Page 54 of Miss Moriarty, I Presume?
“A few more buckets ought to do,” said Mrs. Steele, panting, “but I think we should all go back and get some more water just to be on the safe side.”
Mrs. Watson panted, too, from both exertion and relief. She was about to do as Mrs. Steele suggested but Miss Charlotte said, “Ma’am, your health will not permit more labor than this. I’ll go bring more water.”
Mrs. Watson had the constitution of a horse and would not have been undone by another trip with the bucket. But Miss Charlotte seemed to want her to stay in place.
“Won’t the bucket be too heavy for you, my dear?”
Miss Charlotte wiped at her brow with her sleeve. “You’re right, ma’am, I haven’t thought of that. Oh, I hope we’re not in your way, Mrs. Steele.”
“Hardly, hardly,” said Mrs. Steele, without moving. “Oh, I can hear lots of footsteps approaching. I guess no one needs to make another trip now.”
Soon Mr. Steele arrived with his bucket, followed by the kitchen maid. When her load had been emptied, the combustion came to a near-complete stop. More steam than smoke rose from the drenched woodpile, and a scarce spark or two was quickly put out by Miss Ellery and Miss Fairchild, who administered the coup de grâce.
“Has the fire been put out?” asked Dr. Robinson, limping into view. “I’m afraid in my eagerness to be useful I tripped over a rock and fell. Fortunately I’m only suffering from bruised pride and a skinned knee.”
He walked gingerly toward the front of the lodge, calling, “Is Miss Baxter all right, Mrs. Crosby?”
“She must have slept through it all,” came Mrs. Crosby’s voice. “Doctor, would you mind coming in and having a look?”
Mrs. Watson scowled. She still hadn’t forgiven the woman.
The physician turned around. “Is everyone else all right? In need of medical attention before I look in on Miss Baxter?”
Everyone shook their heads.
Miss Ellery said, “What about your knee? Would you like me to bandage that for you first?”
“Most kind of you, Miss Ellery,” said Dr. Robinson, already trudging away. “But that can wait a bit.”
The crowd followed him to the front of the house, but by then he and Mrs. Crosby had disappeared inside. All Mrs. Watson saw was the door closing.
Yet another gust blew. She shivered. The water in the bucket had sloshed and her right sleeve was sodden. The damp cold pierced to the bone.
To her surprise, Mrs. Crosby emerged again from Miss Baxter’s lodge, holding a bright lantern. But before she could say anything, Miss Stoppard on the wall shouted, “We caught them. We caught the troublemakers.”
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The troublemakers turned out to be a mortified-looking man in his late twenties and a trembling boy of about nine. The man had his hand over the boy’s shoulders, even as his other hand opened and closed compulsively.
Mr. Peters did not bring them inside the compound, but rather dragged them near the still-locked front gate. Lord Ingram stood a few steps away. The residents who had put out the fire, plus Mrs. Watson and Miss Charlotte, looked down from the top of the wall.
Mrs. Watson wondered whether from far below on the ground those who crowded the ramparts resembled saints and sages on a trompe-l’oeil ceiling, embodying an august judgment—when several of them were in dressing gowns, Miss Ellery had on mismatched slippers, and almost everyone was shivering. It was colder on the wall, the wind fiercer, and her arm in that wet sleeve felt as if it had been encased in ice.
“This man claims that he is Sam Young, a boatbuilder from Porthangan,” said Mr. Peters, his voice carrying up clearly, “and that this is his orphaned nephew, who lives with him. He says Mrs. Crosby and Miss Ellery can both attest to his identity.”
Miss Ellery squinted. “Yes, that’s them. What in the world were you thinking, Mr. Young, lugging young Master Timothy about in the middle of the night and creating a racket? One of your fireworks nearly set Miss Baxter’s lodge on fire and we are all cold and wet from hauling water to put it out.”
“I’m sorry, Miss Ellery,” said Sam Young, his voice quaking. “I’m mighty sorry. I didn’t mean to do any harm. Is there anything that needs replacing? I’ll do all the repairs.”
“That will not be necessary,” said Mrs. Crosby coldly. “And you have not answered Miss Ellery’s question.”
The man lowered his face and did not speak. He was bareheaded. The boy had a cap on but he had no headgear. Had he lost it trying to run away from Mr. Peters or Lord Ingram?
After a few seconds, Mr. Peters said, “He told me earlier that he’d heard today is the feast day of your namesake saint, Mrs. Crosby, and that it is considered a romantic gesture, in Catholic countries, to set off fireworks at midnight on the feast day of a beloved.”
There was a collective intake of breath. Mrs. Watson, who usually loved a juicy bit of gossip, was horrified by how the poor villager must be feeling.
“Who told him such a thing?” Mrs. Crosby sounded as if she spoke through gritted teeth.
