Charlotte only looked at him.
De Lacey scuffed one elbow against an armrest and added rather reluctantly, “I suppose it behooves me to mention that part of the compromise between father and daughter was Miss Baxter’s agreement that if she left the commune, she would return to Mr. Baxter’s care.”
As Charlotte had thought. “Would you be more specific as to what this ‘care’ entails?”
“It would be similar to what she’d known at her grandmother’s place. She would have a choice as to where she lives and he would appoint the staff that would look after her.”
A gilded cage.
“So in the end, you—and Mr. Baxter—believe that she chose to remain in deteriorating conditions at the Garden of Hermopolis rather than live under Mr. Baxter’s surveillance.”
This sounded better than She would rather die than have anything to do with her father ever again, but still de Lacey winced. “Miss Baxter was—Miss Baxter has always been very proud and yes, Mr. Baxter does believe that, in this case, she unwisely opted to place her pride above her well-being and is paying a price for it.”
Charlotte pounced. “At the beginning of your reply, you spoke of Miss Baxter in the past tense, Mr. de Lacey. Do you or Mr. Baxter believe that Miss Baxter is no more?”
De Lacey’s expression turned grave. “It is a possibility that we have considered but not yet one that dominates our thinking. We would be acting very differently if we indeed believed that Miss Baxter had met with an untimely demise.”
Would you?
The day before, Charlotte’s suspicion that Moriarty had given her a highly incomplete picture had been largely based on an analysis of the man’s character and his position vis-à-vis Charlotte. De Lacey, not as gifted a liar as Moriarty, had in fact let something slip: that Moriarty had not removed his daughter from the Garden of Hermopolis as soon as he’d learned of her new allegiance, but only sometime later.
Was it an important detail? She didn’t know enough to judge. But it buttressed her hypothesis that she had been kept as much in the dark as possible about Miss Baxter, the Garden of Hermopolis, and Moriarty’s ultimate aims.
She wondered whether de Lacey knew of Moriarty’s true plans. “Have you ever met Miss Baxter, Mr. de Lacey?”
“I have not had the pleasure of being presented to her, but I’ve served Mr. Baxter long enough that I know the general outline of her story. Not to mention, one of my duties has been to keep an eye on her safety.”
Charlotte adjusted the lace of her cuff. “Did Mr. Baxter discuss her with you either yesterday or today?”
It was a simple question, yet de Lacey again scuffed an elbow on the armrest. “We did not have a discussion per se. I received a note last night informing me that I am to call on you this morning and facilitate your investigation by answering any questions you may have and furnishing you with Miss Baxter’s photographs.”
As if to prove his sincerity, he handed Charlotte an envelope. Charlotte glanced at the three pictures inside. Miss Baxter, perhaps a year or two senior to Charlotte in age, did not resemble Moriarty as Mr. Marbleton did. Hers were haughty and angular features, those of a woman who suddenly found herself a beautiful adult without having ever been a pretty child.
She looked back at de Lacey. He was warier than he had been earlier—he’d pulled his feet in and crossed his ankles and his hands were on his lap now, instead of the armrests. Because of what he’d unwittingly told her?
“I still find it astonishing that Mr. Baxter left the discussion of such private matters to someone else.”
De Lacey swallowed. “Mr. Baxter is a very busy man.”
“Does he have other children?”
De Lacey again blinked a few times. “I’m afraid I’m not at liberty to discuss that.”
Charlotte was only trying to gauge how important Miss Baxter might be to Moriarty. De Lacey’s answer, however, reinforced how little he was allowed to discuss with regard to father and daughter.
“Very well, then,” she said. “In that case, Mr. de Lacey, I would like to know how you have kept an eye on her safety over the years.”
* * *
The station at Snowham was about an hour east-southeast of London. Detrained passengers exited quickly, leaving Livia and Lord Ingram to tour the place at leisure. There wasn’t much to see, only a single half-covered platform next to a small building, indistinguishable from any other minor country stop. A few travelers awaited the next train headed for London, a bored stationmaster spoke to the ticket agent, and an occasional express train rumbled through, not deigning to slow down.
“Do you remark anything at all?” Livia asked her companion, after they had been at the station for a while.
“No, nothing, I’m afraid,” said Lord Ingram. “Shall we take a look beyond the station?”
They found a hackney and asked to be driven around, pretending to be a pair of siblings looking to settle down nearby. The cabbie, not surprised by the purpose of their journey, informed them that the village had more than doubled in size since the railway came through in the sixties.
“Much cheaper and nicer compared to London, innit?” he opined.
The village was indeed composed of a core of older buildings around High Street, their red roofs darkened with age, and some other streets with newer but more uniform-looking houses. After a quick detour into the surrounding countryside, Lord Ingram asked to see any mills, factories, or other such sites that one might conceivably invest in.
They were taken to a brick kiln, a tannery sitting idle, and lastly, the only inn in the village, freshly painted and put up for sale because its owner wished to retire. Lord Ingram whispered to Livia that none of these establishments remotely approached the scale and sophistication of the De Lacey Industries premises he and Charlotte had seen.
But they alit at the inn anyway, as Mr. Marbleton almost certainly would have patronized the place, if he had spent more than a day in Snowham.
It was early for luncheon and they were the only diners in the dining room, the windows of which looked onto green countryside and a willow-lined riverbank in the distance. Their steaming shepherd’s pies came with a white-haired innkeeper, who was happy to inform them that two parties were already interested in his establishment. “Very well kept this place has been, if I do say so myself. And I’m not asking too much, just its fair value.”
They chatted a little more on the history of the inn, its current operations, and the innkeeper’s plans after retirement, before Lord Ingram said, “If you don’t mind, Mr. . . .”
“Upton is the name, sir.”
“Right, Mr. Upton. My sister and I are on a possibly fruitless quest in search of a friend. He departed from our midst several months ago and hasn’t been heard from since. Recently we learned that he’d passed through Snowham. Yours is the only inn in town, from what I understand?”
“The publican does have two rooms above the taproom, but those rooms aren’t listed in any travel guides. So if your friend came from elsewhere and stayed here overnight, he would have stayed with me,” said Mr. Upton proudly. He then sighed. “But I no longer have as good a memory for names and faces as I did when I was younger, just so you know.”