Page 103 of Miss Moriarty, I Presume?
“Mr. Peters, would you help Mrs. Watson to the drums?”
Peters walked toward Mrs. Watson. McEwan went to one side of the chapel, where there stood a high altar, draped in dark blue brocade, with two tall candelabras on top. He removed the candelabras, whisked off the cloth, and underneath was a tabletop sitting above two large drums that reached his chest in height.
De Lacey recognized the drums—he’d watched them being transported into the compound his third afternoon on the coast.
Mrs. Watson resisted, pushing Peters’ hands away and kicking at his knees. But he easily caught her hands by the wrists and then, with one hand under her armpit, dragged her unceremoniously to the drums.
“You must not persist in delusions, dear lady,” said Miss Baxter. “The truth is right there, in front of you.”
McEwan removed the tabletop and then set to work on the lid of one drum.
Miss Baxter continued, her voice soft yet inexorable. “Such was my father’s design that Miss Holmes was doomed from the beginning. I tried—I helped her leave the first time. But he forced her to return. It saddens me that she had to die, yet I cannot let myself be blamed for her death. My grandmother would not have wanted that. She wanted me to move beyond my father’s shadow and live free. Surely you can understand a grandmother’s love, Mrs. Watson?”
She was mad, this woman. She openly admitted that she shot Charlotte Holmes. Why wouldn’t Mrs. Watson hold her responsible?
But perhaps she had long been mad. After all, she had two children out of wedlock, and that spoke eloquently to her dementedness.
Mr. Baxter rose and headed for the drums, forcing de Lacey to follow in his steps. “I would not stand too close,” called out Miss Baxter. “Perchloric acid won’t just dissolve you. It will explode, too.”
Mrs. Watson emitted a whimper. McEwan pried open the lid. An indescribable odor invaded de Lacey’s nostrils, as if a meat market had been set inside a chemistry laboratory and caused people inside the lab to vomit.
He waved a hand in front of his face and retreated a step, still he was close enough to see a clump of yellow hair floating atop the equally indescribable liquid that looked as if milk, urine, and blood had failed to intermingle. And dear God, were those bits of as-of-yet-undissolved flesh? And was that atoe?
Mrs. Watson, who was the closest to the drum, slumped in Peters’s arms. Miss Baxter ordered the drum closed, walked up to Mrs. Watson, and slapped her in the face. Mrs. Watson’s eyelids fluttered. At the sight of Miss Baxter, she emitted a bloodcurdling scream.
Miss Baxter, however, took her by the hands, and in a wonderfully kind tone that made gooseflesh break out all over de Lacey, said, “Remember, my dear Mrs. Watson, that I had no choice. I’m just a woman who wants to hold on to what little freedom she has. It’s my father who sent Miss Holmes to her death. He wanted retribution for it to fall upon me, but you must not let that happen. You know that he is the true culprit, don’t you?”
Mrs. Watson, lips trembling, tears spilling from her barely focused eyes, nodded slowly.
“Go with my blessings, dear lady. Be well and avenge Miss Holmes. Go now.”
With a cry, Mrs. Watson struggled to her feet, banging her shoulder on the door as she stumbled out of the former chapel.
Miss Baxter walked back to the pulpit, her two loyal bodyguards in tow, and resettled herself on her throne. “You were going to tell me, weren’t you, Father, that given I’ve killed Miss Holmes, the wrath of her allies will fall upon me and that my only hope of survival lies with you?”
Her eyes shone with satisfaction. “But now that Mrs. Watson will carry away a very different message, what excuse do you have left?”
Mr. Baxter sighed softly. He looked at de Lacey. “I should like some tea now.”
De Lacey swallowed. “Of course, sir.”
He traced the same path Mrs. Watson had taken. Outside the chapel, Mrs. Watson, detained by the men, lay on the ground in a heap, her skirts muddy, her face buried in one arm, bawling. De Lacey signaled for one man to keep an eye on her and the other seven to follow him back inside, firearms drawn.
He breathed fast as he reentered the chapel. They had more men, but when bullets flew, things became unpredictable—and that was without two large drums of perchloric acid in the immediate vicinity. He did not intend to wait for Mr. Baxter’s orders. The moment Miss Baxter’s men reached for their weapons, he would open fire and try to end the confrontation as soon as possible.
But Miss Baxter’s men did not whip out their firearms. And Miss Baxter did not even raise a brow at the sight of a small army piling into the chapel. The strangeness of their response made De Lacey’s heart smash against his ribcage. He set the men in formation around Mr. Baxter, he himself standing in front, feeling terribly exposed.
“I give you one last chance, Marguerite,” said Mr. Baxter. “You can come with me or you can die right here. And you two,” he addressed Peters and McEwan, “there is no need to lose your life alongside hers. Walk out of here and you will be free to live as you wish.”
Miss Baxter chortled. “My dear father, you swore to my dying mother, didn’t you, that you would always look after me? Breaking your promise so soon?”
She rose from her throne. McEwan dragged the elaborate chair aside, revealing a strange-looking device, covered by a dust sheet.
Miss Baxter positioned herself behind the device and whipped off the dust sheet. The machine that came to sight made de Lacey think of a mechanical lion: It was a rather awkward-looking cube on four legs, the cube surmounted by a number of steel plates. Only then did he see the ominous-looking barrel, and the belt of rounds, already loaded.
A Maxim gun.
McEwan hid behind the throne. Mr. Peters crouched down behind Miss Baxter.
