Page 96 of Miss Moriarty, I Presume?
“Are we speaking of the same man? Of only one man? Miss Baxter is a highly intelligent woman. Why would she suddenly allow Mr. Craddock into her orbit after keeping him at an arm’s length for so long?”
That you must ask Miss Baxter.
“But you are also trusted by Miss Baxter, are you not, Miss Fairchild? She could have gone anywhere to get away from her father. She chose to come here.”
She chose to come here because she is devoted to the teaching of the Great One, and there are not that many like-minded communities nearby, or in the entire world.
“Nevertheless she sends Mr. Peters, her watchdog, to confer with you. I saw you two speaking right here where we are standing now. Surely you don’t mean to tell me that Mr. Peters wanted to consult you on some finer points ofHermetica?”
Mr. Peters spoke to me because he admires Mrs. Crosby and did not know what he ought to do next, not because he wanted to talk to me about Miss Baxter or Mr. Craddock.
Mrs. Watson blinked. Love bloomed ever, even inside a fortress to which Moriarty had laid siege.
Miss Fairchild pocketed notebook and pencil. “And as for that so-called ‘reliable source’ of yours, Mrs. Watson, I would not place as much trust in it.”
Miss Fairchild hadspoken. Her voice had the sound of a dull knife scraping over rough stone, and made Mrs. Watson want to wrap a protective hand around her own throat. A full second passed before Mrs. Watson grasped her meaning.
Miss Fairchild had already started back toward the Garden, her thin back held ramrod straight, but she was nevertheless a small woman, insignificant against these endless miles of craggy coastline.
She had at last disputed the enemy-of-Moriarty designation attributed to her—and cast aspersion on Miss Marbleton’s reliability as a conduit of information. One could almost consider it an afterthought, but for the fact that she had spoken that objection aloud, using her irreparably damaged voice.
A shadow fell upon Mrs. Watson. She looked up. The nearest dark cloud was almost directly overhead.
The weather was changing again.
21
An invitation from Miss Baxter came by teatime, brought by a dark-faced Mr. Peters, who had recently proclaimed the impossibility of such a thing. Charlotte enjoyed his displeasure; she would have enjoyed it more if she didn’t need to face Miss Baxter.
The first time Miss Baxter had summoned her, the hour had been set at six in the evening. Charlotte had immediately started packing: Miss Baxter intended for Charlotte and company to depart the same night and had left them plenty of time for that.
This time, Charlotte was invited to call at eight. Clearly, the matter of Mr. Craddock would not be resolved so cleanly or quickly. The invitation was also for her alone, no guests included. Perhaps they would speak more frankly.
It had drizzled for half an hour around sunset and now a fog was rolling in again. As Charlotte stood on the veranda of Miss Baxter’s lodge, waiting for her knock to be answered, she could see barely six feet out. Such atmospheric conditions were not uncommon in London, but here the fog, though as obliterating, did not bring with it the odors of urban and industrial discharge. It smelled only of fresh air and cold, briny sea.
Mrs. Watson’s talk with Miss Fairchild in the afternoon had not produced confessions of shared enmity toward Moriarty. Nor had the vegetable garden yielded useful corpses—or indeed anything besides soil, pebbles, and an occasional root. Could Charlotte expect a better result from her meeting with Miss Baxter?
The door opened. Miss Stoppard admitted Charlotte, and showed her to the baroque parlor, where Miss Baxter was once again stretched out on the settee. This time her dress was more informal, a white tea gown embroidered with flaxen leaves and golden flowers. The overrobe was made entirely of lace, with a ruched collar and heavily pleated sleeves that greatly gratified Charlotte’s love of elaborate sartorial constructions.
“That is a beautiful frock,” she said immediately upon sitting down.
“Yes, it is, isn’t it?” Teardrop-shaped beads of turquoise were set amidst the embroidered botanical motifs. Miss Baxter fondly caressed one bead, then another.
“Although it has been carefully kept, it is not new. Does it have sentimental value? Did you use to wear it for your lover?”
Charlotte’s tone was straightforward. She was not here to ridicule Miss Baxter and certainly not to tease her. She wanted only facts.
Miss Baxter raised a brow. Her beauty had less to do with the arrangement of her features, but owed much more to the animating force of her expression. That simple movement encompassed a wealth of meaning, ranging from surprise, to approval, to anticipation of an equal divulgence on Charlotte’s part.
“Yes, a good guess. This was his favorite.”
“It was not a guess,” said Charlotte coolly. “I know fabric. I know cut. I know fashion. I know this tea gown was likely made between six and eight years ago—it must hold some significance for you to still favor it.
“Moreover, a tea gown is for lounging, but it is also what one dons to meet a paramour who has come to call. Since you made a point to bring up a specific gentleman the last time I was here, it would be rude for me not to make the connection.”
Miss Baxter laughed. “I see. You are telling me that I have not been very subtle.”
“Most things most people do are not subtle—not to Sherlock Holmes, in any case,” said Charlotte. “But here is an actual guess, one that isn’t supported by logic and evidence every step of the way, about the deal you struck with your father to regain some sort of freedom.”
