Around these communal buildings were scattered a dozen or so freestanding houses in three rough clusters—mostly small cottages, and a few larger ones referred to as lodges. The cluster that included Miss Baxter’s lodge occupied the northwest quadrant of the compound. The moorland in these parts tilted toward the sea. In the days before the walls had been built, houses in that cluster would have enjoyed the most commanding panoramic views.
Mrs. Watson and Miss Charlotte’s cottage, in a different cluster, was situated almost diagonally across the compound at its southeast corner, with the communal buildings, alas, blocking much of the direct line of sight toward Miss Baxter’s lodge.
Mrs. Watson did not consider that a coincidence.
But from their cottage they were able to see the third cluster of houses, where Miss Fairchild lived, toward which they were now headed on smooth stone paths, their cloaks whipping in the dusk.
Overhead clouds covered half of the sky; where it remained clear, pinpricks of cold starlight shimmered. It was dark enough that Mrs. Watson would have had trouble seeing the sea and the moorland even without the walls blocking her sight. But the walls were there, a greater darkness in all directions, and they made the place, with its increasingly fierce crosscurrents of wind, feel airless.
Earlier, as they’d unloaded their luggage and entered their cottage, the weight of attention from the Garden’s unseen residents had stifled. But now, with at least half of the houses lit and no one at the windows watching the two newcomers wending across the grounds, lanterns swinging, the lack of attention was just as disconcerting.
“I don’t know whether I’m feeling Moriarty’s long shadow, the machinations of the residents of the Garden, or merely the changing weather,” she brooded. “Which one makes your heart palpitate, your spine tingle, and your joints ache?”
“But leaves your sense of humor intact?” murmured Miss Charlotte, pulling her cloak tighter about herself. “You can handle it, ma’am, whatever it is.”
Mrs. Watson hoped so, although by the time she shook hands with their hostesses, she also had icy fingers, to go along with all the other symptoms of nervousness.
Miss Fairchild was a tiny bird of a woman, with hair that was more salt than pepper, and a direct gaze that revealed little. Miss Ellery, much taller and rounder, hovered around Miss Fairchild with great solicitude, adjusting the latter’s shawl as she offered words of welcome.
“Miss Fairchild regrets that she cannot speak to you as she wishes,” she added. “She suffers from a painful condition of the voice cord and has been advised by her physician to be on silence rest.”
The dossier from Moriarty included a section on the residents of the Garden, which mentioned that Miss Fairchild was rarely heard from and that Miss Ellery, her companion, served as her deputy in the day-to-day operations.
Their parlor certainly did not make one think that the two women who lived here either founded or ran a pagan religious community. Were it not for Miss Fairchild’s travel souvenirs—a large silver samovar on its own plinth, a pair of boomerangs with incised patterns—the place would be just watercolors, framed embroidery, and bouquets of silk flowers, pretty but too ordinary for a second glance.
“We are sorry to hear of your affliction, Miss Fairchild,” said Mrs. Watson. “We hope your recovery will be quick and complete.”
“That is very much our hope, too,” said Miss Ellery. “Did you have a smooth trip, ladies? Is your cottage to your liking? And did Mr. Hudson not come with you?”
The number of visitors had been reported to de Lacey, who would have passed on the information to the Garden.
“We did have a pleasant trip. We find our cottage very soothing. And my nephew had a few other matters to see to, but should be joining us later tonight.” Mrs. Watson inclined her head. “We are very thankful that you have graciously permitted us to experience the peace and enchantment of the Garden.”
Thanks to her years on the stage, she managed to maintain an even tone and an amiable smile. The smiles she received from their hostesses were a little stiff, but Miss Ellery said gamely, “We hope you will enjoy your stay. And that you will find the peace and enchantment you seek.”
Seats were offered and glasses of sherry passed around. Miss Charlotte raised her glass and said, “We look forward to meeting everyone in the community.”
Her statement was uttered brightly, but Mrs. Watson winced on the inside. Moriarty had placed them in an impossible position: Unless they put a firearm to Miss Fairchild’s head and demanded that she produce Miss Baxter, whatever they said would always ring false.
And in this particular instance, even sound a tad threatening.
Miss Ellery cleared her throat. “The community, at the moment, is a bit thin. Some of our members are visiting friends and family, others are making scholarly inquiries at universities here and abroad.”
Why? Have they already fled ahead of anticipated trouble? Or were they “indisposed,” like Miss Baxter?
Miss Charlotte set aside her sherry glass. “Did the previous occupant of our cottage undertake such a trip?”
“Mr. Craddock?” said Miss Ellery. “No, the Angelino brothers went to the University of Palermo and Mr. Craddock took their cottage. It has a view of the fruit trees espaliered against the inside of the wall.”
With such a spectacular panorama outside, inside the compound the residents were reduced to looking at fruit trees? Mrs. Watson almost asked whether Mr. Craddock had faced competition for the view, but she was preempted by Miss Holmes, who said, “May I ask how many are present as we speak?”
“Fourteen, Miss Fairchild and myself included. Mrs. Crosby, Mr. and Mrs. Steele, Dr. Robinson, and Mr. Peters you will meet tonight. There’s also Miss Stoppard, Mr. Craddock, Mr. McEwan—and Miss Baxter, of course. Besides them, we also have Mrs. Brown, our cook, Abby Hurley, her kitchen maid, and John Spackett, who looks after the horses and the carriage and the grounds, too.”
Fourteen was also the number given in the dossier. And the names Miss Ellery listed accorded with those provided by Mrs. Felton, who only worked at the Garden but lived in her own house in Porthangan.
“Did you say that several of the other residents will be coming here, too?” asked Mrs. Watson. “Oh, but I’m happy to hear that. I adore a good getting-acquainted dinner.”
She might as well sail full speed ahead on winds of hypocritical agreeableness.
“I want to be clear that this dinner will be an exception, rather than the rule. We do not socialize much, even among ourselves,” said Miss Ellery apologetically. “Our community is one for quiet contemplation, rather than vigorous interaction.”
Miss Fairchild, beside her, nodded slowly.
Mrs. Watson put on a crestfallen expression. “Oh, are we not to expect regular communal dinners then?”
Miss Ellery rose and crossed to the other side of the parlor. “Our door is always open to anyone in the mood for a cup of tea, but no one else at the Garden is obliged to entertain.”
“No, no, I didn’t mean that. I simply thought that members of the Garden would dine together, much as the faculty and students of a college would in their refectory.”
“I see.” Miss Ellery returned with a dark blue shawl and smoothed it over Miss Fairchild’s lap. “It might be more helpful to think of us as a monastic order devoted to study and contemplation. And as such, the atmosphere is ruminative, rather than boisterous. Silence is greatly valued.”