Mrs. Watson turned pale. “I was reading the dossier while you two were out. It’s mentioned in there that for such a small community, members sometimes die at a rapid pace. What if Miss Baxter is not the only person to have been afflicted by the Garden of Hermopolis? How—how dangerous do you think this place will be for us?”
“Deaths in clusters is hardly a remarkable occurrence—there could have been a communicable disease,” answered Charlotte. “And as for how dangerous this place will be, it need not be dangerous for us. I can go alone, posing as a widow.”
Mrs. Watson stared at her a moment. “Nonsense, my child. I cannot possibly allow you to venture in there by yourself.”
Charlotte had not expected anything other than great gallantry from Mrs. Watson. Yet every time Mrs. Watson’s gallantry manifested itself, she became only more amazed that such valiant generosity had not been lessened or exhausted in the giving of itself, but was always renewed and replenished.
“From the very beginning, ma’am, I have relied on your wisdom and your lionheartedness. I pride myself in being your junior partner. But this is not simply another case entrusted to Sherlock Holmes. I would have refused it for myself if I could. Allow me to at least refuse it for you.”
Mrs. Watson’s countenance took on a carven determination, like a bright-eyed Athena ready to cast her spear. “My dear, how can you turn down a chance for me to meet a woman who managed six fiancés in the span of a mere fifteen months?”
Charlotte rose from her seat. “Ma’am—”
Mrs. Watson not only got to her feet, but came forward and took Charlotte’s hands. “It would be much too unkind of you, my dear, to leave me behind. You know I will work myself into a froth of agitation. I will be unable to eat or sleep. I will drift in a veritable sea of worst-case scenarios. And I will never forgive you. All of which will be detrimental to my health and terrible for my beauty.
“You might be too young to care about your health, but you understand very well how difficult it is to undo damage to one’s beauty.” She smiled ruefully. “So I must go, for my health and my beauty—my beauty above all, of course.”
Mrs. Watson’s absurd, seemingly lighthearted pleas struck Charlotte hard. It was not her wont to catalogue the dangers they faced over and over again, yet she found herself inventorying all the risks, as if by doing so she could find a new one that would convince Mrs. Watson to stay behind.
Such a thing did not exist. Mrs. Watson, by her greater imagination and sensitivity, had already inundated herself with thoughts of every possible danger. In spite of that, and in spite of not being naturally inclined to hazardous undertakings, she would make sure that Charlotte did not proceed alone.
Charlotte could not say no, but she also couldn’t bring herself to say yes.
The silence grew louder.
Mrs. Watson’s lips parted slightly, as if she was about to persuade Charlotte some more. At the same time, her grip on Charlotte’s hands loosened—was she losing hope?
Her grip became firmer again. And she did not say anything else, but only gazed into Charlotte’s eyes with an infinitely patient entreaty.
“It shall be as you wish, ma’am,” Charlotte heard herself say.
Mrs. Watson took her by the shoulders and kissed her on the forehead. Then she returned to her chair and said, “You haven’t said how dangerous you expect this place to be yet, my dear.”
Charlotte slowly sat down. “Inspector Treadles was a nighttime trespasser—a man, no less—and the residents of the Garden of Hermopolis did not shoot him on sight. We are two harmless women who are going to walk through the front door in plain daylight and be gracious guests. We are therefore even less likely to be shot.”
Not immediately, in any case.
Mrs. Watson and Lord Ingram exchanged a glance, as if to confirm that they both heard what Charlotte did not say aloud.
Mrs. Watson sighed. “I find myself wondering, as Moriarty must, what exactly Miss Baxter saw in this place.”
Lord Ingram set his thumb against the fob of his watch. “I am most struck by the six engagements Miss Baxter engineered to force her father to relent. However she began, by the time her father made her leave the commune, she was so determined to get back that she overawed Moriarty himself.”
Such had been Miss Baxter’s devotion to the Garden of Hermopolis and to her fellow acolytes. And yet, if Moriarty was to be believed, they had betrayed her.
Charlotte blinked. Since the arrival of de Lacey’s letter, their greatest preoccupation had been Moriarty and the stark danger he presented. It was not until this moment that Charlotte thought of Miss Baxter not as a pawn in the games Moriarty played, but as a flesh-and-blood woman, one who yearned for both freedom and belonging, and who might have paid too great a price for what little she’d received of either.
Mrs. Watson went to kiss Lord Ingram on his cheek. “It’s getting late, my dear. I will retire now. Miss Charlotte, will you continue to make his lordship feel welcome?”
Charlotte’s heart beat a little faster. “It would be my pleasure.”
And he would like it, too.
She had not, however, anticipated that as Mrs. Watson departed, he would pick up the dossier again. His forehead furrowed as he turned a page, then another, then yet another.
They had already spent their time alone in the carriage solemnly discussing what they had learned from Inspector Treadles and how to help Livia look into the ticket stub. Surely, a man who had recently sent her a pair of pink stockings—and even more recently consumed her moderately indecent story—could not have only Moriarty on his mind?
He dropped the dossier and ran his hand through his hair. “What a day.”
Shall we go to bed while we are still alive?
But given the gravity of the situation, even she couldn’t be that flippant. “Yes,” she murmured halfheartedly. “What a day indeed.”
He rubbed his right temple and sighed, a sound full of distress and exhaustion. At last he glanced at her. “Well, Holmes, there is nothing else we can do now. Shall we go to bed?”
7
The question hung in the air, full of shimmering, delicious implications. They could sneak up the stairs, tiptoeing so as not to alert Mrs. Watson to the clandestine goings-on. Or they might resort to the service staircase, which, being dark and narrow, would lead to fevered kisses and embraces between flights.
Charlotte might find herself with her back against a wall. Lord Ingram might find himself pushed down onto the steps . . .
“I have my things at number 18,” he said, his tone perfectly unexceptional. “I’ll stay there tonight.”
He only stood there. But with his physicality, remaining still was all he ever needed to do for her to be aware of every detail of his frame, from the gleam of lamplight on his dark hair, his even, open shoulders, to the slight turn in his body that gave the impression of contrapposto—dynamic poise.
She rose. “I’ll walk with you. Moriarty left a volume of Hermetic teachings and it’s still in the parlor at number 18.”
He opened the parlor door. “After you, Holmes.”
Don’t you wish to go up with me via the service stairs? Make a few preposterously libidinous stops along the way and then see me in those pink stockings afterward?