“Indeed, we always work fast,” said Charlotte cheerfully. “Please come up.”
“I’m not sure I understand what is going on,” said de Lacey as he took a seat in the parlor. “Only yesterday did we receive news that Miss Baxter refused to leave her house even though a woodpile next to the house had caught on fire. And yet here you are, hundreds of miles from the Garden of Hermopolis.”
Charlotte poured tea that she had set to steep earlier. “All to bring welcome news to Mr. Baxter, of course.”
De Lacey, regarding her with suspicion, picked up his teacup. “The welcome news being?”
“That we saw Miss Baxter last night. She was in excellent health. Radiated command and, I must say, quite a bit of contempt for those who had the gall to worry about her.”
De Lacey set down the cup he had just picked up. This time he looked at Charlotte as if she had taken leave of her senses. “You are sure, Miss Holmes?”
“Believe me, we were no less taken aback. And for that reason, we paid close attention throughout the meeting. In addition to us, Miss Baxter had summoned four other members of the Garden, all of whom had expressed puzzlement and anxiety on the night of the fireworks. They were surprised and delighted to see her. Awed, in fact, and flattered by the least condescension on her part.”
“That…does sound rather like Miss Baxter.”
“Her parlor was brilliant, her person dressed expensively and in the height of fashion. Good décor and good clothes are not cheap and she saw nothing wrong with selling her grandmother’s house in order to maintain herself in the style she is accustomed to, as it was her grandmother she loved, and not so much the house. As for the lawyer . . . Is it true that Miss Baxter was kidnapped when she was young?”
De Lacey came out of his chair. For a moment Charlotte thought he meant to denounce her third-hand hearsay as a preposterous rumor, but he only sat down again with a look of pure astonishment. “I’m afraid that’s something I do not know.”
Charlotte gave him a gracious smile. “I was shocked to learn of the story myself. But in any case, that childhood kidnapping made her deeply suspicious. The woman who took her from her grandmother had appeared properly credentialed. Therefore, when a second lawyer came—the one sent by Mr. Baxter—in spite of his credentials, or perhaps because of them, she refused to receive him for the sake of her own safety.
“Sherlock Holmes, however, is a well-known entity who is furthermore completely uninvolved in the enmities and entanglements surrounding Mr. Baxter. Miss Baxter therefore felt that at worst, a meeting with us would be harmless. And we, of course, were captivated by her presence.”
De Lacey shook his head slightly, as if he had trouble following the gist of the conversation. After a moment, he said, “I’m sure her presence is wholly enchanting, but what explanation did she give for the fact that members of the Garden had not seen her for months?”
“A need for solitude.”
De Lacey flattened his lips. “And for not coming out of her house when it was in danger of catching on fire?”
“A twisted ankle.”
“Do you believe that, Miss Holmes?”
Charlotte shook out the flounces of her skirt. “I could not assess the veracity of that particular statement: She was reclined on a settee during our interview and her feet, indeed all of her lower half, was obscured by a heavy blanket. But given that she was very much in charge of herself and the residents of the Garden were at least deferential and sometimes obsequious in their conduct toward her, it would be difficult for me to construe that any of them had somehow held her hostage the night before.”
“True, I suppose . . . ”
“Nevertheless, I was suspicious enough to ask for a photograph. My equipment was primitive and the nighttime lighting less than optimal, but the negatives have been developed and I find these to provide clear enough images of Miss Baxter. What do you think?”
She handed over two negatives. De Lacey held them to the light and looked for close to thirty seconds. “We shall need to make prints from them to better ascertain whether that is truly Miss Baxter.”
Charlotte smiled. “Of course, of course. In the same spirit, I asked her to relay something that only the real Miss Baxter can tell me. She mentioned a dispute with her father the last time they saw each other, concerning a gentleman she’d been fond of many years ago but was unable to marry.”
De Lacey exhaled and reached for a biscuit. “I’ve heard of Sherlock Holmes’s deductive prowess. If you’ll pardon the observation, Miss Holmes, you and your brother could very well have arrived at this conclusion on your own.”
“True, given Miss Baxter’s less-than-harmonious relationship with her father, I could have guessed as much. But could I have guessed about a yearly rendezvous before the statue of Achilles at Hyde Park Corner?”
De Lacey’s expression changed. It changed so much Charlotte suspected he’d have sunk into a chair if he weren’t already in one. For the first time, it seemed as if he believed that Miss Baxter was really alive.
“I see—I see,” he said, rising abruptly, the biscuit still in his hand. “Thank you, Miss Holmes, you have indeed brought marvelous news. I’ll see myself out.”
He was halfway down the steps before he climbed back and said, “And you will hear from me again, of course.”
* * *
Ellen Bailey was a small, quiet woman in her mid-twenties. Mrs. Watson had worried initially that they’d arrived during hours when a housemaid had a great deal of work, but it turned out that in Mrs. Donovan’s household, Ellen Bailey was employed not a housemaid, but the lady’s maid, and had enough stature to receive Mrs. Watson and Lord Ingram in a domestic office of her own.
She explained that when Mrs. Donovan came to Snowham to look for a place, she’d stayed at Mr. Upton’s inn and approved of Ellen Bailey’s work. And when she had learned that Ellen Bailey had been trained in all the skills of a lady’s maid, asked Ellen Bailey to come work for her, as her old maid was leaving to be married.
The young woman looked up from the lace shawl she was repairing and glanced about her office, on the shelves of which were trays of still-curing soap, jars of hair pomade and bandolines, and a small forest of essences, toilette waters, and hair tonics in brown and green bottles, all hand-labeled and clearly homemade. “It’s so nice to have a place of my own.”
Mrs. Watson, who had great interest in smooth skin and shiny hair, spent a few minutes exchanging recipes with her, before guiding the conversation to the topic they had come for.
Ellen Bailey was forthcoming. “Ever since I got your note, I’ve been thinking about Mr. Openshaw. A lovely man—a real gentleman. I didn’t see him much when he stayed at Mr. Upton’s, once in the dining room, when I was cleaning tables at supper, and once in the hallway, just after I finished with his room.”
She threaded her needle through a section of lace that she had pinned to a repair board. “But I can tell you this: He never seemed to sleep, Mr. Openshaw. I don’t always sleep well myself. The servants’ quarters at the inn are in the half basement and I had a window that looked out to the street. From there I could see lights from the inn reflected in the windows across the street. I worked at the inn enough years to tell, by looking at those windows, which rooms at Mr. Upton’s still had their lights on. And when he stayed there, I got up at least a couple of times each night. Mr. Openshaw’s light was always on.”