Page 104 of Miss Moriarty, I Presume?
Miss Baxter disappeared behind the protective plates fastened to the Maxim gun. She laughed. “Shall we start firing now, Father, and see which side lasts longer?”
Even Mr. Baxterhad to bow to the firepower of an armored machine gun.
Like any victorious force, Miss Baxter required that the defeated be stripped of their arms. The men of Mr. Baxter’s party not only had to lay down their weapons, but had to submit to a search for spare pistols and knives, while Miss Baxter grinned, her finger on the Maxim gun’s trigger, the barrel pointed directly at her father.
De Lacey’s face burned as he trudged out of the chapel, Miss Baxter’s laughter floating behind him.
Her laughter was not the only thing that followed the vanquished. With only a pair of revolvers, Peters and McEwan herded them, as if they were Roman generals parading captives into the Eternal City. Or new conquerors driving peasants off their land.
At last, the gate of the Garden closed behind them with a clang. Mr. Baxter, at the head of the inglorious retreat, turned around. De Lacey’s limbs wobbled.
He expected a rage that would asphyxiate him outright. But oddly enough, Mr. Baxter seemed entirely unaffected. De Lacey rubbed his throat, disconcerted by the lack of uncomfortable feelings.
He recalled that long-ago dinner again, at which Mr. Baxter had shot Sumner. Mr. Baxter hadn’t been the least bit upset then either.
Earlier this day, he had still considered Miss Baxter as his daughter. But now she was simply another foe who would be eliminated in time.
The thought did not make de Lacey feel easier. He was still a witness to Mr. Baxter’s humiliation. His own life might still be forfeit.
At last Mr. Baxter spoke. “There are other matters that require my attention.”
That was true. They still hadn’t caught Madame Desrosiers, their ranks might still be riddled with traitors, and it was rumored that Myron Finch was throwing every wrench into the works, though it was beyond de Lacey how much damage a mere cryptographer could cause.
“Keep an eye on Mrs. Watson. Keep an eye on the Garden,” continued Mr. Baxter.
“Yes, sir!” If Mr. Baxter still had tasks for him, then at least he wasn’t about to become a late, former de Lacey.
Mr. Baxter was already leaving with the men he brought. De Lacey hurriedly started giving orders. The patrol around the Garden’s walls must resume. The gate, too, must be watched. The rest of the men he sent to Porthangan and to the nearest telegraph office.
Mrs. Watson’s manservant came to the Garden not long afterwards. When he drove out of the garden again, De Lacey stopped the carriage. Upon his shabby exit from the chapel, he’d seen Mrs. Watson sitting on the ground, her head in her hands, still consumed with grief. This time she huddled in a corner of the carriage, covered by a cloak. Her face bore signs of having been washed recently, and it seemed that someone had made an effort to comb her hair, nevertheless she looked disheveled.
As he climbed into the carriage, she only continued to stare ahead, her red-rimmed gaze unseeing.
“Mrs. Watson,” said de Lacey, raising his voice, “what happened to Miss Holmes?”
Mrs. Watson twitched. “She... Miss Baxter... She... Perchloric acid... ”
With a small scream she bolted upright. “Nothing has happened to Miss Holmes. Miss Baxter is a liar. As soon as I met her I knew her to be a liar. Lies. All lies!”
He let the carriage go.
One of his men keeping watch in the village returned to report that Mrs. Watson opened the window of a room above the pub and screamed,She is not dead! She can’t be!before being dragged away by her concerned manservant, who later told others at the pub that she’d had some bad news and he’d had to administer laudanum.
Not long after, a man stationed at the telegraph office came with news that it was the manservant who’d come in, and his cable stated only that Miss H had met grave misfortune at the hands of Miss B. At leasthehadn’t taken leave of his senses.
At sunset Miss Fairchild and Miss Ellery left the Garden. They had been the last two residents remaining, besides Miss Baxter, Peters, and McEwan.
Numbly de Lacey carried on with his tasks. A little past ten he received report from the village that Mrs. Watson’s manservant, since his trip to the telegraph office, had been nursing strong drinks in the pub, looking as if he’d lost his own sister. And the sedated Mrs. Watson never left her room.
De Lacey was writing down what he had learned in the light of a kerosene lamp when the sound of hoofbeats made him come out of his tent.
A carriage, its lanterns swinging, cut across the moors. It came to a hard stop in front of the Garden’s gate. Two men leaped off and pulled the heavy rope to ring the bell. The lanterns in their hands illuminated the sharp profile of Lord Ingram—and a fellow who looked vaguely familiar. Inspector Treadles?
A deafening explosion knocked them flat.
De Lacey, two hundred feet away, threw himself down. Beneath him, the ground shook.
“What happened?” shouted his confused men.
