Two months ago, such a search had turned up important clues from Inspector Treadles. This time, Miss Charlotte wanted to see whether there were any letters that bore postmarks from the village of Snowham. Much to Mrs. Watson’s surprise, they discovered not one but two such letters among the rejected post, and each of those contained a sentence followed by an extra full stop.
Knowing now how much information such a seemingly insignificant dot could contain, Mrs. Watson set to the task of removing the film dots from the letters with a dry mouth and a pounding heart. But the dots turned out to be identical to the one they’d found on Mr. Marbleton’s ticket stub.
Mrs. Watson was disappointed. But not Miss Charlotte. “It makes sense that Mr. Marbleton sent the results of his microphotography in duplicates,” she pointed out, “exactly as the French did during the Franco-Prussian War.”
Mrs. Watson sighed and removed the slide containing the second duplicate from the microscope. “I wish he’d come to us in person. He was only an hour away, wasn’t he?”
Miss Charlotte, in the middle of preparing a transparent glue from Canada balsam, said only, “Perhaps he wanted to but couldn’t. We have no way of knowing.”
All this kept them busy until Lord Ingram returned late in the evening. Mrs. Watson uncorked a bottle of her beloved Château Haut-Brion, ’65 vintage. Lord Ingram, at Miss Charlotte’s instruction, pried open the Stanhope Miss Olivia had bought from the Jubilee souvenir shop and substituted the film inside with one of the newly discovered duplicate dots.
Mrs. Watson listened to their conversation and sipped nervously. She flipped through Miss Charlotte’s notebook, which contained the deciphered text of the small notices Mr. Mears had sent, and made the girl promise several times that once they were back in the Garden of Hermopolis, she would be very, very, very, very, very careful.
In the morning Mrs. Watson began their journey with a dull headache, and in a strange, grimly anticipatory mood. As London fell farther and farther behind, her mood became less anticipatory and only grim.
The night before, Lord Ingram had brought back a copy of the late edition evening newspaper in which the small notice intended for Miss Marbleton appeared. But what if Miss Marbleton didn’t pay attention to the evening papers? Or didn’t pay attention to that particular rag?
And who was to say that she was in fact in London? Certainly Mr. Marbleton could have no way of knowing, could he?
A burly, hirsute man, scratching the back of his neck, strolled by their compartment. Mrs. Watson’s fingers knotted together. “The gentleman who walked past just now—this is the second time I’ve seen him. He first came around a quarter hour ago.”
Miss Charlotte and Lord Ingram, in the middle of examining photographs of the countryside around the Garden of Hermopolis, exchanged a glance. The train decelerated—the next station was in sight. Lord Ingram placed the photographs back in their envelope.
The train stopped with grinding brakes and billowing steam. The corridor outside became congested, first with travelers waiting to leave, then with newly boarded passengers peering into compartments, looking for an empty space.
With a start, Mrs. Watson recognized one of the faces filing past their door. “It’s that man again!”
Neither Miss Charlotte nor Lord Ingram said anything.
“I suppose . . . I suppose it’s possible he detrained to buy something at the station and then came back,” murmured Mrs. Watson, trying to comfort herself with a logical and not-at-all-sinister explanation.
The train resumed its journey. Mrs. Watson glanced at her railway handbook. They were already an hour outside of London. If Miss Marbleton hadn’t boarded the train yet—
The door of the compartment opened. The same burly, thickly bearded man stuck in his head and asked in a gravelly voice, “May I take a seat here?”
“No!” Mrs. Watson’s refusal was swift and instinctive.
“Of course. Come in, please,” said Miss Charlotte at the same time.
Without any hesitation, Lord Ingram moved to give the man room. Mrs. Watson stared at her hospitable young friends, and then at the man as he closed the door and sat down directly opposite her. He seemed to have fallen on hard times. The brim of his bowler hat drooped on one side. His brown overcoat, of a decent enough material, had become frayed at the cuffs and was missing two buttons.
“Should I stand guard outside?” asked Lord Ingram.
The man shook his head. “I already checked every compartment in this car and the two adjacent ones. It will be another hour and ten minutes before the next stop. We should be all right.”
His voice changed, losing much of its rougher edges and became more . . . more . . .
Miss Charlotte extended her gloved hand. “Have you been well, Miss Marbleton?”
Miss Marbleton, of course. Mrs. Watson knew that Miss Marbleton often went about in masculine attire. All the same, she had not expected the young woman to be so convincing.
“What do you think? These have been the worst months of my life.” grumbled Miss Marbleton as she shook first Miss Charlotte’s hand, then Lord Ingram’s. The glove on her right hand had a small hole on the index finger, completing the image of down-on-his luck man just scraping by.
Belatedly, Mrs. Watson also offered the young woman her hand. “I’m sorry about your family. I’m glad, though, that you are still at large.”
“I’m not. I follow Moriarty around, but I don’t know whether I’m trying to rescue Stephen or to get myself caught too. And Moriarty knows it. He parades Stephen around, so that I’d think he’s thrown in his lot with Moriarty.” Anguish darkened Miss Marbleton’s eyes. “And sometimes I believe it.”
“He hasn’t thrown in his lot with Moriarty,” said Miss Charlotte quietly. “I do not believe he would.”
Miss Marbleton covered her eyes. With a start Mrs. Watson realized that she was weeping—or trying very hard not to.
“Did you manage to see him?” she asked in a quavering voice. “How did he give you the cipher to contact me?”
“We recently discovered that he had sent us two letters before he left England to turn himself in to Moriarty,” answered Miss Charlotte. “And affixed to each letter was an identical bit of microphotography.”
Mrs. Watson had been more than a little astonished that Mr. Marbleton wanted them to seek his sister—she had thought the latter to be in Moriarty’s custody too. Miss Charlotte had explained that before he’d surrendered himself to Moriarty, Mr. Marbleton’s precise words had been, Moriarty has my parents.
Nevertheless Mrs. Watson had argued that they ought to be circumspect about what they told Miss Marbleton. What if some sort of understanding existed between Miss Marbleton and Moriarty? It was better not to mention that Mr. Marbleton managed to leave them a note right under Moriarty’s nose.
Miss Charlotte, although she had agreed to Mrs. Watson’s advice, had pointed out that they would still be discussing a photograph stolen from Moriarty’s collection that Stephen Marbleton intended to pass onto Mr. Finch, someone Moriarty considered a traitor.
In other words, if Miss Marbleton was in league with Moriarty, then their goose was cooked.
Miss Marbleton dragged a sleeve in front of her eyes, sniffled, and cleared her throat. “Right. Microphotography. We do use that to communicate with one another.”