But wait, it was the name Elliot Hartford that had plucked at the edges of her memory.
Elliot Hartford.
She sucked in a breath and looked into the attendant’s baffled face.
She remembered now. Last summer Miss Marbleton, Mr. Marbleton’s sister, had gone by the name Ellie Hartford. It might be a coincidence. Or it might not be.
She stared down at the address again, imprinting it on her memory.
And then she said to the attendant, her heart still pounding, “Oh, I don’t need to renew my ticket now? Very well, then, thank you and good day.”
* * *
Lord Ingram awakened a little past ten, groggy and hungry. He found the note the ladies had left, as well as slices of buttered toast they had made for him.
Those were good, but not enough. He visited the kitchen and asked for some more bread and butter, which Mrs. Brown, the cook, readily dispensed, alongside a jar of raspberry jam, a jar of potted chicken, half a dozen boiled eggs, and two sausages. When she heard that he planned to heat water for the ladies’ bath, she even sent the kitchen maid to bring him a few extra buckets.
When Mrs. Watson and Holmes returned, he’d already placed a pan of hot coals in the bath and heated enough water for two people. The ladies both expressed great gratitude and great interest in a wash, but Holmes had, as he’d thought, a more pressing need for food.
After Mrs. Watson left for her ablutions, Holmes, spreading butter and potted chicken on her toast, glanced up and said, “So you have found favor with Mrs. Brown.”
“Have I?” he murmured, his face heating a little.
She took a bite. “I approve. You should make it your mission to find favor with every cook we come across.”
His face heated more. “I could have bought all these for you at the village, without finding favor with anyone.”
She took another bite. “But I prefer that she gave this feast to you because she likes the way you look. God took His time to make you striking, Ash. Don’t let His effort go to waste.”
“And I will have squandered His effort if I don’t charm every cook for your sake?”
She smiled very slightly. “Yes, indeed.”
He poured tea for her. “Very well, you continue to write your erotic tale and I will inveigle unsuspecting cooks into offering me additional breakfast dainties.”
She stopped eating—he’d managed to astound her. “You want more epistolary prurience?”
“I’ve come to enjoy the feeling of . . . outrage.”
She resumed chewing, looking him up and down. Then she took two sips of tea, looked him over some more, and licked her lips in a gesture of provocation.
One second passed. Two seconds. Three seconds.
He licked his lips in the exact same manner. Or, perhaps, more blatantly.
She stared at him. “That is . . . shameless.”
“You wouldn’t have kept after me all these years if you didn’t always believe me to be shameless, deep down.”
She perused him again, her gaze passing over him like a flame. “Others have esteemed my judgment for years. For the very first time I, too, am filled with admiration for my insight.”
He laughed—and put his head down on the table because he couldn’t stop laughing.
Sounds came from the bath—not sounds of water, but of Mrs. Watson gathering up her things. He rose. “I’ll go fetch our luncheon from the kitchen.”
In case he couldn’t stop laughing even in front of Mrs. Watson.
The sea fog that had rolled in earlier in the day still persisted, not as bad as a pea-souper, but dense enough that visibility was reduced to fewer than twenty feet. He checked the carriage house first—the coach taken by Mr. Peters hadn’t returned. Then he walked by Miss Baxter’s lodge—walked three times around it, in fact. The house had its doors and windows tightly secured, but not a single person came to demand what he was doing.
At last he headed for the kitchen, skirting around it so it would appear that he’d come from the direction of his own cottage, rather than the cluster of houses that contained Miss Baxter’s lodge. As he approached, voices rose from the large portico in front of the kitchen. By habit he concealed himself along a side wall.
“Miss Stoppard, Miss Stoppard, did I hear you say that you are picking up Miss Baxter’s luncheon today?”
He recognized the voice less by its timbre than by its marked tone of ingratiation. Mrs. Steele.
Miss Stoppard’s reply was curt. “Yes.”
“Is Mrs. Crosby unwell? She’s usually the one who does that for Miss Baxter, isn’t she?”
“And I do it in her absence. Mrs. Crosby has gone to visit a friend in Brighton.”
“All of a sudden?” This voice belonged to Miss Ellery. “And how is Miss Baxter?”
“She is well.”
“When can we call on her?” Mrs. Steele again. “We are anxious to see her.”
“Shortly, I’m sure. Shortly,” said Miss Stoppard, sounding as impatient as Mr. Peters had in the small hours of the morning. “Good day, ladies. Miss Baxter is waiting for her meal.”
She departed, her footsteps light but brisk.
“Shortly. Shortly,” mumbled Mrs. Steele, her words resigned. “How many times have we been told we’d see Miss Baxter shortly?”
Miss Ellery only sighed.
* * *
Lord Ingram spent some time every year at his seaside cottage in north Devon and understood the variability of maritime weather. But after a long inland winter of many similarly grey days, the rapidly changing atmospheric conditions of the Cornish coast still managed to startle him. It was as if he’d been living with a companion of a dour but steady temperament and was now thrust into the presence of someone who bawled his eyes out one minute and keeled over with laughter the next.
The fog, so dense and omnipresent before luncheon, had completely disappeared an hour later, when he, Holmes, and Mrs. Watson left on their afternoon excursion. The sky was a bright, transparent blue; the sea gleamed silver with reflected sunlight. The storm of the night before was evident only in rooftops that still glistened damply, and the mud stuck to carriage wheels and soles of boots.
They collected Mr. Mears from Porthangan and drove up the headlands. Several brown goats scrambled away when they alit from the remise. At Mrs. Watson’s suggestion, they climbed up an outcrop. At the top, standing in a knot, they listened to Mr. Mears, who had been making inquiries concerning the Garden of Hermopolis and Miss Baxter, give a summary of his findings.
To be sure, there were those who did not care for a heathen outpost here in the heart of Christendom. But by and large, the residents of the Garden were not thought of as heretics. Rather, they were considered peaceful neighbors and, often, generous patrons. Much of their foodstuff was supplied by village fishermen and nearby farmers. They bought local crafts and contributed to local charity efforts. Miss Baxter, in particular, had even served as judge in a village boat race.
Mrs. Felton, the only villager in direct and regular contact with the Garden, inspired mixed feelings. Some thought her too self-satisfied, but even those who believed so had to admit that she had a good heart and was altogether harmless. Mr. Mears had spoken to her brother, who defended her good fortune in having been remembered in her late employer’s will—the excuse she gave for being able to afford her own house, carriage, and horse—as a natural consequence of her caring nature and capacity for hard work.