The rain let up briefly, only to come down harder. Thunder roared. He glanced at his watch every time lightning flashed. Time crawled. He felt like a tree in winter, all bare trunk and peeling bark. For a while after the rain started, it had not been difficult to keep awake. But now hibernation beckoned, the idea of being unconscious for an entire season the most appealing idea he’d ever encountered.
By the time he awoke again, Holmes would have sorted out matters with Moriarty, somebody would have informed his children about the divorce, and he would begin anew, well rested, if nothing else.
He was jerked out of his lethargy by the sight of Mr. Peters, a lantern in hand, running onto the central carriage path. Was he headed for the gate? No, he veered off to the southwest, where the stable and the carriage house were located. Ten minutes later, a coach came down the carriage path.
Lord Ingram blinked. But the carriage path going east ended in a wall.
Mr. Peters did not drive the coach into a wall, but went around a circular flower bed and stopped, the vehicle now pointing west. A man with a lantern sprinted for the gate. At the same time, a woman rushed toward the waiting coach, a satchel in one hand, a lantern in the other. Lord Ingram recognized her from when she’d stood on the wall and glared down at Mr. Young—Mrs. Crosby.
As soon as Mrs. Crosby was inside, Mr. Peters cracked his whip and the coach shot forward, bolting out of the compound just as the man at the gate opened it fully.
Lord Ingram hesitated. Lanterns had been freely deployed while all this running and driving took place, but now it was pitch-black again, rain coming down loud enough to drown out his thoughts.
He swore, lit his pocket lantern, and left the protection of the shade hut. The ground squelched underfoot as he made his way to the western wall. The gate had been locked again. He fought his way up a wet, slippery ladder, the pocket lantern’s grip clenched between his teeth. From the ramparts, the coach was still visible, by virtue of its two exterior lanterns. It was headed not toward the village, but northwest across the moorland.
A noise made him look back. A flash of weak lightning illuminated a man coming up the other set of ladders, in a mackintosh similar to his. A muffler covered most of his face. Sensing Lord Ingram’s attention, as the man reached the top of the wall he headed in the opposite direction.
For some reason, though their eyes had met for only a second, Lord Ingram thought he’d seen this man before. He tried to rack his exhausted brain, but couldn’t think of when or where such a meeting had taken place, let alone who the man might be.
In the distance, the coach disappeared.
He waited for some more time before deciding he was no good to anyone anymore, descended the ladder with as much care as he could muster, and headed back to Holmes.
14
Mrs. Watson had been startled awake when it sounded as if the sky was tearing in two. But once the rain began, though the thundering continued, she drifted back to sleep and didn’t open her eyes again until morning.
A dull grey light hovered in the parlor. Rain drummed steadily on the roof. Miss Charlotte slept next to her, her chin on her chest, her plump lips in a slight pout. She looked younger when she slept, young and adorable. Mrs. Watson had the urge to pet the girl on the head.
She refrained. But as she worked to revive the banked fire, from behind her, Miss Charlotte yawned and murmured a sleepy “Good morning.”
They found bread and butter in the larder and made toast. Over this simple breakfast, Miss Charlotte told Mrs. Watson of what had happened during Lord Ingram’s watch, her voice low so as not to disturb his slumber in the loft.
An engrossing and puzzling account. It was only later, after Mrs. Watson had brushed her teeth, that she remembered to ask, “Lord Ingram told you all this and I just slept?”
“I woke up at six and went out to take a look,” answered Miss Charlotte. She stood before a mirror in the parlor, ran her fingers through her still-short hair, and shoved that hair under a blue-and-white turban. “He came back then. We spoke outside.”
“Oh, the poor boy, out all night in that horrendous weather.”
“He had a hot water bottle. But yes, the poor fellow.” Satisfied with her appearance, Miss Charlotte went to the window and lifted the curtain. “Oh, there comes a mackintosh-clad figure. I think it’s Mrs. Felton. Let’s go meet her.”
Not knowing what else might happen, they had gone to sleep fully clad, with dressing gowns on top. Hours in a chair had wrinkled their clothes, but that hardly mattered now, especially when they took off their dressing gowns and threw on their even more enveloping mackintoshes.
Mrs. Felton had dressed for work. Her boots were ancient, the hem that peeked out from under her mackintosh coarse and dingy. Her bare hand, large-knuckled and roughened with labor, held the handle of a bucket. “Ladies, you are headed somewhere?”
“Yes,” said Miss Charlotte, walking toward the central path, Mrs. Watson beside her. “Will you accompany us to the carriage house, Mrs. Felton? I have some questions I need to ask you.”
Mrs. Felton’s eyes brightened. She fell in step next to them. “Did you find out anything about Miss Baxter, miss?”
As the question left her lips, she looked about. The Garden was rain-shrouded. Smoke rose from a few chimneys. But all the houses had their curtains drawn and no one else was abroad.
“We’ve made some progress,” said Miss Charlotte, “but not as much as I’d like. Now Mrs. Felton, do you know a man in Porthangan named Sam Young?”
Mrs. Felton blinked. “Mr. Young, the boat maker? I do know him. Why?”
“Mr. Young came around at midnight last night and set off a dozen or so fireworks and greatly disturbed the peace.”
“I had no idea.” Mrs. Felton stopped walking for a moment in her surprise. “But whatever for?”
“He claimed to have done it for the woman he loved.”
Mrs. Felton’s mouth became a perfectly rounded O. “And was Mrs. Crosby properly furious? She was, wasn’t she? Oh, Mrs. Crosby would not have liked that.”
Mrs. Watson and Miss Charlotte exchanged a look. “Is it common knowledge in the village then, Mr. Young’s interest in Mrs. Crosby?” asked Mrs. Watson.
“I should hope not,” said Mrs. Felton, her tone vehement. “Gossip like this can damage a lady’s reputation. I knew because Mr. Young asked me a few times about the goings-on in the Garden, but his questions always went around to Mrs. Crosby eventually. It was easy to see. But I didn’t say anything to anyone.”
Rain slanted onto Mrs. Watson’s cheek. She flicked away the moisture. “You didn’t include it in your monthly reports?”
“Of course not. That’s no business of Miss Baxter’s father’s.”
But if the party that had arranged for last night’s debacle hadn’t learned of Mr. Young’s infatuation from Mrs. Felton, then who had been the source?
“Does Mr. Young know anyone else in the Garden?” asked Miss Charlotte. “Do members of the garden socialize with the villagers?”
“No, they don’t, not really. But Mr. Young is a good boat maker and Miss Baxter bought a boat from him several years ago, so did Miss Fairchild more recently. And the Steeles were talking about commissioning one, too. There isn’t much to do around here and sailing is as good a way to pass time as any.”