Miss Marbleton immediately furnished the key. Miss Charlotte recited a string of letters. Everyone took out pencils and notebooks to help.
The deciphered text was simple. If you have anything for me, use the cipher that starts with Phthia.
“When did this notice appear?” asked Miss Marbleton.
“December thirtieth of last year.”
“Oh no,” cried Mrs. Watson.
It was a week or so after Mr. Marbleton had left to surrender himself to Moriarty. If that hadn’t been necessary—if he had been able to hand over the information to Mr. Finch himself…
“I wasn’t in the country at the time,” said Miss Marbleton, her shoulders hunched as if under a weight.
That would have been the time her adoptive parents were taken from her. And her brother too.
She took a deep breath. “Mr. Finch hadn’t wanted to involve you, Miss Holmes, in his dealings with either Moriarty or with us. Stephen must have seen you as a last resort for reaching Mr. Finch. And he must have seen Mr. Finch as the only person who could perhaps help us now, when we can no longer help ourselves.
“But I’m no longer so sure.” She spread open her hands, palms up. As if by reflex, she picked at the hole in her left glove. “If Mr. Finch really possessed such marvelous evidence against Moriarty, why hadn’t he helped himself? Why is he, too, still a fugitive?”
* * *
Outside the train the sky was a pale, tentative blue, as if the very air had been sodden for so long it no longer remembered how to be bright and vivid. But the most uncertain of sunny days was still a sunny day. Perhaps on the morrow a cold drizzle would bring back winter for another fortnight. But this moment, with its early-morning light sweeping across fallow fields and small duck ponds, felt like a harbinger of spring.
Charlotte gazed at sunlit pastures and gleaming farmhouse windows and thought of Livia, who sometimes sank into a prolonged melancholy as winter ground on, and who yearned ever for warmth and light.
Livia.
Mr. Marbleton.
Mr. Finch.
I am a queen upon this board, Charlotte had once told Lord Ingram, and I do not play to lose. That had been a much smaller match, with only a few moving pieces. And even then, she’d known that most of the playing field was hidden from her. Still, at every move, with every revelation, the scale and complexity of the game gave her pause.
By this point, however, the only true surprise left was how deeply she herself was enmeshed in the situation. It was knotty enough with her brother having possibly absconded with Moriarty’s dirty linen, and with Livia in love with the man’s estranged son, but now . . .
She glanced at Miss Marbleton, whose hands were clamped around her knees. “You mentioned earlier, Miss Marbleton, that your family offered sanctuary to Mr. Finch. Can you tell me where this sanctuary is?”
She herself might be in need of a sanctuary soon.
“It’s in Cornwall, an exotic sort of community that worships some pagan prophet.”
Mrs. Watson half rose. Lord Ingram turned sharply toward Miss Marbleton. Charlotte did not move, but for a moment she did not feel the seat underneath her.
“Pagan prophet? Hermes Trismegistus, you mean?” she asked.
Miss Marbleton eyed Mrs. Watson, who was slowly sitting down again. “That sounds about right. You know the place?”
“We’ve been investigating a missing-person case nearby,” Charlotte answered, “in the very shadows of the Garden of Hermopolis. It did not occur to us that the Garden would be a haven for someone on the run from Moriarty. How did you know that?”
“For as long as I’ve known them, my parents have formed alliances with other sworn enemies of Moriarty,” said Miss Marbleton, still studying Mrs. Watson’s expression, as if fascinated by her capacity for shock. “The lady who founded the community in Cornwall is one such ally.”
Mrs. Watson’s mouth opened to form an O, but this time Charlotte was not surprised. She glanced at Lord Ingram and saw in his eyes a similar acceptance: Assuming that Miss Marbleton spoke the truth, then someone in a position of power at the Garden must be willing to countenance the perils of hosting those who had defected from Moriarty.
“What caused her enmity with Moriarty?”
Miss Marbleton stroked her luxuriant beard. “Something about the death of her best friend. And also that she herself was garroted by mistake, causing such damage to her vocal cords that she can never speak normally again.”
Which explained why Miss Fairchild always had Miss Ellery speak for her.
“She must be a very capable lady,” murmured Mrs. Watson.
“According to my mother, her genius lies in having lured Moriarty’s daughter to live among them.”
This time Mrs. Watson appeared only moderately surprised. “As a hostage?”
“As diversion, so that Moriarty would never think to look there for those he pursues. Granted there are risks involved, as the daughter is under surveillance too. But there are always risks involved when one opposes Moriarty.”
Lord Ingram tented his fingers. “The religious community bears all the hallmarks of an excellent situation for someone fleeing from Moriarty. Why did Mr. Finch not care for it?”
“He didn’t give us a reason, only that it wouldn’t suit him.” Miss Marbleton sighed. “It would have been nice, wouldn’t it, if he had agreed to go there. Then you could have given this photograph to him right away.”
* * *
While London was still trying to edge its way to spring, like a suitor circling the outer peripheries of a ballroom, too timid to approach the belle du jour, the south coast of Cornwall was already on calling terms with the new season.
Charlotte, Mrs. Watson, and Lord Ingram arrived under a brilliant sky, in perfect time to see Mrs. Felton, in a hat laden with pink silk flowers, emerge from the village church after Sunday service. Mrs. Felton was taken aback to see them, but did not refuse an invitation to share a meal at the pub, where Mr. Mears also joined them.
As platters of roast and peas were passed around, Mrs. Felton told the company that the day before she had at last seen Miss Baxter in the flesh—and the latter had promptly berated her for being inattentive to the floor in her overweening excitement.
“Perhaps I shouldn’t have been so happy to see her,” moaned Mrs. Felton dramatically. “She hasn’t forgotten how to dress me down, Miss Baxter.”
She laughed. Her exasperation was genuine. But her relief was also immense—with her laughter, her eyes had nearly disappeared.
When Charlotte had been a child, the emotions of others had been, by and large, strange and unpalatable—much like the sip she’d once taken from a wineglass abandoned by her mother. But these days she sometimes appreciated the sentiments radiated by those around her. Perhaps she still had an immature palate, for she enjoyed those potent yet simple feelings best. Livia’s delight in summer, Mrs. Watson’s warm sympathy, and Mrs. Felton’s contentment in Miss Baxter’s wellbeing—the emotional equivalent of pastries and cakes, perhaps.
She turned her face. Her gaze landed on her lover. All his emotions used to be so complicated. But now . . .
He looked up, caught her stare, and smiled, with a slight raise of one brow.
Now he was letting himself be happier—and she relished his happiness.