“Although it has been carefully kept, it is not new. Does it have sentimental value? Did you use to wear it for your lover?”
Charlotte’s tone was straightforward. She was not here to ridicule Miss Baxter and certainly not to tease her. She wanted only facts.
Miss Baxter raised a brow. Her beauty had less to do with the arrangement of her features, but owed much more to the animating force of her expression. That simple movement encompassed a wealth of meaning, ranging from surprise, to approval, to anticipation of an equal divulgence on Charlotte’s part.
“Yes, a good guess. This was his favorite.”
“It was not a guess,” said Charlotte coolly. “I know fabric. I know cut. I know fashion. I know this tea gown was likely made between six and eight years ago—it must hold some significance for you to still favor it.
“Moreover, a tea gown is for lounging, but it is also what one dons to meet a paramour who has come to call. Since you made a point to bring up a specific gentleman the last time I was here, it would be rude for me not to make the connection.”
Miss Baxter laughed. “I see. You are telling me that I have not been very subtle.”
“Most things most people do are not subtle—not to Sherlock Holmes, in any case,” said Charlotte. “But here is an actual guess, one that isn’t supported by logic and evidence every step of the way, about the deal you struck with your father to regain some sort of freedom.”
Miss Baxter’s eyes narrowed. “Think before you speak, Miss Holmes.”
“I always do.”
Except in bed. Occasionally.
With regard to Miss Baxter, however, ever since she’d had a good look at the ciphers Mr. Mears had found in those Cornish publications, she’d been thinking of what she would say to the woman, when they came face-to-face again.
“How is the baby, by the way? Has there been any news from Mrs. Crosby? And congratulations, of course.”
A muscle leaped at Miss Baxter’s jaw.
“I met Mr. de Lacey while I was in London. I didn’t breathe a word of your condition to him—that is not the purview of my investigation.”
Miss Baxter slowly looked toward the ceiling, a prolonged, nearly balletic rolling of her eyes—Charlotte was not much better at reassuring people than she was at offering unconditional support when they needed to vent. A good thing she had not come to put Miss Baxter at ease.
“But I don’t believe anyone needed to tell your father anything,” continued Charlotte. “His imprisonment last year had robbed him of vital information; the reclamation of his former throne consumed a great deal of his time and energy. When he finally came around and dealt with reports of unusual goings-on in the Garden of Hermopolis, he made the mistake of attributing to Miss Fairchild his own murderous ruthlessness. So the first time he sent me here, he probably did believe your safety compromised—and perhaps your life, too.
“But in light of subsequent events—your notable absence the night of the fireworks and equally notable appearance the next evening—and given the evidence you furnished that it is really you who is alive and well in the Garden, he would be hard pressed not to realize that his assumptions had been wrong.” She paused. “Especially in light of precedent.”
With unnerving speed, Miss Baxter sat up from her near full recline. Mrs. Felton had described her as “scary-grand, like a tiger stalking through a forest.” But to Charlotte she resembled more a great serpent, her beauty sinuous and full of peril.
“This is not your first child, is it?” Charlotte carried on. “That time your father dragged you home, it was not because he at last found you at the Garden of Hermopolis, but because he found you in an advanced state of pregnancy. I’d even wager that you were only pretending to be at the Garden with a ‘meditative retreat’ sign on your door, and spending your days elsewhere with your lover.
“But you were caught and put in a gilded cage. And you made a bargain with your father. You would give up your child in order to return to the Garden of Hermopolis, and, this time, stay.”
Miss Baxter watched her, her gaze glacial.
Charlotte selected a piece of coconut biscuit from the refreshments on offer. “You need not fret, Miss Baxter. I am a neutral party and I have kept your secret.”
Miss Baxter laughed softly. “I still have secrets left? You just told me that my father not only holds my firstborn hostage but has also deduced the arrival of my second child.”
“But he doesn’t know where the new baby is. I do.” Charlotte allowed herself a small smile. “I know from which railway station Mrs. Crosby left and I have verified her destination.”
Miss Baxter’s face, already pale, turned paler. “Are you threatening me, Miss Holmes?”
Of course.
“Hardly,” Charlotte said modestly. “I am only trying to arrive at a mutually satisfactory arrangement. You want to keep your child’s whereabouts safe. I want to leave the Garden of Hermopolis alive and whole. To achieve my goal, I’ll need to give an account of what happened to Mr. Craddock.”
Miss Baxter scrutinized Charlotte with green, glittering eyes. “You mean that I should take the blame for his death?”
“He saw you heavily pregnant, didn’t he? Could you suffer him to live after that?”
Miss Baxter lifted her chin and slowly rolled her head half a circle. “Miss Holmes, I don’t think we have much more to say to each other. Let us end our conversation right here.”
“Why? Look outside the walls of the Garden, Miss Baxter. You are surrounded. I believe you face a fate far worse than merely being forced back home.
“Shall I make another unsubstantiated guess? There is a chance that your father has caught Madame Desrosiers and that Madame Desrosiers has given you up as the true mastermind behind his ouster last year.
“With so much danger darkening your doorstep, why not help me, at least? You claim responsibility for Mr. Craddock’s death; I go on keeping the secret of your child’s location. Perhaps I could even help Mrs. Crosby and the baby after I leave.”
“Oh, perhaps you could, could you?” said Miss Baxter lightly.
She cracked her neck. “Too much groundless speculation isn’t good for you, Miss Holmes. Mr. Craddock is perfectly fine, meditating in his cottage. And I shall be fine, too. But you, my dear foolhardy girl, you should be careful.”
* * *
It had been a while since Alain de Lacey had conducted outdoor surveillance.
These days, he was more of a bureaucrat.
Others spoke the word with dread, as if their desks would steal their souls. They must not have known a poorhouse upbringing or life in the streets. Well before he’d ever heard of the word “bureaucrat”, he’d gazed with wholehearted envy upon the administrators and functionaries of the world, hurrying past him in their striped city trousers to lord over their little fiefdoms, shielded from the elements, warm with authority and respectability.
His tenure at De Lacey Industries had been a dream come true. He was under no illusion about what kind of enterprise it was—an entity that didn’t have one foot in crime would not have invested in educating a petty criminal like him. But it gave him that desk and that little fiefdom he’d longed for.