Miss Baxter looked her over again, seemingly amused. “You would have a more fashionable figure, Miss Holmes, if you enjoyed biscuits a bit less.”
Mrs. Watson might have bristled at her comment, had it been snider. But it was a straightforward observation, offered as such.
“Yes, I know,” said Miss Charlotte. “I think about it sometimes, that more fashionable figure, before I eat another biscuit.”
Miss Baxter chortled, but her expression soon became sober. “My condolences to you for having caught my father’s attention.”
“In which case I must thank you, Miss Baxter, for making my task easier. I do have a few questions, if you don’t mind.”
“Please proceed.”
The permission was granted regally, albeit with a slight air of ennui. Or was it fatigue?
Miss Baxter’s presence remained powerful, but now that Mrs. Watson was more accustomed to it, she began to notice the heaviness of her shoulders and the droop of her neck—all this while she’d been leaning against the back of the settee, taking advantage of the fact that the settee had been placed at an angle to the rest of the chairs, so that she could see all her callers while remaining in a position of repose.
Mrs. Felton’s worried descriptions returned to mind. Of an otherwise vibrant Miss Baxter buried under piles of blankets, dozing, always dozing.
“Mr. Baxter was concerned about the sale of your grandmother’s house,” said Miss Charlotte. “He did not feel that it was in character for you to have sold the place where you had been so happy.”
Miss Baxter smiled coldly. “My father, as always, knows me not at all. It was not the house that made me happy, but my grandmother. Without her, the house was but a pile of wood and stone full of inanimate objects. Why should I not sell it when I felt that it would fetch me a good price?”
“Were you in particular financial need?”
This question made Miss Baxter laugh. “My father has closed his pocketbook to me and I have no other means of obtaining an income. Of course I was and am in particular financial need.”
“Very well, then. The man who came last November, and who claimed to be your father’s solicitor—why did you not mention him in your weekly letter?”
Miss Baxter waved an impatient hand. “Please, Miss Holmes, my father knows as well as I do that I write those letters ten or twelve at a time and simply put on different dates. Why should I bother changing them if he doesn’t bother reading them?”
Like her father, Miss Baxter was a terrific liar. Mrs. Watson was sure she was lying, yet could not discern where the falsehoods lay.
Miss Charlotte did not appear concerned. “Thank you, Miss Baxter. These are all the answers I need for your father. But if you would indulge me, I do have one more question for my own personal curiosity.”
“Oh?”
Miss Charlotte’s face appeared especially sweet and innocent, her eyes preternaturally clear. A chill went down Mrs. Watson’s back.
“Mr. Baxter told us a rather extraordinary tale,” began the young woman. “He said that after he initially retrieved you from the Garden, you were so determined to leave that you managed to become engaged to six different gentlemen over the course of fifteen months. Being of a practical bent of mind, I wonder how you accomplished that. I can’t imagine you would have been in a position to meet that many gentlemen, let alone woo or be wooed by them.”
Mrs. Watson gripped her skirt. This was a very, very forward question. She knew by now that Miss Charlotte did not waste her words, especially not in the middle of an investigation. But try as she did, she couldn’t see why it mattered how Miss Baxter had managed all those engagements.
Miss Baxter only raised a brow. “Ah, but I cannot divulge my secret. I might need to repeat my great achievement someday. But let me ask you a question, Miss Holmes. What are your plans, now that you’ve been assured of my well-being?”
“I shall, of course, return to London to make my report to Mr. Baxter. We should have enough time to catch the last train out.”
Miss Baxter’s eyes glittered. “Is this farewell then?”
“Let us hope. And before I go, Miss Baxter, do you mind if I take a photograph of you? Mr. Baxter does not strike me as someone for whom my word alone would suffice. He might be better predisposed to a photograph. And if I may implore you to hold up this newspaper?”
The paper was a local gazette that they had purchased in the village in the afternoon.
Miss Baxter complied, with a contemptuous look at the newspaper. “Have you read this publication, Miss Holmes?”
“No.”
On the railway journey to Cornwall Miss Charlotte had read a West Country newspaper published out of Exeter and a Cornish paper based in Falmouth, but not this one.
“Are you taking it to my father to prove to him that my photograph is of a very recent vintage?”
“Correct.”
“Then you might as well read it on your journey back, should you have nothing else to do. But really, would it not better prove you saw me if you were in the photographs yourself?”
The validity of the idea could not be denied. Miss Charlotte gave her detective camera to Miss Stoppard, along with a brief explanation on how to operate it. Miss Stoppard raised the camera, but Miss Baxter said, “Jane dear, don’t tax yourself so. Please bring a stool and the stack of papers from my room.”
“From . . . your room?” asked Miss Stoppard hesitantly.
“Yes, my room. Thank you, my dear.”
“Of course,” said Miss Stoppard.
She left, but not without looking back at Mrs. Watson and Miss Charlotte with surprised suspicion.
The room fell silent.
Miss Baxter glanced at Lord Ingram. “You, sir, you haven’t said a thing since you came into this room. Have you no questions?”
Lord Ingram had indeed been quiet, his expression carefully neutral as he listened and observed. Now he inclined his head. “I am only here to look after Miss Holmes and Mrs. Watson. But since you asked, Miss Baxter, I would like to know why you approved of Sherlock Holmes as the neutral party.”
“I commend you for knowing your place, sir. As for your question, Sherlock Holmes’s reputation precedes him. And in this day and age, being on the coast of Cornwall is no excuse not to have heard of the most prominent consulting detective in the nation.”
Her attention shifted to Mrs. Watson. “And you, madam, have you also no questions for me?”
Mrs. Watson had dozens of questions but none that she felt would gain her a useful answer. “Mr. Peters said you painted the large canvas in the library. Did you also paint the picture opposite the door? They are both striking.”
“Yes, I did,” said Miss Baxter with a leisurely look in the direction of woman, skull, and snake. Again, was it languor or weariness? “Someone once said that I am not necessarily a good painter, but at least an expressive one.”
“Would you mind telling us what the elements in the image stand for?” asked Miss Charlotte.
“The struggle to achieve even a small measure of transcendence, when evil is all around,” said Miss Baxter, echoing what Mr. Peters had said in the library.
Mrs. Watson couldn’t help herself. “I could understand that theme very well in the painting in the library, in which the woman, who presumably stands for some measure of truth and innocence, is under great attack from evil. But here she seems to be defeating evil, yet the serpent climbing up her limb suggests that her victory is incomplete.”