Charlotte explained about the eccentric who could never agree with his architects and how only the walls were ever built, not the castle itself. “I’m curious, Inspector. How did you scale those walls then?”
“I had a blacksmith make me a grappling hook.”
“A commendable idea,” said Lord Ingram. His hand settled on the blue-and-orange cushion that he had a minute ago placed on the occasion table next to his chair.
“At the time I thought of it, I certainly congratulated myself,” said Inspector Treadles wryly. “The climate in Cornwall is relatively mild, so I couldn’t count on deafening gales to obscure the thud of a grappling hook landing against stone. But it was December, the wind was high, and there was a drizzle. I wrapped the prongs in cloth, except for their very tips, and thought that between the wind, the rain, and the muffling effect of the cloth. I wouldn’t be overheard.”
He gave a rueful sigh. “I couldn’t have been more wrong. Well, in terms of the thud, I felt it was acceptably muted. Yet I was barely one third of the way up the wall before someone at the top shone an extremely bright lantern into my face and demanded to know who was there. I heard a firearm cocking, too. I got down and ran, leaving my shiny new grapple hook behind.”
“So you didn’t get a look at the inside of the compound?” asked Lord Ingram.
“Not at all.”
The round cushion under Lord Ingram’s hand had elaborate blue ruffles along the circumference, which reminded Charlotte of the neckline of a few ballgowns she’d worn in her time. The cushion was tufted, one deep indentation at the very center, which made the rest of the cushion bulge up. And since the ruffles already reminded Charlotte of a neckline, she couldn’t help but view the bulge as what a neckline on a dress tried to contain.
Lord Ingram dragged a knuckle where the ruffles met the bulge.
Charlotte was well aware that with the occasion table lower than the rolled arm of his chair, Inspector Treadles couldn’t see the cushion, nor what Lord Ingram was doing. Still she glanced at Inspector Treadles, who frowned up at the overgrown chandelier on the ceiling and said, “I think the person who caught me mid-ascent was a woman. Now, the one with whom I fought was definitely a man, but the one who shouted ‘Who’s there?’ had a woman’s voice.”
“Were you pursued?” asked Lord Ingram.
This time he rubbed a thumb along the top of the ruffles. Charlotte’s throat went dry.
Inspector Treadles—the innocent, incognizant man—placed a hand under his chin. “At the time I didn’t hear anyone running behind me. But looking back, I think they must have fanned out to railway stations up and down the branch line. I had enough presence of mind not to go to the nearest one, but the next nearest still wasn’t good enough.”
Lord Ingram leaned forward in his chair, removing his hand from the cushion much to Charlotte’s relief—and disappointment. “The man who followed you to London—and who eventually assailed you there—do you remember anything about him?”
“He grabbed me by the sleeve, and asked, ‘Who are you and what do you want?’ A fog was rolling in. So even though we weren’t that far from a streetlamp, I couldn’t see his face very well, except that he had a cut to his upper lip. And he was a ferocious knife fighter—I’m fairly certain the only reason I managed to run to 33 Cold Street and take shelter there was because he was wary of following me into an enclosed garden.”
Inspector Treadles looked in Charlotte’s direction. “And Moriarty says the place in Cornwall is in fact a site of learning and contemplation?”
“In that regard your doubt matches Moriarty’s.”
Inspector Treadles scratched at his jaw. “To be sure, ferocious knife-fighting skills and an interest in Hermetism are not mutually exclusive. But what disconcerts me more, now that I think about it, is the speed with which I was discovered. At the time I thought perhaps it was tightly patrolled because Moriarty’s secrets were kept there. But if it’s a religious community, even an occult one—well, we don’t hear of churches or cloisters being so ready to repel all comers, do we?”
* * *
“You mean to tell me that the Garden of Hermopolis has sentinels stationed atop its high walls to drive off any would-be trespassers?” exclaimed Mrs. Watson.
Charlotte and Lord Ingram were back in Mrs. Watson’s afternoon parlor. Livia adored this space, deeming it an admirable mélange of comfort and elegance. Charlotte, on the other hand, had always found the blue-and-white décor a little too muted for her taste. But after the cacophony of colors and textures of the house near Portman Square, Mrs. Watson’s choice of interior was now rather . . . restful.
“Inspector Treadles certainly thought the place carefully guarded,” answered Lord Ingram. “Though, to be fair, he is only one eyewitness on one reconnaissance sortie.”
The sight of this man, on the other hand, was the opposite of restful.
Mrs. Watson had offered him a “dram” of Mr. Mears’s homemade whisky liqueur. He had accepted it, placed the cordial glass on the small table beside his chair, and sat with his hand curled loosely around the stem. Occasionally, as he listened to Charlotte repeat for Mrs. Watson’s benefit what they had learned from Inspector Treadles, he turned the glass a few degrees.
Other than that, he barely moved, let alone performed any gestures that could be construed as suggestive.
Still, she felt restless—and overheated.
At least she had recovered from the lingering effects of Moriarty’s visit and a little restlessness—and overheating—did not interfere with her ability to pay attention to the discussion at hand.
“Is it possible that the woman on the wall who saw the inspector was simply enjoying a winter stroll?” asked Mrs. Watson hesitantly.
“At night, in the rain?” murmured Lord Ingram.
He traced an index finger around the foot of the cordial glass. Such a minor motion, that of a man deep in thought. Yet Charlotte felt his touch, as if he had caressed her bare skin.
“Livia might do something like that,” she said. “But the lantern negates the idea of someone out for a leisurely stroll.”
Mrs. Watson pinched the spot between her brows. “The lantern?”
Lord Ingram, too, glanced at Charlotte, his expression serious, yet his direct gaze made her stomach skid.
“Inspector Treadles wrapped his grappling hook in cloth,” she said, “so I must assume he also made sure that there was no lantern-swinging patrol atop the ramparts before he made his attempt. Yet not long after he started his climb, the light of a lantern shone into his face. Outdoors on a rainy night, with a high wind blowing—the condition was not ideal for lighting a lantern. It’s much more likely that the lantern was lit earlier, and that it had a shutter to prevent its lights from being seen. Such is not the illumination of choice for a casual nocturnal ambler, but of someone lying in wait.”
Lord Ingram’s thumb grazed the bowl of the cordial glass, a light, upward flick. Charlotte swallowed.
“This place sounds more perilous by the hour,” he said. He shook his glass a little by the stem. The butterscotch-colored liquid inside eddied and swirled. “I’m beginning to believe that they have indeed done something to Moriarty’s daughter. Why else would they be so nervously looking out for anyone approaching, and in the middle of the night?”