Lord Ingram fell to his knees and emitted an unearthly sound, between a moan and a strangled wail. His shoulders shook. His entire body was racked with sobs.
“What did you find, my lord?” asked Mr. Baxter.
He seemed preternaturally calm. No, not calm. Unaffected. Perhaps de Lacey had been right after all. He really had decided to sever ties with his daughter. And now, with this accident, he was even able to keep his promise to his late wife. After all, he had taken care of her. And Miss Baxter had died not by his orders, but as a result of her own machinations.
After half a minute, Lord Ingram opened his palm. On it sat a large silver ring on a thin silver chain. The ring pendant was like none de Lacey had ever seen, an oddly yet fluidly bent circle.
“What is it?” demanded Mr. Baxter.
“It’s—it’s—” Lord Ingram’s voice caught. “It’s a topographical oddity, a shape with only one side. Holmes has always liked odd things.”
And with that, and with a wipe at his eyes, he rose and staggered away. Inspector Treadles ran to him, placed an arm around his shoulders, and whispered into his ear.
But Lord Ingram flung his arm aside. “She is not dead! She can’t be! Everybody can be dead but not Holmes! Not her!”
* * *
In the wake of their departure, peace and quiet did not ensue. Miss Fairchild and Miss Ellery stomped into the Garden and demanded that they should be the ones to arrange for funerals and burials for all the dead, especially Miss Baxter’s, as she had expressed grave doubt as to whether Mr. Baxter would inter her according to her wishes, alongside her mother and grandmother.
Mr. Baxter did not care about the other two bodies, but held firm on that of his child. Though he prevailed, de Lacey couldn’t help but feel, once again, that his overlord was terribly distracted. He left immediately, leaving de Lacey to deal with the local constabulary that had at last got wind of the three accidental deaths.
In the end it was de Lacey who escorted Miss Baxter to her final resting place. She proved prescient: Her father interred her not alongside her enate forebears, but in a lonely plot in Lucerne, Switzerland.
Her ornate chain was hung around a bust of Medusa in Mr. Baxter’s London office.
On the day de Lacey finally sat down again in his own London office, he heard rumors that Mr. Baxter might have returned to the Continent in a hurry because Myron Finch had been seen near Vienna. He didn’t know why Mr. Baxter would take such troubles for Finch but with the man gone, de Lacey had one less thing to worry about in his own fiefdom.
A week after Miss Baxter’s funeral, a notice appeared in the London papers, informing the general public that Sherlock Holmes had gone abroad for his health and would not receive inquiries or clients until further notice.
With red, swollen eyes, Charlotte Holmes’s sister boarded a train to go home. Mrs. Watson left for Paris to be nearer her niece. Lord Ingram, whose divorce was granted a fortnight later, made arrangements for digs abroad.
Mr. Baxter became busy with other things. So did de Lacey. Men were needed elsewhere. With Mr. Baxter’s permission, those who had been stationed in the vicinity of Mrs. Watson’s house and 18 Upper Baker Street were assigned to new tasks.
And de Lacey, having kept both his life and his position, was happy to see spring return at last.
Although from time to time he thought of Miss Baxter, and of the blackened chain in her father’s office, and he would feel a similar sense of unreality to what Lord Ingram must have experienced.
Everyone can be dead but not her.
And then he would come to his senses.
22
The Garden of Hermopolis
Sometime earlier
The light was lambent, a gentle golden glow. Miss Baxter’s green eyes seemed to glow too. She rolled her head with a languid finesse, and spoke with an equally languid menace. “Miss Holmes, I don’t think we have much more to say to each other. Let us end our conversation right here.”
Ah, but no. Charlotte had not come to the point of her visit yet.
“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.”
Miss Baxter’s eyelids flickered.
So Charlotte had guessed correctly: She had been involved in the coup.
“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, yet with unmistakable animosity.
She cracked her neck, her motion sharp yet lithe, like that of a cobra uncoiling. “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.”
And now they really didn’t have anything else to say to each other.
Charlotte took an extra coconut biscuit and rose. “I’m sorry we must part on such terms, Miss Baxter. You have lovely clothes and just as lovely biscuits, both of which I appreciate very much.”
She saw herself out, whistling as she did so. The night fog was even thicker now, a cloud that flowed around her lantern and drifted on the ground. She returned to her own cottage, put some water to boil, and made two hot water bottles.
As she wiped around the stoppers and made sure they were tight, Lord Ingram came back, too. “Mrs. Steele was listening outside Miss Baxter’s window. Mrs. Watson has engaged her and her husband.”
Charlotte nodded. They climbed out from the bedroom window. In this fog, unless someone stood directly outside, they would not be seen.
She had her umbrella in one hand; he took her other hand. After a moment, she pulled free and took his hand instead. As children, she and Livia often held hands, but always with her holding Livia’s hand and not the other way around, so that she could decide for herself when to let go.
He did not object—he probably already understood this about her.
It felt . . . very nice. As an adult, she’d never walked holding someone’s hand. Granted, she could see nothing on this walk, not him, not the ground underfoot, not even the fog that surrounded them, but she did not feel the need to see either the sky or the earth. Or even him.
His hand in hers was enough as they traveled through pitch-blackness.
When they neared her destination, he left to reconnoiter and returned a few minutes later to let her know she could go ahead. They gave each other’s hand a squeeze. He would remain outside and she would proceed by herself.
She found the door of Mrs. Crosby’s cottage, let herself in, and locked the door.
Inside, darkness pressed against her eyes. She felt her way with the tip of her umbrella.
“You poked me on my foot,” someone said.
Miss Baxter.
“Are the curtains secure?” Charlotte asked.
“Yes. And the windows, too,” said Miss Baxter.