Page 106 of Miss Moriarty, I Presume?
De Lacey tiptoed through the wreckage. The reek of charred flesh had dissipated somewhat overnight, which only brought to the fore a nasty chemical smell that made him want to cough. A glint of gold on a blackened body caught his eye. Turning the body over with a stick, he saw the chain of office it still wore, gold filigree squares and fleurs-de-lis.
Someone crouched down next to the body. Mr. Baxter. He touched the chain with infinite tenderness, then ripped it off the body and threw it on the ground.
“What happened here?” he asked, to no one in particular.
“If Sherlock Holmes were here, he’d probably be able to tell you precisely what happened,” said Inspector Treadles after a moment. “I can only offer a guess, which is that the three departed were emptying the contents of these drums. I understand there was perchloric acid inside?”
Mr. Baxter nodded.
“Pernicious stuff,” said Inspector Treadles. “I’ve seen industrial accidents that resulted from it. Even with care, carnage like this can happen.”
With a cry Lord Ingram stumbled forward and picked up something next to one of the overturned drums. De Lacey could not see what he had gripped in his hands, but on the ground nearby were two spent cartridges. The bullets that had killed Charlotte Holmes? Lodged in her body until it dissolved?
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 wakeof 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
