“Miss Stoppard, Miss Stoppard!”
Mrs. Watson whipped around. The out-of-breath voice belonged to Miss Ellery, who was some twenty feet behind them and shouting with her face upturned. “What’s happening, Miss Stoppard?”
“I don’t know yet!” The answer came from the ramparts. “Mr. Peters and one of the visitors have gone for a look.”
“What time is it?” asked Mrs. Watson, realizing that she hadn’t given that any thought.
“I left our cottage at five past midnight,” said Miss Charlotte. “So it should be about ten after now.”
“What a strange occurrence,” said a man’s voice just ahead, startling Mrs. Watson. “Lovely, to be sure, but strange.”
Dr. Robinson. How long had he been standing there in the shadows?
“I take it this isn’t something that happens frequently then?” asked Miss Charlotte, her tone placid, as if they were conversing around a dining table.
“I saw fireworks once in Falmouth, for Guy Fawkes, but never in these parts. I can’t fathom what hidden significance this day holds that would mandate fireworks.”
Mrs. Watson was about to agree when Miss Charlotte veered off. “My dear, where are you going?”
The girl didn’t answer, but not far away loomed the cluster of six houses that contained Miss Baxter’s lodge. Mrs. Watson’s heart beat faster. She picked up her pace.
At least four of the houses in the cluster had windows lit. Miss Charlotte skirted the first cottage. She was about to go around a larger, unlit house when a woman said sharply, “Where do you think you are going, Miss Holmes?”
Mrs. Crosby, a heavy coat over her dressing gown, stood on the veranda of this lodge.
Miss Baxter’s lodge.
Miss Charlotte’s lips parted. A fusillade of sharp cracks came. Everyone jumped. Mrs. Crosby whipped a pistol out of her coat. But it was only half a dozen fireworks rocketing skyward at the same time, leaving behind a brilliant and gaudy display of golden sparks, red streaks, and violet glimmers.
What happened? Did the mischief-maker, about to be pinned down by a ferocious Mr. Peters, set off all the remaining fireworks at once?
Miss Charlotte waved a hand in front of her face, as if she could fan away the sulfurous odors. “I thought I saw firelight coming from this direction—and I was correct.”
A look of clear disdain crossed Mrs. Crosby’s face. “Really, Miss Holmes—”
“Goodness gracious, she’s right,” cried Dr. Robinson.
He ran around to the back of the house. There came an explosive imprecation. “The woodpile has caught on fire. Quick, quick, we need to put it out!”
Mrs. Crosby bounded down the steps from the veranda and half lifted her firearm toward Miss Charlotte, as if she were somehow responsible for the fire.
With a cry Mrs. Watson sprang forward and stood in front of Miss Charlotte. But the girl walked out from behind her, pushed Mrs. Crosby’s arm down, and asked, without any inflections to her voice, “Are there buckets in this house?”
“There are in ours,” said Mrs. Steele, who had arrived on the scene with her husband. She sounded breathless and afraid but she immediately ran off. “I’ll get them.”
Dr. Robinson, just back to the front of the house, hurried after her. “And I’ll go get mine.”
“Is Miss Baxter still inside? Miss Baxter? Miss Baxter?” shouted Mr. Steele. “She needs to come outside right now. It’s not safe.”
“She’s not going to wake up,” said Mrs. Crosby sharply. “She took something Dr. Robinson prescribed. Go get water to pour on the woodpile. She’ll sleep through it.”
Mr. Steele stared at her as if she’d told him to pour kerosene on the woodpile instead. Mrs. Watson felt so jittery she had to clench her hand and her jaw. She still hadn’t recovered from Mrs. Crosby having nearly pointed her pistol at Miss Charlotte, and now the woman was prepared to let someone she claimed to be close to simply sleep while a fire burned against the back wall of her house?
“I don’t know how anyone can sleep through this racket,” cried Mr. Steele, his voice rising with frustration. “But even if she does, it’s all right. I can carry her out. It’ll be no trouble at all.”
Mrs. Crosby’s voice grew colder. “You’ll be better off getting water. Miss Ellery is here. She has keys to the kitchen, which has many buckets. Quickly, go, everyone!”
“But I didn’t bring my ring of keys when I rushed out of the house,” fretted Miss Ellery. “Why, I’m still in my house slippers. I don’t know why we are arguing over this, but we have enough people both to move Miss Baxter to a safer location and to put out the fire at the same—”
She was interrupted by a vigorous jangling of metals: Miss Fairchild, arriving with the ring of keys.
Miss Fairchild waved an imperious hand in the direction of the kitchen and led the way. Everyone followed, including Mr. Steele, who shook his head as he ran after her. “I know Miss Baxter hates to be disturbed, but surely one has to make an exception when one’s house is on fire?”
Apparently not.
Or at least, Mrs. Crosby was not willing to make that exception for her.
“This is madness!” Mrs. Watson whispered to Miss Charlotte. “How can Mrs. Crosby let Miss Baxter remain in place? And to turn down help, too!”
“It’s always possible that Miss Baxter’s lodge is empty,” answered Miss Charlotte, walking faster to keep up with the herd, “and that’s what Mrs. Crosby doesn’t want anyone to find out.”
Mrs. Watson picked up her skirts to lengthen her strides, her mind in an uproar.
At the kitchen, Miss Ellery took the ring of keys from Miss Fairchild, opened the door, and lit a lamp. By this time Mrs. Brown, the cook, and the kitchen maid, Abigail Hurley, had also joined the throng. Miss Ellery distributed buckets and divided everyone into two groups, one group to use the pump in the kitchen and another to go out to the south cistern. “One person should remain at the pump unless there’s no one else waiting with a bucket; that way it will go faster!”
Mrs. Watson and Miss Charlotte’s bucket, once filled, was heavier than Mrs. Watson had anticipated. She had forgotten her gloves on her way out of the cottage. The handle of the bucket was cold as ice. Yet she barely felt the burn of the cold or the weight of the bucket digging into her palm.
Was Miss Baxter in her lodge or not? Was Mrs. Crosby helping her or the opposite?
Mrs. Steele reached the burning woodpile first. She heaved her water onto the roaring, wind-whipped fire. Mrs. Watson and Miss Charlotte did likewise. The woodpile began to smoke.
“A few more buckets ought to do,” said Mrs. Steele, panting, “but I think we should all go back and get some more water just to be on the safe side.”
Mrs. Watson panted, too, from both exertion and relief. She was about to do as Mrs. Steele suggested but Miss Charlotte said, “Ma’am, your health will not permit more labor than this. I’ll go bring more water.”
Mrs. Watson had the constitution of a horse and would not have been undone by another trip with the bucket. But Miss Charlotte seemed to want her to stay in place.
“Won’t the bucket be too heavy for you, my dear?”