette was fashionably slender-how did she manage to maintain such a trim figure? But everything had its cost, did it not? Without a little padding on the body, a woman of their age was liable to be gaunt in the face.
Justina turned around. Yes, she had aged, and yes, her face was lean. That lack of youthful plumpness, however, only made her more deep-eyed and finely chiseled. Even the few strands of grey in her hair did not make her look old, only more distinguished.
August 1890
On the coast of North Devon
What a perfect day, thought Mrs. Watson drowsily.
A breeze billowed the sails of the gaff-rigged sloop. To the starboard stretched the sunlit waters of the Bristol Channel, the silhouette of Wales faintly visible in the distance. On the other side reared the magnificent coastal bluffs of North Devon, carpeted in purple heathers.
They were sailing due west, but the green-lensed carriage specs Mrs. Watson sported-a fashionable gift from her dear Penelope-blunted the strongest rays of the afternoon sun. Across from her, Miss Charlotte Holmes examined the inside of their picnic hamper with the solemn concentration of an archeologist.
Mrs. Watson wanted to laugh-the dear girl would not find much. They'd sailed to Lynmouth this morning and, despite Miss Charlotte's preference for the newly constructed cable railcar, zigzagged up the steep path on foot to the clifftop hamlet of Lynton.
From there they'd explored the otherworldly Valley of Rocks, noted for its unusual rock towers, and walked past the abbey to Woody Bay before returning to the outskirts of Lynton for a picnic luncheon.
The picnic hamper, which had traveled up the cable railcar in the care of Mr. Mears, Mrs. Watson's butler, had seemed a veritable cornucopia. Yet it had proved barely sufficient for the appetites of six hungry ramblers in addition to Mr. Mears himself. Mrs. Watson, who usually watched what she ate, had indulged in two large servings of a glistening tart, topped with wild raspberries they themselves had harvested near Lord Ingram's seaside cottage.
"I thought there was nothing left of the food," said Miss Olivia Holmes from the bow of the vessel, where she sat next to Mr. Marbleton.
"It's all gone," replied Miss Charlotte. "I am but surveying the scene of the carnage. Does anyone want limeade, by the way? If we finish that, too, then we can claim total victory."
Penelope's bell-like laughter rang out. "Well, if you put it like that, then of course we must do all we can for total victory."
Mrs. Watson chortled as she sank more deeply into the pleasant woolliness that was the inevitable byproduct-at least at her age-of vigorous exercise followed by a great deal of delicious food.
She felt Penelope leaning forward and heard the splash of limeade falling into a cup. Lord Ingram, at the helm, asked whether they ought to sail faster so that they'd sit down to tea sooner. "No need," replied Miss Charlotte. "Let's not jostle Mrs. Watson."
Mrs. Watson meant to protest that she didn't mind a little jostling in exchange for greater speed. But the words, right on the tip of her tongue, disappeared into the ether. And it was so very agreeable, their current pace, bobbing just enough to let her feel the boat's progress.
Rather like how life had been in the past three years, ever since Miss Charlotte had outmaneuvered Moriarty: more or less smooth sailing for the two women responsible for the operations of Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective.
In fact, with Moriarty in hiding, life had been good for everyone on the sloop.
Penelope, five years into her seven-year French medical education, remained fascinated by everything that could go wrong-and right-with the human body.
Lord Ingram had written a well-received archeological treatise on Celtic Britain and gone on a standing room-only lecture tour the previous year. His children thrived in spite of the absence of their mother. And at thirty-one, he was fitter and more striking than ever.
Miss Olivia thrilled Mrs. Watson by publishing not one but two novels featuring the great consulting detective. In addition, she'd written several short stories in which Sherlock Holmes flexed his deductive prowess, with the goal of making them available as a collection at a later date.
Mr. Stephen Marbleton, Miss Olivia's beau, had perhaps profited the most from Moriarty's retreat: After losing his entire operation in Britain, Moriarty had left the Marbletons, his sworn enemies, alone.
As a result, Mr. Marbleton no longer needed to be constantly on the move, as had been the pattern his whole life. This greater stability worked wonders for his courtship of Miss Olivia. Instead of always meeting each other in passing, he could now remain near her for an extended period of time.
"I will never not love the sea and I would like to live within view of it, if possible." Miss Olivia's words, despite the enthusiasm in her voice, sounded a little faint. "Not directly hanging on a cliff over the waves, as much as I love that house in Lynton-the one that you said used to have a private cable car-but a mile or so inland, with the sea in walking distance."
"My cousin has a place on the Sussex downs that might be perfect for you," said Lord Ingram, his words too a bit indistinct, for all that he stood only a little aft of Mrs. Watson.
"Really?" Miss Olivia's voice was becoming inaudible. "I like Sussex. It's sunnier than . . ."
Mrs. Watson rested her head on Penelope's shoulder. The dear girl only ever smelled of good Provençal soap, not like Mrs. Watson, who used to reek of attar of jasmine.
You can't live like this, Joanna. You can't waste so much money on perfume and other fripperies.
How odd. She actually agreed with Justina's chastisement. She had been too spendthrift and her purchases had been no proper essence, but badly diluted who knows what. But ah, the joy she'd felt applying those drops to her inner wrists, the contentment of feeling a veritable Salome at that silly, marvelous age . . .
". . . very nice dress. What do you think, Miss Charlotte?" came Penelope's voice.
"Oh, I agree. And that is probably a very beautiful woman, too."
"Too bad we can't see her face behind her binoculars," said Miss Olivia.
"I wonder if she's from that house on the bluffs." Mr. Marbleton added his voice to the discussion.
Mrs. Watson slowly opened her eyes. The sun still shone. A few puffy clouds now drifted across the vast blue sky. Lord Ingram's cottage, its terrace overhanging the bluffs, was visible a mile or so ahead. Were they that close to home then? How long had she slept?
She sat up straight and turned in the direction of everyone's gaze. Two great conical outcrops, the Hangman Cliffs, came into view. Great Hangman, at just over a thousand feet in elevation, was the highest sea cliff in all of England.
But the sloop had already sailed past Great and Little Hangman, and now cut across the waters before a secluded beach. At the very edge of the precipice that loomed over the beach stood a slender figure in a white dress. Her skirts danced in the breeze; the long ends of a green sash belt levitated sinuously.
A pair of binoculars hid her face. She could be looking at anyone on the sloop, yet Mrs. Watson felt herself under scrutiny.
She tensed. "Who's that?"
"The house across the bay from ours, the one you said you wanted to see up close? It's hidden from us right now because the land dips down," said Penelope cheerfully, "but it's right beyond these bluffs, a quarter mile due south. What is it called again, Ash?"
"High Burrow."
From the terrace of his cottage, one had a panoramic view of the Hangman Cliffs and the sheep-dotted moors beyond. On such an expanse of moorland, high above the little town of Combe Martin, perched a Gothic house that, at first glance, appeared incongruous with its surroundings.
Then again, such an edifice rather embodied the spirit of the age: Architectural vernaculars were ground together as if put through a vegetable mill and new owners transformed old dwellings with wild abandon.
"You think she's from that house?" Mrs. Watson asked, staring. Something about the woman was familiar. Too familiar. The figure. The air of authority. That head of shiny chestnut hair, not a strand out of place despite the air currents.
"Could be," answered Lord Ingram. "I've not met the family."
Abruptly, the woman turned around and walked away, disappearing rapidly. Mrs. Watson let out a breath, released her fingers from around the gunwale, and slowly turned around. "So who owns High Burrow?"
"The Carstairses of Lincolnshire," said Miss Charlotte, looking directly at Mrs. Watson. "Have you heard of them?"
Lord Ingram’s seaside cottage was a cottage in roughly the same sense that Chatsworth House was a house. He had bought it as a present for his former wife, who, as it turned out, had no use for it. For years it sat empty, seldom visited by either husband or wife, and certainly not the two together with their children. At one point it only had a single elderly caretaker who could barely keep up with the grounds, let alone cook and clean for visitors.
But things had changed since Lord Ingram's divorce. Or rather, since he took up with Miss Charlotte. Lord Ingram, thoughtful man that he was, quickly realized that while Miss Charlotte could visit him occasionally in disguise at Stern Hollow, his country seat, it was much more convenient for everyone if she didn't have to run the gauntlet of a large manor house that was both full of servants and surrounded by curious neighbors.
Subsequently, this long-neglected spot on the Devon coast became their love nest. It now boasted modern plumbing and a well-ventilated new kitchen, as well as new floors, new flues, new windows, and a new name. Mrs. Watson wasn't sure what the place had been called earlier, but Miss Charlotte had dubbed it Sans Souci-French for Without Worries-and Lord Ingram had had the name engraved upon a plaque and affixed it to the gate.
Mrs. Watson, prone to fretting, had felt unusually carefree at Sans Souci. But as the company reached the cottage at the end of their otherwise idyllic excursion, she was anything but happy and assured.
In fact, she made sure not to look toward High Burrow, now a looming presence in the distance.
Mrs. Watson had not needed to answer Miss Charlotte's question, for Miss Olivia had piped up at that moment, My goodness, that's the family Philana Newell will be marrying into! I knew that they had a place somewhere on the Devon coast, but I had no idea it was so close to Sans Souci.
For the past three years, though Miss Olivia spent a good bit of time with Mrs. Watson and Miss Charlotte, she officially resided with Mrs. Newell, distant cousin and great friend to the Holmes sisters. The world believed her to be Mrs. Newell's companion, though in truth she was more the latter's guest at her dower house in Derbyshire, not far from Lord Ingram's estate.
And so Mrs. Watson learned that Philana Newell, Mrs. Newell's granddaughter, had become engaged recently to none other than the Carstairses' younger son. Moreover, the Carstairses, who made use of their holiday house only sporadically, would presently be hosting the Newells at High Burrow to celebrate the engagement.
Miss Olivia deemed that the house party would not affect them and they'd continue with their own holiday as planned. But Mrs. Watson felt a tightening of her collar.
On the eve of this important social occasion for Justina, Mrs. Watson had blithely sailed by High Burrow, her grown-up daughter by her side, surrounded by their friends. Would Justina see that as merely the coincidence it had been, or would she extrapolate a wholesale insurrection on Mrs. Watson's part?
The tea that welcomed the ramblers back to Sans Souci was a substantial spread. As everyone else tucked into cakes and sandwiches, Mrs. Watson badly wanted to fortify her cup with a dram of whisky, or at least some brandy. But such a beverage would be difficult to explain on a warm day . . .
Penelope was already proposing a game of tennis. When the cottage was renovated, Lord Ingram had added a tennis court and his guests had made good use of it.
"I'm still surprised that you do, in fact, play tennis." Miss Olivia laughed as she addressed her sister. "You always wrote that 'Games of tennis were played' and I always imagined that someone was conscripted to play with Ash while you sat nearby with a Victoria sponge and a stack of books."
"You're not wrong about the Victoria sponge," answered Miss Charlotte while biting into a slice of Victoria sponge. "Ash knows how to dangle a carrot. He always promises a grand picnic, but only after games of tennis or long rambles for which we must start at dawn."
Miss Olivia tittered. "So you were the conscripted one."
They scattered amid peals of laughter-which were beginning to take on a fey and brittle tone in Mrs. Watson's ears-to change into tennis costumes. Mrs. Watson did so grimly and sat in her room for a quarter hour, her head in her hands, before she went down to join the company at the rear of the house.
Newly shorn grass, smelling of green sap and deep summer, fresh lines of chalk dust, laid down to mark the boundary of the court, young people in tennis whites stretching and limbering up-nothing but peace and unmarred contentment everywhere Mrs. Watson looked. Yet fear swirled in her heart.
"Where's Ash?" asked Penelope.
As if to answer her question, their host emerged from the house and headed straight for Mrs. Watson, a slight frown on his face. "Ma'am, Mrs. Carstairs from High Burrow is here to see you. Are you at home to her?"
Mrs. Watson did not remember what she said to Lord Ingram in turn. It didn’t even occur to her, until she was walking into the house, that he must already know, from a single look at Justina, that the two women were closely related.
Inside the drawing room, her caller, clad in a simple white dress cinched by a green sash-the same attire as the woman on the precipice-stood before the mantel. She looked up at a charcoal drawing of a Greek temple in ruins set against a stony mound that resembled nothing so much as a half-melted sugar loaf. Mt. Cynthus on the island of Delos, where Lord Ingram had recently carried out excavations on behalf of the French School of Athens.
Her silhouette was fashionably slender-how did she manage to maintain such a trim figure? But everything had its cost, did it not? Without a little padding on the body, a woman of their age was liable to be gaunt in the face.
Justina turned around. Yes, she had aged, and yes, her face was lean. That lack of youthful plumpness, however, only made her more deep-eyed and finely chiseled. Even the few strands of grey in her hair did not make her look old, only more distinguished.
