They went down to the promontory. A few miles from the coast clumps of dark cloud hung low, rain falling in their shadows even as the surrounding sea continued to gleam under the sun.
Miss Fairchild’s attention had been behind them. A man stood at the edge of the headlands—one of the campers. She had scanned him, her bearing straight, her face severe.
At Mrs. Watson’s statement, however, her expression congealed. Her head turned, a fraction of an inch at a time, until she looked Mrs. Watson in the eye.
“I hear that you are a sworn enemy of Moriarty’s, Miss Fairchild,” Mrs. Watson repeated herself. “And that the blame also falls on him for the condition of your vocal cords.”
Miss Fairchild said nothing, only continued to look at Mrs. Watson.
Mrs. Watson genuinely liked and loved people, but in return she also liked to be liked and loved to be loved. It was disconcerting to be on the receiving end of Miss Fairchild’s flat gaze.
Miss Charlotte had quite a stare, too, powered by her sometimes-overwhelming perceptiveness. It could produce an effect of mortification, of believing that one had turned into glass and that every last closely held secret was now open to scrutiny.
Miss Fairchild’s look did not make Mrs. Watson feel as if she’d been put under a microscope. Rather, it was as if she studied Miss Fairchild through the wrong end of a spyglass, with the silent woman appearing much farther away than she actually was.
Mrs. Watson steeled herself. “I also hear, from the same reliable source, that the Garden of Hermopolis has been, over the years, a place for those who oppose Moriarty to find temporary refuge.”
Miss Fairchild persisted in her stony silence.
“We have said nothing to Mr. Baxter, of course. We are neutral parties—Miss Baxter, in allowing us to come here, bears testimony to our neutrality.
“It must be a terrifying time for you, with these ‘campers’ openly staking an observatory post outside your front gate. It is an equally unnerving time for Miss Holmes, Mr. Hudson, and myself. We are only investigators. Mr. Baxter asked us to ascertain Miss Baxter’s safety; we came. He asks us to ascertain Mr. Craddock’s safety and we have returned.
“We do not want to be thorns in your side. We only want to know about Mr. Craddock and then leave as soon as possible.”
More silence from Miss Fairchild, before she pulled out a stubby pencil and a small notebook and began writing.
Mr. Craddock is on a meditative retreat. He is not to be disturbed.
Mrs. Watson felt a stab of disappointment. “Do you really believe that, Miss Fairchild? While I don’t know why the men outside the Garden came today, I don’t think they came for you. Not yet. But I have the unhappy feeling that given time, they might make you a target, too.”
Miss Fairchild scribbled another answer. I have nothing to tell you about Mr. Craddock, other than that he is doing precisely what he came to the Garden to do.
“How can you know nothing, Miss Fairchild? For years, this man occupied a cottage from which one cannot see Miss Baxter’s lodge. All at once he was transferred to another one that was a stone’s throw from hers. Similarly, he ambled about for years, only to become a hermit at the exact moment he was moved.
“Are we speaking of the same man? Of only one man? Miss Baxter is a highly intelligent woman. Why would she suddenly allow Mr. Craddock into her orbit after keeping him at an arm’s length for so long?”
That you must ask Miss Baxter.
“But you are also trusted by Miss Baxter, are you not, Miss Fairchild? She could have gone anywhere to get away from her father. She chose to come here.”
She chose to come here because she is devoted to the teaching of the Great One, and there are not that many like-minded communities nearby, or in the entire world.
“Nevertheless she sends Mr. Peters, her watchdog, to confer with you. I saw you two speaking right here where we are standing now. Surely you don’t mean to tell me that Mr. Peters wanted to consult you on some finer points of Hermetica?”
Mr. Peters spoke to me because he admires Mrs. Crosby and did not know what he ought to do next, not because he wanted to talk to me about Miss Baxter or Mr. Craddock.
Mrs. Watson blinked. Love bloomed ever, even inside a fortress to which Moriarty had laid siege.
Miss Fairchild pocketed notebook and pencil. “And as for that so-called ‘reliable source’ of yours, Mrs. Watson, I would not place as much trust in it.”
Miss Fairchild had spoken. Her voice had the sound of a dull knife scraping over rough stone, and made Mrs. Watson want to wrap a protective hand around her own throat. A full second passed before Mrs. Watson grasped her meaning.
Miss Fairchild had already started back toward the Garden, her thin back held ramrod straight, but she was nevertheless a small woman, insignificant against these endless miles of craggy coastline.
She had at last disputed the enemy-of-Moriarty designation attributed to her—and cast aspersion on Miss Marbleton’s reliability as a conduit of information. One could almost consider it an afterthought, but for the fact that she had spoken that objection aloud, using her irreparably damaged voice.
A shadow fell upon Mrs. Watson. She looked up. The nearest dark cloud was almost directly overhead.
The weather was changing again.
21
An invitation from Miss Baxter came by teatime, brought by a dark-faced Mr. Peters, who had recently proclaimed the impossibility of such a thing. Charlotte enjoyed his displeasure; she would have enjoyed it more if she didn’t need to face Miss Baxter.
The first time Miss Baxter had summoned her, the hour had been set at six in the evening. Charlotte had immediately started packing: Miss Baxter intended for Charlotte and company to depart the same night and had left them plenty of time for that.
This time, Charlotte was invited to call at eight. Clearly, the matter of Mr. Craddock would not be resolved so cleanly or quickly. The invitation was also for her alone, no guests included. Perhaps they would speak more frankly.
It had drizzled for half an hour around sunset and now a fog was rolling in again. As Charlotte stood on the veranda of Miss Baxter’s lodge, waiting for her knock to be answered, she could see barely six feet out. Such atmospheric conditions were not uncommon in London, but here the fog, though as obliterating, did not bring with it the odors of urban and industrial discharge. It smelled only of fresh air and cold, briny sea.
Mrs. Watson’s talk with Miss Fairchild in the afternoon had not produced confessions of shared enmity toward Moriarty. Nor had the vegetable garden yielded useful corpses—or indeed anything besides soil, pebbles, and an occasional root. Could Charlotte expect a better result from her meeting with Miss Baxter?
The door opened. Miss Stoppard admitted Charlotte, and showed her to the baroque parlor, where Miss Baxter was once again stretched out on the settee. This time her dress was more informal, a white tea gown embroidered with flaxen leaves and golden flowers. The overrobe was made entirely of lace, with a ruched collar and heavily pleated sleeves that greatly gratified Charlotte’s love of elaborate sartorial constructions.
“That is a beautiful frock,” she said immediately upon sitting down.
“Yes, it is, isn’t it?” Teardrop-shaped beads of turquoise were set amidst the embroidered botanical motifs. Miss Baxter fondly caressed one bead, then another.