“Let me try something different,” said Charlotte.
She plucked a strand of hair off her head and slowly skimmed it down the side of the needle. Livia held her breath. Even though the waiting slide was placed on large plate, the least bit of excess force and the scarcely visible dot could land somewhere on the carpet, never to be found again.
“Is it off the needle?” came Mrs. Watson’s muffled voice. She sounded as if she were biting her own knuckles.
“I think so,” answered Charlotte, “but it’s now stuck on the hair. However, I can place the hair on the slide.”
After the addition of a larger drop of water, Charlotte placed a smaller piece of glass—a coverslip—on top of the slide and very gently pressed down. The dot, pressured by the liquid, separated from the hair. Ever so cautiously, she pulled out the strand of hair, leaving the infinitesimal dot in place.
At last she pushed the two pieces of glass together.
Everyone exhaled.
Livia wiped at her damp forehead. “My nerves are shattered.”
“But now this can go on the microscope’s stage,” said Charlotte.
The doorbell rang sharply.
Everyone stood still, listening. Livia prayed that it was only a child’s prank and there would not be a repetition.
The doorbell rang again, even more impatiently.
“You aren’t expecting any clients, are you, Charlotte?” Livia squeaked.
“The only client I have at the moment is Moriarty,” answered Charlotte. “I wonder what he wants.”
* * *
Mrs. Watson hid the microscope in the back of the wardrobe in Sherlock Holmes’s bedroom, locked the wardrobe door, and pocketed the key, her knuckles white, her face grave.
Livia, with shaking hands, set finger bowls of used water, as well as the remnant of the ticket stub itself, on the shelves that held all the tinctures and cures for the care of the “bedridden detective.” They dared not throw anything away, lest they’d made a mistake. It was possible that the dot they had painstakingly centered on the slide was but a round particle of soot and the real piece of film was still among the detritus or somewhere else on the ticket altogether.
Lord Ingram entered with a tray that held teacups and plates that had been scattered around the parlor. He set the tray on the bed, which had been cleared of all the jubilee items, closed the door, and glanced at Mrs. Watson. Mrs. Watson pointed at the wardrobe, indicating the location of the microscope. He took up position next to the wardrobe, pulled out a revolver, and quietly, but with great concentration, checked its chambers.
Only then did it occur to Livia that they might need to defend Mr. Marbleton’s secret message. She shuddered but helped Mrs. Watson draw the curtains and place a rolled-up mat against the bottom of the door to block out all the light.
Gradually, a reversed and upside-down image of the parlor coalesced against the far wall—the entire room had been set up as a camera obscura. Voices came. Charlotte’s and—thankfully—a voice that was not Moriarty’s.
“We will need you to return to the Garden of Hermopolis as soon as possible, Miss Holmes,” said the stranger.
Livia sucked in a breath. Mrs. Watson swallowed audibly.
“Oh?” Charlotte sounded a little puzzled. “But why, Mr. de Lacey? Surely Miss Baxter—”
De Lacey’s face, also reversed and upside down, appeared on the wall—a neat, ordinary-looking man in his early forties, with an unhappy air, that of a favored dog who had just been kicked by its master.
“I am not here to pick faults with your evidence as to Miss Baxter’s wellbeing—Mr. Baxter is satisfied with your work in that regard,” answered de Lacey, sounding harried. “But he is worried for Mr. Craddock.”
There was enough light from the camera obscura for Livia to see that both Lord Ingram and Mrs. Watson frowned at the mention of the name.
“Mr. Craddock was assigned to Miss Baxter for her safety,” continued de Lacey. “Mr. Baxter is disturbed that in all the accounts of the night of the fire, Mr. Craddock did not make a single appearance. Nor have we received a report on those events from him.”
“Perhaps he was unwell that night.”
“Unwell or not, he should have performed his duty—or explained why he couldn’t,” said de Lacey impatiently. “Mr. Baxter is not terribly lenient with those who fail to do what they are paid to do.”
A moment of silence, as if the mere thought of Moriarty’s lack of mercy overawed de Lacey.
“Mr. de Lacey, I asked you, during our previous meeting, whether Mr. Baxter had anyone else keeping an eye on Miss Baxter at the Garden. You insisted there was only Mrs. Felton.”
Charlotte spoke softly, but her words were pointed.
“Mr. Baxter did not believe any mention of Mr. Craddock to have been relevant then. But now that he is missing it matters.”
“Does Mr. Baxter have anyone else in or around the compound keeping an eye on Miss Baxter?”
De Lacey rose to his feet. “You know enough to begin your work, Miss Holmes.”
“I have one more question, Mr. de Lacey,” said Charlotte, her face at last coming into view on the wall, her purple turban brushing against the floor. “Did Mr. Baxter or anyone allied with him arrange for the fireworks the other night?”
De Lacey gave her a long look, his impatience condensing into hostility. “I have brought sufficient payment for services rendered and to retain you for one more trip to the Garden of Hermopolis. Find out what happened to Mr. Craddock, Miss Holmes.”
19
“Well, that was insolent!” huffed Livia. “A man who wasn’t important enough to mention earlier—and now it’s incumbent upon Charlotte to find out what happened to him.”
They were back in the parlor. Charlotte sat on the window seat, giving a drop of whisky to the narcissus. Mrs. Watson poked agitatedly at the coal in the grate. Lord Ingram, standing between the grandfather clock and the umbrella stand, gazed toward the window—or perhaps toward Charlotte.
And Livia, her hand braced against the desk so that she wouldn’t shake, continued to vent. “Who does Moriarty think he is, ordering Charlotte about as if she’s at his beck and call?”
If she didn’t rail against Moriarty, she might cower.
“I don’t like this,” said Mrs. Watson, looking up, a sharp furrow between her brows. “Moriarty doesn’t mean well, Miss Charlotte, sending you back.”
Charlotte, having soused the narcissus to her satisfaction, put aside the whisky bottle. “He didn’t mean well sending me there the first time.”
Livia felt as if she were falling--without knowing how long she’d keep falling. “But who is this Mr. Craddock and why does he matter? It’s the first I’ve heard of his name.”
“That would be my fault,” said Mrs. Watson, who, while they’d waited for the film dot to come off the ticket stub, had filled Livia in on the details of the Cornwall trip that Charlotte had omitted. “His name came up briefly at dinner, but he wasn’t there himself. I never saw him anywhere else in the Garden and didn’t consider him to be at all significant.”
She turned to Charlotte. “In retrospect it makes sense, doesn’t it? Miss Ellery said that Mr. Craddock used to live in the cottage we were assigned—and out of all the cottages in the compound, ours had the most obstructed view of Miss Baxter’s lodge. Obviously Miss Baxter didn’t want his ‘protection.’”