He nodded, wished the ladies good luck in London, and bade them good night. With his hand on the carriage door, however, he turned around. “Ladies, should I head for London once I’m finished with my tour of newspaper archives? Or . . . ”
Silence. After a while, Mrs. Watson realized that Miss Charlotte had ceded the question to her. “Well,” she said, her voice heavier than she’d intended, “one would think Moriarty would be happy to learn that his daughter is alive. But we cannot predict how he will react . . . ”
“I see,” said Mr. Mears. “I’ll come back here and keep an eye on the Garden until you have further instructions for me.”
He placed his hand over Mrs. Watson’s. It was a fraction of a second, and then he was outside, on the pavement watching their carriage roll away. Mrs. Watson waved—and understood all at once that in her unexceptional answer he had heard what she herself was only beginning to understand.
The situation was as uncertain as it had ever been.
More so, if anything.
* * *
At the railway station, Miss Charlotte read the gazette again, at a slower speed, paying attention to every word.
“Still nothing?” asked Mrs. Watson.
While the girl read, Mrs. Watson had thought over the evening. For some reason, her mind kept returning to what Miss Charlotte had said, shortly before they met Miss Baxter. The events of last night were always meant to force somebody’s hand.
Did that mean Miss Baxter’s hand had been forced?
Miss Charlotte shoved the gazette into her satchel. “I’m beginning to believe that Miss Baxter asked me to read this one only so that I’d be curious about the others, the ones that she considers her private collection.”
Their train came. Lord Ingram, who had gone to stow away remise and horse, returned at the same time. Once they were on their way, in a compartment to themselves, he distributed savory pies that he’d acquired at a pub near the railway station. Miss Charlotte nibbled at one. Mrs. Watson was both hungry and in no mood for food. The compartment was silent except for the rustling sounds she made, shifting the pie around in its paper bag.
Lord Ingram rose, went out to the corridor, and came back two minutes later. “There’s no one nearby,” he said in a low voice.
Miss Charlotte nodded.
With another look at the door, Lord Ingram said, “Surely I’m not the only person who noticed the similarities between the story Miss Baxter gave about her beau and the one Lady Ingram had used to engage Sherlock Holmes to look for her purported lost-beloved.”
Mrs. Watson exhaled audibly, relieved that he had brought up the subject. “I, too, was struck by the similarities. Do you suppose, Miss Charlotte, that when Moriarty sent Lady Ingram to you, he borrowed his daughter’s story instead of coming up with a different one?”
“Possibly,” said Miss Charlotte. “It’s a memorable story.”
“Do you think it’s real, though?” asked Lord Ingram.
“It can’t be, can it?” said Mrs. Watson instantly.
When Lady Ingram had come to them with her version of that story, which featured she and Mr. Finch, Miss Charlotte’s half brother, as star-crossed lovers who walked past each other once a year before the Albert Memorial, Mrs. Watson had been moved in spite of herself—and had felt a fool afterward, for having been so easily deceived.
She did not dare take Miss Baxter’s too-similar story at face value.
Miss Charlotte took a bite of her pie and chewed meditatively. “I wouldn’t bet on Miss Baxter’s story to be accurate in the details. But in the general spirit . . . ”
She took a sip of water from her travel canteen. “Mrs. Watson, do you remember my opinion of Lady Ingram’s story?”
Mrs. Watson nodded. “That there was something not quite right about it.”
And she, completely witless at the time, had thought Miss Charlotte’s skepticism heartless.
“Lady Ingram’s story did not fit with the reality of her. For all that Lady Ingram was animated by a great deal of antagonism against the world and everyone in it, she was also brittle. In contradiction, the devotion described in her story requires not only a deep initial attachment, but faith and resilience to maintain it, season after season, year after year.”
Mrs. Watson chanced a glance at Lord Ingram. Like Miss Charlotte, he too held a hand pie that peeked out from a paper bag. But unlike her, he had yet to take a bite. He only looked at her, his interest—or so it felt to Mrs. Watson—entirely on the woman speaking, and not the woman being spoken of, his soon-to-be-former wife.
“That Miss Baxter managed to carve out a little haven for herself at the Garden, against all odds, demonstrates a remarkable resilience, to say the least,” continued Miss Charlotte. “While her tale might not be any truer than the facsimile related by Lady Ingram, I’m more inclined to believe that she is capable of the patient, sustained effort demanded by such unforgiving circumstances, like that of a seed that finds itself in the cracks of a wall, yet nevertheless manages to grow into a sky-scraping tree.”
Mrs. Watson recalled the dazzling woman in that high baroque parlor. Her thoughts had revolved around the woman since, but not in any direction that concerned her character. To her Miss Baxter had seemed more like a glittering diamond—or a glittering sword. Did such beautiful and dangerous things have character?
“But why has she told us this tale?” asked Lord Ingram, taking out another paper bag from the pocket of his great coat. “Granted, you asked for proof that she is who she says she is and she gave you an anecdote that only she and Moriarty would know. But they are father and daughter, surely she must have other examples she can use.”
Mrs. Watson had been wondering the same. “Perhaps it is her intention to counter what her father said about her six fiancés. Imagine if, after all, there was no truth to that fable. Wouldn’t you wish to clear up the misconceptions that might have been caused by his lies?”
Lord Ingram handed this other paper bag to Miss Charlotte. “I would, certainly. But were I in her place, I’d have said more about what I was doing these past few months. I find it odd that she spent more time on a story of woebegone love than on a proper explanation that would make her father leave her alone.”
The paper bag turned out to contain jam tarts. “Thank you, my lord. I’ll have them with tea tomorrow,” said Miss Charlotte with a small smile. “And as for why Miss Baxter didn’t bother with any explanations--perhaps she doesn’t believe her father will leave her alone.
Mrs. Watson’s scalp tightened. “Perhaps Moriarty wouldn’t leave her alone, but he will leave us alone at least, won’t he?”
Ever since they’d said goodbye to Mr. Mears, she’d wondered how Moriarty would greet the news they’d bring. On the one hand, what better report could the man expect than that his daughter, despite her claim of a twisted ankle, was not only well but completely in charge of her surroundings? On the other hand, his ready acceptance of their report would be . . . too good to be true, wouldn’t it?
But what would he dispute? She looked like the woman in the photographs he’d provided, she conducted herself with the grand condescension Mrs. Felton had described, she was accepted as Miss Baxter by those who’d known her for years, and she had furnished a disturbing love story for the purposes of verifying her identity. Even if the woman they’d met was counterfeit, her story had to be one Moriarty would recognize—otherwise not only would all the orchestrations this evening go to waste, but the person behind those orchestrations would land in even greater trouble.