“Of course it is. The legacy of evil is insidious. Even the ones who seek to overthrow evil must be vigilant of its taint, of carrying evil in their own footsteps.”
“Then what is the point of the struggle against evil, if it can never be eradicated?”
“Weeds can never be eradicated either, Mrs. Watson, but gardeners must still uproot them. It is the same with evil. It will always exist, and it will multiply and encroach if it is not constantly pared back.”
Miss Stoppard returned then with a low stool in one hand and a stack of newspapers under her other arm. Miss Baxter directed Miss Charlotte to stand behind her settee. Miss Stoppard, after placing the newspapers on the stool and then the detective camera on top of the newspapers, looked into the viewfinder, pulled the stool back a few feet, and counseled everyone to hold still.
When Miss Stoppard declared herself satisfied, Miss Charlotte went to take charge of the detective camera. Casually, she looked through the stack of papers. “I had no idea there were so many local gazettes.”
“Yes, our presses are kept busy,” replied Miss Baxter.
“May I take some of these to read on my journey back?”
“Alas, those are my personal collection. But you can easily find them at any newsagent’s in the area.”
“I will look for them, then. Thank you, Miss Baxter, for consenting to the photographs. But since there is no telling how the photograph might or might not turn out, given the relative paucity of light, may I ask that you give me something that proves conclusively that I spoke to you and not to someone else?”
Miss Baxter regarded Miss Charlotte for a while, as if she needed to make a decision. “Very well. I have an annual appointment with my father in London. But what my father didn’t know for a number of years was that on those outings to London, I also rendezvoused with another person.”
“Oh?” murmured Miss Charlotte.
“Years ago, I had a young man with whom I was very much in love. My father absolutely refused to let me marry him and ruthlessly tore us apart. For his own safety, my young man could not approach me, lest his life be endangered.”
The soles of Mrs. Watson’s feet tingled—she had not expected a confession of such a nature. Yet Miss Baxter’s love story did not make her feel breathless with anticipation. Instead her whole body clenched, as if bracing for a carriage accident.
“What we resolved to do was to see each other once a year. He was to stand at the foot of the statue of Achilles, at Hyde Park Corner, and I would walk past. For years he kept the appointment. But last year he was not there.”
Mrs. Watson had just put a piece of biscuit into her mouth—and very nearly choked on it.
“Do excuse me,” she said, swallowing some tea and trying to recover a bit of her dignity. “The biscuit was not terribly cooperative.”
“Yes, wayward biscuits, I’ve known my share of those,” said Miss Baxter smoothly.
Mrs. Watson coughed some more and said, “I apologize. Please go on.”
“Where were we?”
“You and your beau saw each other once a year at the statue of Achilles for years, but not this last time,” said Miss Charlotte.
Mrs. Watson held her teacup in front of her face. She wanted desperately to look in Lord Ingram’s direction but also felt she ought to do no such thing. She recognized this story—how could she not—it was nearly the exact same story with which Lady Ingram had come to Sherlock Holmes, supposedly seeking help to find her girlhood sweetheart whom she’d had to give up to make an advantageous match.
“Right, he was not there this last time,” said Miss Baxter. “I was very cross with my father. I was sure that he or those acting under him had done away with my beloved. My father, of course, denied it and said that although he would have been happy to remove my beau from my life, as he had no idea who this man was, he could not have so pleased himself.
“Needless to say, we did not part on the best of terms. No one else was present for this disagreement except the two of us—and perhaps a loyal underling or two of his who overheard because I marched in without closing the door and they happened to be nearby.”
“Thank you, Miss Baxter,” said Miss Charlotte, rising, her expression as serene as ever.
Mrs. Watson stood up, too. “I’m most terribly sorry about your young man, Miss Baxter,” she heard herself say. “Were you ever able to ascertain whether he is all right?”
For the first time something approaching a genuine expression appeared on Miss Baxter’s face, a mélange of tenderness and regret underscored by something dark and ruthless. “No, to this day I don’t know what happened to him. I hope he is all right and I hope he does not regret everything he has had to endure for me.”
17
Mrs. Watson drifted about the cottage in a daze. She ought to check for any personal items that had been overlooked when she’d packed earlier, but she only managed to consult her watch repeatedly, and then to forget what time it was in the next instant. Miss Charlotte, on the other hand, not only found a handkerchief and several hairpins that belonged to Mrs. Watson, but set down from memory the names of all the Cornish papers in the stack Miss Stoppard had brought from Miss Baxter’s bedroom, as well as the issues’ dates.
She then left a note for Miss Fairchild, stating that they would be taking a trip to London.
She was no less busy on the drive to the village. With Lord Ingram outside at the reins, she lit her pocket lantern and used the light to scan the local gazette that she had asked Miss Baxter to hold and which Miss Baxter said that she should read.
Upon reaching the village of Porthangan, Mrs. Watson at last began to recover from her stupefaction. She took a sip from her canteen, rubbed a spot behind her ear, and asked Miss Charlotte, “Anything useful in the gazette?”
The young woman pointed to a small notice that read I’m glad to see you well. And that you are carrying on as usual. “I don’t know that it’s useful, per se, but it caught my attention.”
From his room above the pub, Mr. Mears must have seen their carriage arriving. When they rolled to a stop, he was already at the curb, waiting. At Mrs. Watson’s beckoning, he entered the carriage.
“We saw Miss Baxter tonight and are headed for London to give Moriarty our report,” said Miss Charlotte. She entrusted the piece of paper on which she’d written down the names and dates of Cornish publications in Miss Baxter’s private collection to the butler. “Would you visit the archives of these papers and survey the issues I’ve listed here?”
Mr. Mears blinked at the news concerning Miss Baxter. He then glanced down at the list. “Should I be on the lookout for anything in particular, miss?”
“I’m not sure. If an article makes you think it might be relevant, make a note of that. If there are any small notices that strike you as odd, or indecipherable, copy them down for me to look at. Particularly if you see something that echoes what you find in these other issues.”
Mr. Mears asked if there was an order in which he ought to visit the newspaper archives—any order that was convenient to him, deemed Miss Charlotte—and whether he should speak to those running the papers while he was there. That he could decide for himself, answered Miss Charlotte.