Page 72 of Miss Moriarty, I Presume?
“Then you might as well read it on your journey back, should you have nothing else to do. But really, would it not better prove you saw me if you were in the photographs yourself?”
The validity of the idea could not be denied. Miss Charlotte gave her detective camera to Miss Stoppard, along with a brief explanation on how to operate it. Miss Stoppard raised the camera, but Miss Baxter said, “Jane dear, don’t tax yourself so. Please bring a stool and the stack of papers from my room.”
“From... your room?” asked Miss Stoppard hesitantly.
“Yes, my room. Thank you, my dear.”
“Of course,” said Miss Stoppard.
She left, but not without looking back at Mrs. Watson and Miss Charlotte with surprised suspicion.
The room fell silent.
Miss Baxter glanced at Lord Ingram. “You, sir, you haven’t said a thing since you came into this room. Have you no questions?”
Lord Ingram had indeed been quiet, his expression carefully neutral as he listened and observed. Now he inclined his head. “I am only here to look after Miss Holmes and Mrs. Watson. But since you asked, Miss Baxter, I would like to know why you approved of Sherlock Holmes as the neutral party.”
“I commend you for knowing your place, sir. As for your question, Sherlock Holmes’s reputation precedes him. And in this day and age, being on the coast of Cornwall is no excuse not to have heard of the most prominent consulting detective in the nation.”
Her attention shifted to Mrs. Watson. “And you, madam, have you also no questions for me?”
Mrs. Watson had dozens of questions but none that she felt would gain her a useful answer. “Mr. Peters said you painted the large canvas in the library. Did you also paint the picture opposite the door? They are both striking.”
“Yes, I did,” said Miss Baxter with a leisurely look in the direction of woman, skull, and snake. Again, was it languor or weariness? “Someone once said that I am not necessarily a good painter, but at least an expressive one.”
“Would you mind telling us what the elements in the image stand for?” asked Miss Charlotte.
“The struggle to achieve even a small measure of transcendence, when evil is all around,” said Miss Baxter, echoing what Mr. Peters had said in the library.
Mrs. Watson couldn’t help herself. “I could understand that theme very well in the painting in the library, in which the woman, who presumably stands for some measure of truth and innocence, is under great attack from evil. But here she seems to be defeating evil, yet the serpent climbing up her limb suggests that her victory is incomplete.”
“Of course it is. The legacy of evil is insidious. Even the ones who seek to overthrow evil must be vigilant of its taint, of carrying evil in their own footsteps.”
“Then what is the point of the struggle against evil, if it can never be eradicated?”
“Weeds can never be eradicated either, Mrs. Watson, but gardeners must still uproot them. It is the same with evil. It will always exist, and it will multiply and encroach if it is not constantly pared back.”
Miss Stoppard returned then with a low stool in one hand and a stack of newspapers under her other arm. Miss Baxter directed Miss Charlotte to stand behind her settee. Miss Stoppard, after placing the newspapers on the stool and then the detective camera on top of the newspapers, looked into the viewfinder, pulled the stool back a few feet, and counseled everyone to hold still.
When Miss Stoppard declared herself satisfied, Miss Charlotte went to take charge of the detective camera. Casually, she looked through the stack of papers. “I had no idea there were so many local gazettes.”
“Yes, our presses are kept busy,” replied Miss Baxter.
“May I take some of these to read on my journey back?”
“Alas, those are my personal collection. But you can easily find them at any newsagent’s in the area.”
“I will look for them, then. Thank you, Miss Baxter, for consenting to the photographs. But since there is no telling how the photograph might or might not turn out, given the relative paucity of light, may I ask that you give me something that proves conclusively that I spoke to you and not to someone else?”
Miss Baxter regarded Miss Charlotte for a while, as if she needed to make a decision. “Very well. I have an annual appointment with my father in London. But what my father didn’t know for a number of years was that on those outings to London, I also rendezvoused with another person.”
“Oh?” murmured Miss Charlotte.
“Years ago, I had a young man with whom I was very much in love. My father absolutely refused to let me marry him and ruthlessly tore us apart. For his own safety, my young man could not approach me, lest his life be endangered.”
The soles of Mrs. Watson’s feet tingled—she had not expected a confession of such a nature. Yet Miss Baxter’s love story did not make her feel breathless with anticipation. Instead her whole body clenched, as if bracing for a carriage accident.
“What we resolved to do was to see each other once a year. He was to stand at the foot of the statue of Achilles, at Hyde Park Corner, and I would walk past. For years he kept the appointment. But last year he was not there.”
