A hand locked on to her upper arm. Livia glanced down at the hand, then up at Mrs. Watson’s shocked face.

  Where are you going? mouthed Mrs. Watson.

  Livia looked down again. She had opened the door more widely and was about to step into the corridor.

  Mrs. Watson’s expression of exaggerated disbelief would have been comical if Livia weren’t suddenly covered in a cold sweat.

  Gingerly, she took a step back, but the impact of her heel on the floorboard sounded like an anvil crashing. She grimaced, retreated another step, and leaned against the wall, panting.

  What had happened? She wasn’t even sure what she had meant to do by rushing forward. She simply wanted to do something. To give the man an answer.

  And to thank him for bringing back her beloved.

  When she’d been told, in no uncertain terms, that the man was Moriarty.

  Four

  Hypnotic.

  In this age of the occult, with everyone’s cousin having attended a séance, Charlotte had heard that word much bandied about. Once, it had even been applied to her own gaze by an eager swain, trying to explain her effect on him. But in every prior instance in her experience, its use had been figurative.

  Not here.

  She felt it, the slipping of her own volition into a state of dormancy, and the corresponding ascendancy of Moriarty’s will. Remarkable, what he was able to accomplish, without a pendulum in sight—or her consent in the exercise, for that matter.

  Earlier she had seen a parallel between Moriarty and her father. It had been an unlovely lesson, to learn that her father had prized her only for the novelty she had been as a little girl and had no use for the idiosyncratic woman she later became. Moriarty, too, saw her as a diversion, a woman winsome enough and clever enough to be entertaining for a while.

  A good thing that she, too, had been aiming in that direction, offering deductions unprompted and giving every appearance of wallowing in his praise and admiration.

  She continued to gaze into his eyes. She did possess a strong enough mind to break free of his cavalier attempt at imposing control, but did not want to give the appearance of doing so. It would be better for him to stop on his own, either because he lost interest in toying with her or because his focus shifted to something else.

  She smiled. She even laughed a little, her laughter soft and breathless. “I do have some idea as to the purpose of your visit today, sir.”

  “Oh?” said Moriarty, sounding profoundly interested.

  Did you know, Mr. Baxter, that Mrs. Watson and I were about to take a trip to Paris? She to see her niece, and I to call on those fascinating items that we purloined from your château? Yes, I was planning to take them out of the bank vault where they have been stowed and spend quite a bit of time studying them. I thought I would have a greater appreciation for the photographs in the collection, now that we have learned something of your modus operandi.

  Under the belling of her sleeve, she dug her middle and ring fingers into the center of her palm and concentrated on the discomfort.

  Raising her other hand, she waved an index finger, an airy, careless gesture. “I believe, Mr. Baxter, that you did not come with a problem about your enterprise—for that, a visit from Mr. de Lacey or one of his lieutenants would have sufficed. Am I correct?”

  “Very much so.”

  She waggled her brows and hoped she looked supremely pleased with herself, rather than deranged. “Aha, as I thought. Well, then, since it is not business, it must be personal.”

  “Again, exactly on the mark. Tell me more,” said Moriarty, his voice a siren song.

  Do you wonder who it was that stole your secrets? Do these secrets matter very much to you, or do you have so many secrets that you can barely keep track of them?

  Her nails again sank into the soft center of her palm. Her willpower was not the only thing in danger of wilting. Her eyelids felt heavy; her head did, too.

  Still not daring to look away from his eyes, she said, “I do not believe this personal matter concerns you yourself—you, sir, do not appear to need help. It must then have to do with someone else. For you to have traveled so far—from a locale with a similar longitude to Berlin, perhaps even Vienna—this someone must be of great importance. A family member, most likely. A female family member.”

  Something flitted across Moriarty’s face. “Indeed?”

  “Indeed. It is much easier to go to the police with difficulties concerning a man than with those concerning a woman. Ergo, the need for a discreet consulting detective.”

  She was speaking more slowly. An enormous lethargy had settled over her, the cost of not actively resisting his mesmerism. A part of her was sincerely terrified, but the rest of her, perhaps most of her, could not seem to care.

  A bead of perspiration rolled down between her breasts. She forced herself to carry on, slurring her words a little, yet at the same time injecting a measure of amateurish coquettishness. “I would not guess the difficulties to involve a lady . . . in a spousal position to yourself. You came such a long way, sir, which makes me think that this family member resides not with you in Berlin or Vienna or where have you, but right here in Britain. A distance spanning half a continent suggests that the person on the other side is a grown child, rather than a . . . domestic companion.”

  Moriarty, who until this moment had leaned forward in his chair, moved back. He tilted his face up slightly and studied Charlotte.

  The foundation of Charlotte’s reasoning rested on the fact that he was a man with bigger problems. It was only recently that his loyalist had freed him from others in his organization who had overthrown and imprisoned him. Compared to a successful coup and traitors in his own ranks, Sherlock Holmes & Co. could not amount to more than a minor annoyance, a fly that buzzed in a corner of a house that had very nearly burned to the ground. Obviously Moriarty, the owner of this damaged edifice, had instructed his underlings to keep an eye on Charlotte, in case she grew into a greater threat, but for him to have suddenly come to her in person?

  If she were right, then she did not merit this kind of personal attention. Not yet, in any case. His presence could be explained only if he happened to be in Britain and happened to be in need of a discreet female investigator.

  If she were right. If Lady Ingram had not been caught and interrogated. If Mr. Marbleton had not betrayed them, willingly or unwillingly. If Moriarty still didn’t know who stole his treasures from Château Vaudrieu.

  If he hadn’t guessed the truth while looking directly into the very depths of Charlotte’s mind.

  Moriarty continued to consider her with avuncular beneficence. There was nothing intimidating in his conduct, which appeared merely to be that of a confounded man who didn’t know where to begin his response. Still, she felt like a small creature in a glass vivarium, with no place to run and no place to hide.

  Fortunately, it was not the same hypnotic scrutiny from earlier. Perhaps the effort had wearied him. Or perhaps she had at last distracted him with her deductions.

  The sensation of no longer being stuck under a hundred-pound blanket, however, did not lessen her exhaustion. To the contrary, she felt even more depleted—and hungry and thirsty besides. But she only blinked a few times, as if coming out of a particularly absorbing reverie, and tucked a nonexistent strand of loose hair behind her ear.

  “I must account myself impressed with your deductions, Miss Holmes,” said Moriarty. “I have indeed come to see you about my daughter.”

  Beneath her skirts, Charlotte’s limbs quaked.

  So they were still safe.

  For the moment.

  She forced herself to hold still and glanced out of the corners of her eyes at Mr. Marbleton. He sat with his gaze downcast, seemingly uninterested in the goings-on. Instead of scuffing one sole on her carpet, he was now pulling in both heels, his gleaming black Oxford shoes inching over a spread of dusky rose petals.

  Was he calmer, compared to a few minutes ago?

  Calmer, perhaps, but not more relaxed.

  Charlotte had decided, early on, that she wanted Moriarty to underestimate her. Sherlock Holmes’s reputation of cleverness was well established, so she would not seek to misrepresent herself in that regard. Rather, she would distort her temperament, throwing in vanity, braggadocio, and a need for approval, especially from powerful older men.

  “As I thought,” she said with a trace of smugness, putting more water to boil over the spirit lamp for a fresh pot of tea. “Please, I’m all ears.”

  Moriarty sighed. All at once, he radiated fatigue and defeat. And she, who had struggled to understand human emotions as a child, and who still, from what she could gather, experienced fewer and less intense emotions than did most others, felt the depth of his loss.

  Was this why Mr. Marbleton had not relaxed? Because Moriarty’s gifts extended beyond mesmerism? The pain and anguish he manifested, real or not, were flames that beguiled unwary moths.

  So she had better play the part of an unwary moth. Thankfully, she always brought a notebook to client meetings. She rarely used the notebook, but transcribing Moriarty’s words gave her a valid excuse not to look directly at him.

  At the flames that sought to burn her wings.

  “The first Mrs. Baxter died in childbirth, a tragedy for which I’ve still not completely forgiven myself,” he began, the faintest catch to his voice. “The infant survived, but the attending physician did not believe she would live to see her first birthday. Having lost Mrs. Baxter, I did not wish to love and lose someone else. So I allowed my daughter’s maternal grandmother to take charge of her upbringing.

  “She proved to be made of sterner material, my child. Not only did she reach her first birthday, she sailed past subsequent ones without any regard to predictions of her early demise. I, on the other hand, made the mistake of hesitating year after year, wondering whether she was only meant to flourish under her grandmother’s care. Whether if I were to bring her back into my life, Fate would immediately intervene and seize her from me.”

  Charlotte, who had placed an éclair on her plate, proceeded to ignore it, transcribing his story with the earnestness of an apprentice secretary.

  “She was ten when she at last came to live with me, after her grandmother passed away. I thought we’d get along very well and we did, but we never grew close. She missed her old life and always wished to return to England and live in the house in which she grew up—and which had been bequeathed to her in her grandmother’s will.

  “When she was twenty-one, she did just that, moving to England and taking up residence in the old house. But she did not stay there for long. Some months later, I learned that she’d packed up her worldly goods and joined a group of Hermetists who had formed their own community in Cornwall.”

  Charlotte had no choice but to look up in surprise. “By Hermetists, you mean those who follow the teachings of Hermes Trismegistus, as found in the Corpus Hermeticum?”

  “Correct. It is difficult for me to acknowledge that I have a daughter who is an occultist, but there it is.”

  To Charlotte, the occult was but a religion that had yet to muster an army and anoint a king. But she nodded sympathetically before resuming her shorthand note-taking.

  “I was . . . vexed. The next time I met with her, I expressed that vexation. She replied that she was both of age and no longer dependent on my support. Therefore she was free to follow the dictates of her own will. And if it pleased her to live among occultists, for a while or forever, then that was what she would do.

  “Her response further infuriated me. But after a while, I realized that I could not change her mind. Time was the only thing that could change it—time and the actual experience of living among those people she considered her friends and supporters. So I relented and she was able to have her way.”

  He paused. “I believe your water has boiled, Miss Holmes.”

  Charlotte was aware of that but had wanted him to be the one to point it out to her. “Oh, you are right. My apologies, I was so absorbed in your account, I didn’t even notice.”

  She turned off the spirit burner, warmed the teapot anew, and measured more tea leaves to steep. “I had better pay more attention to my tea-making, or we’ll be drinking a bitter brew. But if you don’t mind, Mr. Baxter, do please tell me how long it took you to relent and what Miss Baxter had to do to bring about this change of heart on your part.”

  A needier and more conceited Charlotte Holmes should still be able to detect an omission in the story.

  “Ah, I see my attempt at eliding a few things did not go unnoticed,” said Moriarty quietly. “Very well, I threatened to burn the commune to the ground and she came home with me. But in the fifteen months that followed, she became engaged to no fewer than six unsuitable men—and I assure you, Miss Holmes, hers had not been an existence into which unsuitable men were granted entrée willy-nilly.”

  Amazing how he managed to infuse that particular piece of information with such pathos. What would have been comedy recounted by another became a lament for a father’s thwarted love.

  Charlotte was in awe of Miss Baxter. She ought to have tried something similar, perhaps, when her own father had reneged on his promise to sponsor her education. Not to mention, she didn’t know what kind of men Moriarty considered unsuitable, but to have won over so many of them in such a short time was a testament to Miss Baxter’s charm and determination.

  “Indeed, she demonstrated that what I had originally believed to be an intolerable choice was, in fact, the lesser evil. I could have continued to exercise parental authority and restricted her to such circumstances as to guarantee that she would not meet any man, but I did not wish to become her jailer.”

  It took some effort for Charlotte not to look at Mr. Marbleton. Moriarty clearly had no trouble becoming his jailer.

  “She returned to the commune under certain conditions. She was to write once a week. I or my representatives would meet with her once every six months. She could donate money to the commune, for her own and its upkeep, up to the entirety of her annual income, but she was not allowed to touch the principal sum from which her income is derived.

  “I did not think these were onerous conditions, and she agreed. For close to five years she kept to her end of the bargain and I mine. But of late, things have changed.”

  He fell silent.

  “When did you first notice?” Charlotte was obliged to ask.

  “Too late, I’m afraid. There was upheaval in my own life in the second half of last year. I was, shall we say, indisposed for months on end.”

  His voice changed. Until now it had put her in mind of a bassoon or a cello, an instrument that produced low yet beautiful notes. But all of a sudden the music left his words, and without it those words seethed with anger.

  The coup that saw him overthrown—the thought of it still enraged him, so much so that it caused a stumble in his otherwise perfect performance. So much so that Mr. Marbleton shrank into himself.

  Moriarty, too, must have noticed, for he stopped speaking. When he resumed, his voice became, if possible, even more mellifluous. “While my indisposition lasted, those around me failed to pay attention to her. Some subordinates did not know about her existence, and many others had forgotten. The solicitor who usually visited her passed away. Her letters lay unread in a private postal box in Switzerland because no one collected them.

  “I was not able to look after my own affairs again until the very end of last year. It took considerable time and energy to put my house in order, so to speak. I’m ashamed to admit it, but since her return to the commune, my daughter had led a quiet life, and I’d grown accustomed to not thinking of her as someone in need of my attention.”

  A relief for Miss Baxter, no doubt.

  “It was not until last month that I appointed another solicitor to visit her,” Moriarty went on. “To his surprise, he was refused at the door. The excuse given was simple: My daughter was required to meet with either myself or my representative once every six months, but six months had not yet elapsed since the previous visit.

  “My new solicitor, not particularly familiar with what had happened under his predecessor, did not challenge that refusal. He returned to his office and wrote me. His letter, because it was not marked urgent, was not seen to for at least a week. When at last the matter came before me, I was perplexed. Had my old solicitor in Britain gone to see her on his own, for some reason?

  “Then I noticed something. The commune claimed that a visit from my new solicitor wasn’t due until May, because one had taken place in November. But my old solicitor died in October. A telegram dispatched to his firm brought back the disconcerting news that he had not instructed anyone there to visit her on his behalf and certainly none of them had gone on their own initiative.”

  Charlotte poured fresh cups of tea for everyone. A fragrant steam rose. Such an ordinary sight, such an ordinary scent, were it not for the fact that it was Moriarty himself, his brow knitted once again in fatherly concern, who lifted a gold-rimmed teacup and took a sip.

  “My daughter’s letters, more than half a year’s collection, were brought to me,” he said. “She has always been an interesting person, my daughter—possibly too interesting. But her letters, at least those addressed to me, did not make for stimulating reading. They were perfunctory recitations of a weekly routine that never varied, and I’d stopped anticipating them long ago.

  “And stopped reading each one as it came in. Sometimes I skimmed through a few at a time; sometimes I failed to do even that. Needless to say, this entire batch at last received its due attention. The letters were as monotonous as ever. But one glaring omission stood out. She did not mention any visit by any solicitor—which she had always done before, as it constituted an event.

  “I was more than a little alarmed at this point, and then I learned that she had sold the house that had belonged to her grandmother. It was not part of the untouchable principal I had mentioned earlier—that was what I had set up for her. In addition, she had a small inheritance from her grandmother, along with the house, though it must be said that every penny of that inheritance was needed to maintain the old house.

 

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