About twenty minutes after Lord Ingram had taken up his position—he could not check his watch when there was no light—someone holding a lit lantern and exhibiting a small limp ran out of the lodge. The Garden’s physician, who, according to Holmes, had taken a fall earlier in the night? He hoped Holmes, who had wanted to look inside Dr. Robinson’s cottage, had finished with her inspection. A few minutes later, the physician returned with a doctor’s bag and a few other items in hand. Lord Ingram let out a breath: It seemed that Dr. Robinson’s expedition had gone off without any incidents.
After Dr. Robinson went back inside Miss Baxter’s lodge, the door of the lodge opened and shut another few times. Lord Ingram could not tell who darted about in the dark, though he did occasionally make out harried footsteps, those of a single person running.
In the middle of these rushed entrances and exits, a lantern shone down from the south wall.
“Not now, Mr. McEwan,” growled Mr. Peters.
The light went out immediately. And didn’t shine again until whoever was running in and out of the house appeared to be done with their task.
Lord Ingram imagined a dying Miss Baxter being kept alive by strange and terrible means, just so that she could last through one interview with Holmes and exculpate the other members of the community.
Since Mr. Peters seemed committed to remaining in the vicinity of Miss Baxter’s lodge, Lord Ingram crept closer. At around half past one, he had just set himself under the eaves of a nearby cottage when Mr. Peters’s lantern suddenly came on. “Who’s there?”
Lord Ingram’s heart pounded. Had he been seen?
“Craddock,” answered a gruff voice from the other side of the cottage, closer to the lodge.
Lord Ingram clenched his teeth and tried not to breathe too loudly in relief.
“Go back inside, Mr. Craddock,” said Mr. Peters. “There’s nothing for you to do or see here.”
Craddock. Lord Ingram remembered the name from the dossier. But also from Mrs. Watson’s incredulity that anyone would move across the Garden of Hermopolis for a view of fruit trees espaliered against a wall.
There was no more answer from Mr. Craddock, presumably he did as Mr. Peters asked—or at least appeared to do so.
Probably another hour passed before Mr. Peters again called out sharply, “Who’s there?”
“The Steeles,” said a woman, her tone ingratiating. “We were about to go to bed when we saw Dr. Robinson running to his cottage, and then run back here with his bag. Since then we’ve been waiting for him to go back to his cottage again but that still hasn’t happened. Is everything all right? Is Miss Baxter all right? We’re worried.”
“I haven’t the slightest idea about Miss Baxter,” said Mr. Peters. “I’m just here because Mrs. Crosby told me to stand here. But I’m sure Miss Baxter must be fine or Mrs. Crosby would have said something to me.”
“So Mrs. Crosby is inside, too?” came a man’s somewhat reedy voice, likely that of Mr. Steele’s.
“Yes. And if you think Mrs. Crosby will let you in, feel free to knock.”
Apparently the would-be callers didn’t think so. The woman sighed. “All right. We’ll go back for now. But don’t you think all this is awfully strange?”
“Not particularly,” said Mr. Peters. “When I last saw Miss Baxter, she was perfectly fine. Mrs. Crosby has seen her more than once in the past twenty-four hours and hasn’t mentioned anything being amiss.”
“All right, then, if you trust Mrs. Crosby,” said Mr. Steele, sounding petulant.
“I trust her with my life and so does Miss Baxter,” said Mr. Peters coldly. “Good night, Mr. Steele. Good night, Mrs. Steele.”
Approximately another quarter hour afterward, Mr. Peters’s lantern came on again. “Miss Ellery, can I help you?”
The brusqueness in his tone had become pointed. The young man was running out of patience.
“Y—yes. Neither Miss Fairchild nor I can sleep. I thought I’d come and see whether everything is all right with Miss Baxter.”
She sounded sincere and—embarrassed.
“Miss Baxter isn’t seeing anyone now and I don’t think Mrs. Crosby has the time either.”
“Oh well, then, do you mind if I have a look at the woodpile? Seems strange that it simply caught fire like that.”
“It’s already been looked at: Someone poured a small amount of kerosene on the pile and added a few matches.”
“What?” cried Miss Ellery, her dismay stark.
“Yes, I know,” said Mr. Peters wearily. “But there’s nothing we can do now so why don’t you go back inside and take some rest. I would, too, but Mrs. Crosby has stationed me here.”
Lord Ingram felt very much the same, except he didn’t even have anyone to blame. He’d stationed himself there.
He threw himself to the ground. A beam of light passed by with barely two feet to spare.
The patrols had been shining their lanterns from the north, eastern, and south walls—the reason he dared to put himself to the west of this particular cottage. But now they performed their inspection from the western wall again.
He slipped back under the shade hut.
His hot water bottle still emitted some warmth but his feet were cold and he could barely feel his cheeks. He squatted down and stood up, stretched his legs to the side, and walked in place. Earlier he avoided detection; now he half hoped that Mr. Peters would patrol properly, notice him, and tell him to get back inside, too.
But no one discovered him. Or at least, no one cared. Light flooded down from the walls from time to time. When Mr. Peters was illuminated, he either paced on the veranda of or around Miss Baxter’s lodge. Same as before.
No one else came to see how Miss Baxter fared. The door of the house did not open or close again. Lord Ingram’s eyelids grew heavy. He swayed. If he sat down he’d still be able to see the front of Miss Baxter’s house.
Silently he yawned. And yawned again.
His children must be sleeping soundly. Holmes, with her propensity for a good night’s rest, was likely also sleeping soundly. He would like to sleep soundly, too—he was too old to stay up all night.
Even Mr. Peters yawned loudly enough for him to hear. Fatigue surrounded him like the night. He could sit down, draw his knees up, and set his chin between his knees.
He started—he’d almost fallen asleep on his feet and lost his balance. He rubbed his eyes, opened them again, and was nearly blinded by a flash of lightning that threw the entire compound into sharp relief.
Thunder cracked with ground-shaking force. He covered his ears. On the southeastern corner of the walls, a man did the same.
A more brilliant bolt of lightning sizzled, followed by an even more deafening boom. Rain poured, striking the top of the shade hut with such force that he barely heard Mr. Peters scream, “Get off the walls, you two,” at the top of his lungs.
The two people on the walls obeyed. Lanterns swinging, they ran and climbed down the ladders, then headed for Miss Baxter’s veranda.
Lord Ingram was no longer on the verge of falling asleep, but his head was filled with glue. He remained where he was not because it made sense, but because he couldn’t arrive at a new decision.
He did, however, dig out his pocket watch. Another streak of lightning lit the sky; he looked at the time. Quarter past four. Almost morning. He could endure until sunrise.