Miss Moriarty, I Presume?, page 22
With regard to Mr. Young, the disturber of the peace the night before, his skills as a boat maker were universally praised. As a man, he was judged a good uncle to his orphaned nephew, though a little less steady than he ought to be at his age was also a recurring refrain.
Mr. Mears confirmed that Mr. Young was seen walking with a visitor to the harbor the previous afternoon. Mindful of Mrs. Crosby’s reputation, Mr. Mears had refrained from any questions that directly connected her to Mr. Young, as news of the unwanted fireworks had not yet spread, and the villagers were blissfully unaware that one of their own had been the cause of so much chaos three miles away at the Garden.
“For all that the Garden is a religious oddity,” he concluded, “the community seems to enjoy a fine reputation. Miss Fairchild is thought of as a very respectable lady. Miss Baxter, furthermore, is considered grand. More than one person recalled how majestic she had appeared the time she served as the boat race’s judge, how she stood on the seawall of the harbor looking like the queen of the sea herself.”
From where they stood, the seawall was almost directly below, a ribbon of defense against the ceaseless waves. Lord Ingram tried to imagine a crowd of awestruck villagers surrounding a regal Miss Baxter, her face proudly upturned, her skirts billowing in the breeze. But his gaze kept shifting to Holmes, a few steps to the side, slowly twirling her parasol, observing everything with her usual expression of impenetrable blandness.
“Mr. Mears, do you think that perhaps among the villagers Miss Baxter’s prestige outstrips Miss Fairchild’s?” piped up Mrs. Watson, kicking away a pebble with the tip of her boot. It fell down the side of the outcrop and landed with a small thud on the grass below.
Mr. Mears scratched his chin. “I never asked that question directly, but judging by everything I’ve been told . . . Yes, I do believe that to be the case.”
Mrs. Watson’s meaning was not lost on Lord Ingram. Power struggles among ladies were as real as those among men—albeit since women had access to less power, and frequently only power of a less tangible sort, their jockeying for position was not taken as seriously. But to anyone who must live within a pecking order, the influence and dominance exerted by those at the top was all too real.
If Miss Fairchild, the founder of the community, felt herself playing second fiddle to Miss Baxter . . .
* * *
They returned Mr. Mears to the village and drove back to the Garden. Mrs. Felton, who opened the gate for them, asked whether Holmes had gone to post her report of the night’s events.
“I suppose I can write one now,” said Holmes, unconcerned.
Mrs. Felton’s hands rose to midair in her shock. “You haven’t written one yet, miss? You must hurry or you’ll miss the post.”
“Do your work, Holmes,” said Lord Ingram, smiling. He offered his arm to Mrs. Watson. “Shall we take a walk in the surrounding area, ma’am?”
The day remained incandescently lovely. The headlands were a fresh, primeval green. In the distance herds of sheep grazed, fluffy with a year’s worth of wool. Seagulls drifted on the breeze, their caws made musical by the rhythm of the waves.
“Oh, look at that. There’s a hole in that rock face,” exclaimed Mrs. Watson.
They were walking down the steep slope that led to the small promontory below the Garden. The descent led to a shallow, flat area. But beyond that, the promontory reared up, stony and precipitous. And there was indeed a hole, too small for anything larger than a cat to pass through, but too deep and dark for them to see where or whether it ended.
“There are many caves on the Cornish coast,” he said. “Perhaps this is an entrance to a cave.”
“Perhaps it has a larger opening somewhere else,” mused Mrs. Watson. “Do you suppose it might have been used for smuggling back in the day?”
They did find a larger opening on the seaward side of the promontory. But it narrowed quickly, and four feet in, Lord Ingram not only could no longer move an inch forward but found himself wedged in place. In extricating himself, he tore a button off the front of his greatcoat.
“Are you all right, my dear?” said Mrs. Watson, standing outside the cave.
“Yes, although my coat cannot claim to be equally unscathed.”
She fussed over his clothes for a minute. They turned around and faced the sea. The slope here was sharp but not dangerous, and it was not a bad vantage point from which to enjoy a view of the horizon.
“I have been wondering . . .” murmured Mrs. Watson.
Ah, at last. He knew she had questions for him. “Yes, ma’am?”
She’d collapsed her parasol, so that it wouldn’t be blown away by an unpredictable gust. Holding its handle, she tapped the tip of the parasol on the ground. “I’ve been wondering, my dear—too late, of course—but I’ve been wondering . . . In always creating opportunities for you and Miss Charlotte to be alone, have I been thoughtless?”
He half smiled, half grimaced to himself. Mrs. Watson did sometimes have a certain look on her face, as if she were scheming to physically shove Holmes and him together.
“There have been occasions when I thought you would clap, ma’am, if Holmes and I . . . made certain progress.”
“There have been occasions when I had my hands ready and waiting.” She emitted an embarrassed laugh. “But now that I can clap for you, I feel . . .”
He had noticed. That look had been absent on this trip.
She gazed at the sea. Under the sunlight it was turquoise with streaks of dark, somber blue. “It’s like attending a childbirth. In theory it’s a wonderful event. But in fact, no one knows whether the mother will survive, or the baby. If the child survives the womb, it can be felled by pneumonia when it’s three, or scarlet fever two years later. And even if the child is strong as an ox, it can still die in a shipwreck or a carriage accident.”
“After a hopeful beginning, there is no end to the mishaps and obstacles,” he said.
She sighed. “And I’ve always fretted about all the potential pitfalls.”
His heart constricted. “And what potential pitfalls. She loves freedom, but I cannot give her more freedom. I love security, but she cannot give me greater security.”
And sometimes, in the midst of his happiness, he felt . . . not dissatisfaction per se but a hollow sensation, an urgent need polluted with a few drops of fear.
The forlornness of someone who wanted to hold on with both hands forced to keep his hands at his side.
A flock of seagulls, which had been floating on the waves, spread their wings and took to the sky. He offered his arm to Mrs. Watson again. “Don’t be sad, ma’am. I am far happier today than I was a year ago, far happier even than I was three months ago. I simply do not know what will happen in the future, that’s all. None of us do.”
She leaned her head on his shoulder. “I suppose you are right.”
He was. He was a bit melancholy, too, so he resolved to ask Holmes to make her erotic tale twice as salacious. That wouldn’t resolve the fundamental problem—not in the least—but it would be great fun, wouldn’t it?
They climbed back up to the top of the bluffs. Near the Garden’s gate, Mrs. Felton drove out and waved at them—she’d finished her work for the day and was leaving with Holmes’s letter to post. They detoured by the carriage house—the Garden’s coach still hadn’t returned.
Halfway down the somewhat muddy central path, a woman in a grey jacket and a matching pair of bloomers came around a dormant garden bed.
“Miss Stoppard?” As she neared, Lord Ingram asked with some hesitation. He’d never seen her in good light.
“That’s right,” said Miss Stoppard.
And walked past them without another word, headed for their cottage. Lord Ingram and Mrs. Watson exchanged a look.
In front of their cottage, Miss Stoppard knocked. Lord Ingram and Mrs. Watson stopped a few paces away. The woman didn’t seem to want any hospitality, best let her get on with what she had come to do.
Holmes opened the door.
Without any preamble, Miss Stoppard handed over an envelope. “Good afternoon, Miss Holmes. I have something for you from Miss Baxter.”
Mrs. Watson’s hand tightened around Lord Ingram’s forearm.
“Thank you,” said Holmes.
Miss Stoppard nodded, pivoted, and left.
By the time Lord Ingram and Mrs. Watson entered the cottage, Holmes had already broken the seal on the envelope.
She pulled out a card, glanced at it, then glanced up at Lord Ingram and Mrs. Watson. “The card says, ‘Miss Baxter will be pleased to receive Miss Holmes and company this evening at six.’ ”
Sixteen
Oxford Street ranked among London’s—and therefore perhaps the world’s—busiest thoroughfares. So it should come as no surprise that Hanley Street, an offshoot of Oxford Street, had plenty of commercial establishments and that 23 Hanley Street was a shop front.
Yet Livia, standing across the street, was so dismayed she could barely understand the words on the display window.
fine patriotic souvenirs for her majesty’s golden jubilee.
Carriages rumbled past without cease in both directions. Customers ran with parcels to their carriages. Pedestrians darted between clarences and hansom cabs, then shouted and swore as they were splashed by churning carriage wheels.
With all the commotion, Livia still saw those words much too clearly.
She had made a terrible mistake. This couldn’t be the address toward which Mr. Marbleton had tried so hard to point her. Which one should it have been? She tried to recall the other addresses, but numbers and letters ran amok in her head.
Maybe he hadn’t touched the register at all. Maybe he’d meant to signal her some other way and she’d missed it entirely. Or maybe he hadn’t been able to do anything at all, but was as helpless as she herself and—
She took a deep breath. She must calm down. She must not despair. And she must not have so little faith in herself. For now, she was going to assume that she was correct, that this was the place.
She crossed the street, stopped directly before the display window, and squinted at the rows of neatly arranged merchandise inside. There were yellow-and-purple hats that would have made Charlotte’s magpie soul trill in joy; ribbons featuring the queen’s pudgy, unsmiling face; and teacups painted with the dates of her fifty years on the throne. There were also stacks of Jubilee playing cards and Jubilee fans, interspersed with cockades and what looked like rather fat Jubilee fountain pens.
The cockades!
She blinked and leaned down for a closer look. But there was no question, the glimpse of color and texture she’d seen on his coat—he had worn such a cockade as a brooch.
All at once she could envision him, standing before the register in the Reading Room, looking at his guards and asking softly in German, What should I put down for my address?
The guards would respond along the lines of Anything, as long as it’s wrong.
And he would have shrugged, pulled a card out of his pocket, and jotted down 23 Hanley Street.
What’s that?
At the place where I bought my cockade, they gave me a card. Said I should bring the ladies of the family the next time.
But was it a coincidence or had he planned it?
She had spoken very little with Mr. Marbleton about his upbringing—a subject that made her uneasy. He and his family had never lived anywhere permanently because of Moriarty’s long arm and even longer shadow. But she knew that he possessed no particular patriotic fervor for either queen or country. She also knew, from Charlotte’s words and her own observations, that his family was adept at disguises and other sorts of subterranean communications.
He had planned it. He might not have expected any chances of success, but he had planned it.
But what could Livia possibly learn from a shop full of Jubilee goods?
* * *
After the initial burst of chatter over the invitation, Miss Charlotte recommended that everyone should get ready.
By getting ready, Mrs. Watson thought she meant to discuss strategy. Instead, the girl started packing. Lord Ingram took a look at her and did the same. Mrs. Watson hesitated a little longer before joining in. It couldn’t hurt, she supposed. After all, if they indeed saw Miss Baxter tonight, then the thing to do would be to catch the next train back to London and disclose their findings to Moriarty.
If they indeed saw Miss Baxter tonight, that is.
Lord Ingram, the first to be finished, went out to the walls again. He came back within minutes and reported that Mr. Peters had returned with the coach, but Mrs. Crosby had not come back with him.
Miss Charlotte nodded and went back to buckling her satchel.
“Miss Charlotte, you don’t seem surprised about it,” said Mrs. Watson, unnerved. “You weren’t even surprised about the invitation to Miss Baxter’s.”
“I don’t know enough to judge the significance of Mr. Peters’s and Mrs. Crosby’s comings and goings,” said Miss Charlotte. She rose to her feet, walked to the door, and donned her mantle. “As for the invitation to Miss Baxter’s, you are right about that—I wasn’t surprised. The events last night were always meant to force somebody’s hand.”
They walked to Miss Baxter’s lodge under a purple dusk, a few rays of light still glowing in the western sky. In front of the lodge, they met Miss Fairchild, Miss Ellery, and the Steeles, also brandishing invitations. Mrs. Watson, already astounded, was now staggered. Were she trying to pass off someone as Miss Baxter at this point, she would not have invited anyone who had actually known her.
As Lord Ingram hadn’t formally met the Garden’s residents, introductions were performed. Mr. Steele rang the doorbell. Miss Stoppard answered the door and greeted the callers with a nod.
In the vestibule, the company shed coats and stashed walking sticks and umbrellas. They proceeded to a small entry hall, where Miss Stoppard said to them, “I’ll let Miss Baxter know that you are here.”
She opened the parlor door a crack and disappeared inside; the residents of the Garden followed her with their eyes. The Steeles appeared nonplussed; Miss Ellery, restless and excited. Miss Fairchild, on the other hand, seemed a little troubled.
Miss Charlotte walked about the entry hall, looking at the décor. Mrs. Watson remembered the disturbing painting in the library that was attributed to Miss Baxter. Fortunately, in the entry at least, the pictures were seascapes and still lifes, with little to excite the imagination.
“Miss Baxter is ready to see you,” said Miss Stoppard.
And with that, she opened the parlor door all the way.
Mrs. Watson groaned inwardly. A large canvas hung opposite the door. A woman in white, her red hair streaming in the wind, pushed a long gleaming sword into the eye socket of a skull, pinning it to the ground. Blood seeped out from the skull. As if that weren’t disconcerting enough, a blood-speckled serpent climbed up one of the woman’s bare, shapely limbs, its forked tongue already past her knee.
Mrs. Watson was sure the image would haunt her the entire time she remained in the lodge, but the moment she walked into the parlor, she forgot about the painting.
On any other occasion, she would have marveled at the existence of such a drawing room at the very edge of a Cornish cliff. Between the huge, gilded mirrors, the Watteau-esque murals of brightly dressed revelers against a sylvan background, and the slender-legged furniture upholstered in a creamy silk with just a whisper of green, this parlor would not have felt out of place in the stateliest hôtels particuliers in Paris.
But tonight, Mrs. Watson’s gaze fell on the woman half inclined on a settee. Her face was very pale, almost translucent, that of an already-fair person who hadn’t seen the sun in long months, the auburn hair that Mrs. Felton had mentioned gathered back in a sleek chignon. She wore an evening gown in dark green velvet, with a square décolletage showing off smooth skin and a pair of very pretty collarbones. The sleeves ended at the elbow. On one bare forearm she sported an emerald-studded bangle, on the other, a snake bracelet in shiny gold.
As the crowd entered, she turned her face. Her eyes were long and deep set, the irises a hazel made much darker by her midnight-forest gown. Not the most beautiful woman Mrs. Watson had ever seen, but these were stunning eyes and the effect of their direct sweep . . .
Mrs. Watson had to wrestle with an urge to lower her head and curtsy.
If anything, Mrs. Felton had understated the grandness of Miss Baxter.
“Please sit down,” she said.
Her voice was a little hoarse, yet that served only to add to the power of her presence.
“Thank you, Miss Baxter,” said the Steeles and Miss Ellery in unison.
The room was not lit like Versailles on the night of a ball, but it was not dim by any means. If anyone was trying to pass off a counterfeit Miss Baxter, they were confident enough to do so not only before people who had known her for years but under full illumination.
The bustle of seven people sitting down and Miss Stoppard making tea to the side further emphasized Miss Baxter’s stillness. She moved not at all, except for her transfixing gaze, which traveled from caller to caller, and came to rest on Miss Charlotte, who was at her usual wholehearted inspection of the refreshments on offer.
Miss Stoppard poured tea and handed around plates of pastry. Despite her bloomers, which did her figure no favors—a woman might as well wear narrow trousers if she was going to wear trousers—Miss Stoppard was in fact a woman of refined beauty. Had Miss Baxter not been in the room, Miss Stoppard would have made for a commanding hostess. But with Miss Baxter present, no one could mistake Miss Stoppard for anything other than a dedicated handmaiden.
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