Page 93 of Miss Moriarty, I Presume?
She brought up the man who had been in Dr. Robinson’s cottage when she’d stolen inside and who had clamped a hand over her mouth to keep her silent when she’d happened upon his hiding place.
Mrs. Watson worried the drawstring of her reticule. But she only said, after a moment, “I’m glad you escaped unscathed, my dear. Please go on.”
“I’m likewise glad to have been unharmed.” Charlotte inclined her head toward the dear lady who always wanted to protect and comfort everyone. “Now this man couldn’t have been Dr. Robinson, who was in the cottage at the same time. He wasn’t Mr. Peters, who, according to Lord Ingram, did not stray from the vicinity of Miss Baxter’s lodge.
“The man wasn’t Mr. McEwan, who was on the wall with Miss Stoppard. He didn’t smell of horses, so he wasn’t John Spackett, who had harnessed a horse to a carriage just before that. And he also didn’t smell of Mr. Steele’s cologne water.
“At the time, I thought he had to be Mr. Craddock and suspected him of being Moriarty’s minion. I also thought it likely that he trespassed for the same reason I did: to obtain indirect intelligence on Miss Baxter.
“That in itself was not remarkable—it was already a foregone conclusion by then that Mrs. Felton could not be the only Moriarty spy at the Garden. But if the man was an imposter—thatis much more interesting. The imposter, chosen to replace the original Mr. Craddock, should number among Miss Baxter’s loyalists. Yet he was there spying on Dr. Robinson, who is surely someone she trusts completely.”
“Is it possible that... ” Mrs. Watson’s voice trailed off. “What is going on?”
Their remise crested an incline. The Garden of Hermopolis, its castle-like walls gleaming under the sun, came into view, looming in the distance with a vaguely sinister magnificence.
Except now, on the headland to the west, several tents were being erected. Or rather, one was staked in and ready, and half a dozen men were working on two more.
Camping had been a popular pastime along the Upper Thames for years, developed in conjuncture with pleasure boating, as heavy tents were more easily transported by watercraft. But the Garden was not situated along any river and its surroundings, while beautiful, would not have lured Charlotte to spend a night outdoors in so early in the year.
Mrs. Watson must have come to a similar conclusion. Her fingers closed around the handle of her umbrella—also a gift from Lord Ingram, capable of firing two shots. “Did... did Moriarty send these men?”
“Probably,” said Lord Ingram. His tone suggested that the probability verged on one hundred percent. “But why?”
Why indeed?
The residentsof the Garden of Hermopolis had noticed the men and the tents outside of their front gate. With her binoculars, Charlotte counted eleven figures atop the wall, watching—everyone except Mrs. Crosby, Miss Baxter, and Mr. Craddock.
As the remise drew near, several people disappeared from the ramparts. Mr. Peters and John Spackett opened the gate. Miss Ellery greeted them. Charlotte had cabled the Garden the day before, soon after she learned they would be forced to return. Their arrival therefore surprised no one, but Miss Ellery’s smile was both awkward and uneasy.
Charlotte, leaving Mrs. Watson to speak with Miss Ellery, went in search of Abby Hurley, the kitchen maid. Abby Hurley, who had just climbed down from the wall, was surprised to be accosted, but told Charlotte readily enough that yes, Mr. Craddock used to pick up his meal baskets himself. But around Christmas he moved to another cottage and left to visit some friends. When he came back, he began a meditative retreat. Since then she had delivered and retrieved his baskets, leaving them outside his door and picking them up again from the same spot.
Charlotte thanked her and proceeded directly to the cottage currently occupied by “Mr. “Craddock”, in the back of Miss Baxter’s cluster, with its noted view of fruit trees espaliered against the wall. A slate tablet hung on the door:Meditative retreat in progress. Pray do not disturb.
By this time, Lord Ingram had caught up with her. So had Mr. Peters.
“Miss Holmes, are you planning to disturb Mr. Craddock?” he asked with a tilt of his head.
Before he’d threatened Mrs. Watson and Charlotte on the wall, their first night at the Garden, Mr. Peters’s boyishly good-looking face had appeared convivial and occasionally mischievous—Mrs. Watson would have characterized that mischief as malicious. Now there was no trace of playfulness—malicious or not—left in his countenance and no round cheeks or mop of hair could soften the iciness of his gaze.
“Mr. Craddock does not observe his retreat strictly.” Charlotte made her counterargument. “He was out and about, wasn’t he, the night of the fireworks?”
“Therefore?”
“Therefore I am going to inform him of my deep interest in his welfare. I don’t believe I will be allowed to return to London unless he proves himself to be in good condition.”
She pulled out a folded piece of paper from her reticule and slipped it under Mr. Craddock’s door. Then she headed toward Miss Baxter’s lodge.
Mr. Peters caught up with her on the lodge’s veranda. “Miss Baxter will not receive you.”
“Perfect, as I am only leaving a calling card, now that we are back.”
She folded a corner of one of Sherlock Holmes’s cards and left it under the door.
“Aren’t you going to leave one for Miss Fairchild, too?”
Normal rules of card-leaving stipulated the acknowledgment of one’s hostess.
Charlotte rose and turned around. “Would that help me depart here sooner?”
