She looked back at Mrs. Felton, “At least you no longer need to worry about Miss Baxter.”
“True, true,” Mrs. Felton readily agreed.
Mrs. Watson raised her glass mug of ale. “To Miss Baxter, long may she be grand.”
“Hear, hear! And may she grow a little sweeter in temperament someday,” said Mrs. Felton, clinking mugs with her.
She took a good gulp of her ale and looked about the table. “But how is it that you are back again? Miss Baxter said she already met you and spoke to you.”
“Mr. Baxter sent us back to find out what happened to Mr. Craddock,” said Charlotte.
Mrs. Felton’s eyes widened. “Mr. Craddock? What’s the matter with him? And why does Mr. Baxter care?”
“According to Mr. de Lacey, Mr. Craddock is Mr. Baxter’s man, there to keep an eye on Miss Baxter,” answered Mrs. Watson. “But he failed to send in a report after the fireworks.”
Mrs. Felton sputtered. “How many people does Mr. Baxter need to keep an eye on his daughter?”
And then, after a moment of silence: “No report?”
Mrs. Watson shook her head.
Mrs. Felton looked around the table again, her bafflement turning into dismay. “Come to think of it, I haven’t seen him since he moved out of your cottage last December.”
“When in December?” asked Lord Ingram.
“Miss Ellery gave me a few days off before Christmas. When I came back, Mrs. Crosby told me that Mr. Craddock had moved. She also said that he’d started a meditative retreat and wouldn’t need me to clean for him for a while.”
Charlotte ate a piece of potato from her plate. “Do you know what happens to a body that is cast out to sea around here, Mrs. Felton?”
Mrs. Felton choked on her ale. Mrs. Watson thwacked her on the back. Mrs. Felton coughed, panted, and coughed again. “Surely—” she began, still catching her breath, “surely Mr. Craddock just decided to take a holiday.”
“You’re most likely right,” said Charlotte. “But we must consider all the possibilities.”
Mrs. Felton looked about the pub and then whispered, “You can’t just cast a body out to sea in these parts, Miss Holmes. The sea washes them right back to Fetlock Cove, two miles southwest.”
“I’ve heard the same,” said Mr. Mears. “It’s no use weighing bodies down either. The currents are such that not even clothes can stay on, let alone ropes and chains and whatnot.”
Mrs. Felton quailed. Mrs. Watson hastened to put her mind at ease. “I wouldn’t worry about Mr. Craddock yet. Remember how anxious everyone was for Miss Baxter? She proved right as ninepence, didn’t she?”
That reassurance worked. Mrs. Felton, her good humor restored, finished her hearty lunch and shared a heroic serving of rice pudding with Charlotte before bidding the London visitors good day outside the pub. The London visitors, driven by Mr. Mears, headed for the Garden.
The day continued to be beautiful, the air clear and pure, with bright notes of salt and grass. But perhaps because there were more clouds in the sky, or perhaps because the wind had nearly sheared Charlotte’s turban off her head as she was about to climb into the remise, but it seemed only a matter of time before atmospheric conditions changed.
Charlotte watched the sea for another minute, then turned to Mrs. Watson. “Ma’am, I didn’t give you a complete account of what happened when I went to Dr. Robinson’s cottage.”
She brought up the man who had been in Dr. Robinson’s cottage when she’d stolen inside and who had clamped a hand over her mouth to keep her silent when she’d happened upon his hiding place.
Mrs. Watson worried the drawstring of her reticule. But she only said, after a moment, “I’m glad you escaped unscathed, my dear. Please go on.”
“I’m likewise glad to have been unharmed.” Charlotte inclined her head toward the dear lady who always wanted to protect and comfort everyone. “Now this man couldn’t have been Dr. Robinson, who was in the cottage at the same time. He wasn’t Mr. Peters, who, according to Lord Ingram, did not stray from the vicinity of Miss Baxter’s lodge.
“The man wasn’t Mr. McEwan, who was on the wall with Miss Stoppard. He didn’t smell of horses, so he wasn’t John Spackett, who had harnessed a horse to a carriage just before that. And he also didn’t smell of Mr. Steele’s cologne water.
“At the time, I thought he had to be Mr. Craddock and suspected him of being Moriarty’s minion. I also thought it likely that he trespassed for the same reason I did: to obtain indirect intelligence on Miss Baxter.
“That in itself was not remarkable—it was already a foregone conclusion by then that Mrs. Felton could not be the only Moriarty spy at the Garden. But if the man was an imposter—that is much more interesting. The imposter, chosen to replace the original Mr. Craddock, should number among Miss Baxter’s loyalists. Yet he was there spying on Dr. Robinson, who is surely someone she trusts completely.”
“Is it possible that . . . ” Mrs. Watson’s voice trailed off. “What is going on?”
Their remise crested an incline. The Garden of Hermopolis, its castle-like walls gleaming under the sun, came into view, looming in the distance with a vaguely sinister magnificence.
Except now, on the headland to the west, several tents were being erected. Or rather, one was staked in and ready, and half a dozen men were working on two more.
Camping had been a popular pastime along the Upper Thames for years, developed in conjuncture with pleasure boating, as heavy tents were more easily transported by watercraft. But the Garden was not situated along any river and its surroundings, while beautiful, would not have lured Charlotte to spend a night outdoors in so early in the year.
Mrs. Watson must have come to a similar conclusion. Her fingers closed around the handle of her umbrella—also a gift from Lord Ingram, capable of firing two shots. “Did . . . did Moriarty send these men?”
“Probably,” said Lord Ingram. His tone suggested that the probability verged on one hundred percent. “But why?”
Why indeed?
* * *
The residents of the Garden of Hermopolis had noticed the men and the tents outside of their front gate. With her binoculars, Charlotte counted eleven figures atop the wall, watching—everyone except Mrs. Crosby, Miss Baxter, and Mr. Craddock.
As the remise drew near, several people disappeared from the ramparts. Mr. Peters and John Spackett opened the gate. Miss Ellery greeted them. Charlotte had cabled the Garden the day before, soon after she learned they would be forced to return. Their arrival therefore surprised no one, but Miss Ellery’s smile was both awkward and uneasy.
Charlotte, leaving Mrs. Watson to speak with Miss Ellery, went in search of Abby Hurley, the kitchen maid. Abby Hurley, who had just climbed down from the wall, was surprised to be accosted, but told Charlotte readily enough that yes, Mr. Craddock used to pick up his meal baskets himself. But around Christmas he moved to another cottage and left to visit some friends. When he came back, he began a meditative retreat. Since then she had delivered and retrieved his baskets, leaving them outside his door and picking them up again from the same spot.
Charlotte thanked her and proceeded directly to the cottage currently occupied by “Mr. “Craddock”, in the back of Miss Baxter’s cluster, with its noted view of fruit trees espaliered against the wall. A slate tablet hung on the door: Meditative retreat in progress. Pray do not disturb.