Miss Baxter, however, took her by the hands, and in a wonderfully kind tone that made gooseflesh break out all over de Lacey, said, “Remember, my dear Mrs. Watson, that I had no choice. I’m just a woman who wants to hold on to what little freedom she has. It’s my father who sent Miss Holmes to her death. He wanted retribution for it to fall upon me, but you must not let that happen. You know that he is the true culprit, don’t you?”
Mrs. Watson, lips trembling, tears spilling from her barely focused eyes, nodded slowly.
“Go with my blessings, dear lady. Be well and avenge Miss Holmes. Go now.”
With a cry, Mrs. Watson struggled to her feet, banging her shoulder on the door as she stumbled out of the former chapel.
Miss Baxter walked back to the pulpit, her two loyal bodyguards in tow, and resettled herself on her throne. “You were going to tell me, weren’t you, Father, that given I’ve killed Miss Holmes, the wrath of her allies will fall upon me and that my only hope of survival lies with you?”
Her eyes shone with satisfaction. “But now that Mrs. Watson will carry away a very different message, what excuse do you have left?”
Mr. Baxter sighed softly. He looked at de Lacey. “I should like some tea now.”
De Lacey swallowed. “Of course, sir.”
He traced the same path Mrs. Watson had taken. Outside the chapel, Mrs. Watson, detained by the men, lay on the ground in a heap, her skirts muddy, her face buried in one arm, bawling. De Lacey signaled for one man to keep an eye on her and the other seven to follow him back inside, firearms drawn.
He breathed fast as he reentered the chapel. They had more men, but when bullets flew, things became unpredictable—and that was without two large drums of perchloric acid in the immediate vicinity. He did not intend to wait for Mr. Baxter’s orders. The moment Miss Baxter’s men reached for their weapons, he would open fire and try to end the confrontation as soon as possible.
But Miss Baxter’s men did not whip out their firearms. And Miss Baxter did not even raise a brow at the sight of a small army piling into the chapel. The strangeness of their response made De Lacey’s heart smash against his ribcage. He set the men in formation around Mr. Baxter, he himself standing in front, feeling terribly exposed.
“I give you one last chance, Marguerite,” said Mr. Baxter. “You can come with me or you can die right here. And you two,” he addressed Peters and McEwan, “there is no need to lose your life alongside hers. Walk out of here and you will be free to live as you wish.”
Miss Baxter chortled. “My dear father, you swore to my dying mother, didn’t you, that you would always look after me? Breaking your promise so soon?”
She rose from her throne. McEwan dragged the elaborate chair aside, revealing a strange-looking device, covered by a dust sheet.
Miss Baxter positioned herself behind the device and whipped off the dust sheet. The machine that came to sight made de Lacey think of a mechanical lion: It was a rather awkward-looking cube on four legs, the cube surmounted by a number of steel plates. Only then did he see the ominous-looking barrel, and the belt of rounds, already loaded.
A Maxim gun.
McEwan hid behind the throne. Mr. Peters crouched down behind Miss Baxter.
Miss Baxter disappeared behind the protective plates fastened to the Maxim gun. She laughed. “Shall we start firing now, Father, and see which side lasts longer?”
* * *
Even Mr. Baxter had to bow to the firepower of an armored machine gun.
Like any victorious force, Miss Baxter required that the defeated be stripped of their arms. The men of Mr. Baxter’s party not only had to lay down their weapons, but had to submit to a search for spare pistols and knives, while Miss Baxter grinned, her finger on the Maxim gun’s trigger, the barrel pointed directly at her father.
De Lacey’s face burned as he trudged out of the chapel, Miss Baxter’s laughter floating behind him.
Her laughter was not the only thing that followed the vanquished. With only a pair of revolvers, Peters and McEwan herded them, as if they were Roman generals parading captives into the Eternal City. Or new conquerors driving peasants off their land.
At last, the gate of the Garden closed behind them with a clang. Mr. Baxter, at the head of the inglorious retreat, turned around. De Lacey’s limbs wobbled.
He expected a rage that would asphyxiate him outright. But oddly enough, Mr. Baxter seemed entirely unaffected. De Lacey rubbed his throat, disconcerted by the lack of uncomfortable feelings.
He recalled that long-ago dinner again, at which Mr. Baxter had shot Sumner. Mr. Baxter hadn’t been the least bit upset then either.
Earlier this day, he had still considered Miss Baxter as his daughter. But now she was simply another foe who would be eliminated in time.
The thought did not make de Lacey feel easier. He was still a witness to Mr. Baxter’s humiliation. His own life might still be forfeit.
At last Mr. Baxter spoke. “There are other matters that require my attention.”
That was true. They still hadn’t caught Madame Desrosiers, their ranks might still be riddled with traitors, and it was rumored that Myron Finch was throwing every wrench into the works, though it was beyond de Lacey how much damage a mere cryptographer could cause.
“Keep an eye on Mrs. Watson. Keep an eye on the Garden,” continued Mr. Baxter.
“Yes, sir!” If Mr. Baxter still had tasks for him, then at least he wasn’t about to become a late, former de Lacey.
Mr. Baxter was already leaving with the men he brought. De Lacey hurriedly started giving orders. The patrol around the Garden’s walls must resume. The gate, too, must be watched. The rest of the men he sent to Porthangan and to the nearest telegraph office.
Mrs. Watson’s manservant came to the Garden not long afterwards. When he drove out of the garden again, De Lacey stopped the carriage. Upon his shabby exit from the chapel, he’d seen Mrs. Watson sitting on the ground, her head in her hands, still consumed with grief. This time she huddled in a corner of the carriage, covered by a cloak. Her face bore signs of having been washed recently, and it seemed that someone had made an effort to comb her hair, nevertheless she looked disheveled.
As he climbed into the carriage, she only continued to stare ahead, her red-rimmed gaze unseeing.
“Mrs. Watson,” said de Lacey, raising his voice, “what happened to Miss Holmes?”
Mrs. Watson twitched. “She . . . Miss Baxter . . . She . . . Perchloric acid . . . ”
With a small scream she bolted upright. “Nothing has happened to Miss Holmes. Miss Baxter is a liar. As soon as I met her I knew her to be a liar. Lies. All lies!”
He let the carriage go.
One of his men keeping watch in the village returned to report that Mrs. Watson opened the window of a room above the pub and screamed, She is not dead! She can’t be! before being dragged away by her concerned manservant, who later told others at the pub that she’d had some bad news and he’d had to administer laudanum.
Not long after, a man stationed at the telegraph office came with news that it was the manservant who’d come in, and his cable stated only that Miss H had met grave misfortune at the hands of Miss B. At least he hadn’t taken leave of his senses.
At sunset Miss Fairchild and Miss Ellery left the Garden. They had been the last two residents remaining, besides Miss Baxter, Peters, and McEwan.