Page 59 of Miss Moriarty, I Presume?
Lord Ingram felt very much the same, except he didn’t even have anyone to blame. He’d stationed himself there.
He threw himself to the ground. A beam of light passed by with barely two feet to spare.
The patrols had been shining their lanterns from the north, eastern, and south walls—the reason he dared to put himself to the west of this particular cottage. But now they performed their inspection from the western wall again.
He slipped back under the shade hut.
His hot water bottle still emitted some warmth but his feet were cold and he could barely feel his cheeks. He squatted down and stood up, stretched his legs to the side, and walked in place. Earlier he avoided detection; now he half hoped that Mr. Peters would patrol properly, notice him, and tell him to get back inside, too.
But no one discovered him. Or at least, no one cared. Light flooded down from the walls from time to time. When Mr. Peters was illuminated, he either paced on the veranda of or around Miss Baxter’s lodge. Same as before.
No one else came to see how Miss Baxter fared. The door of the house did not open or close again. Lord Ingram’s eyelids grew heavy. He swayed. If he sat down he’d still be able to see the front of Miss Baxter’s house.
Silently he yawned. And yawned again.
His children must be sleeping soundly. Holmes, with her propensity for a good night’s rest, was likely also sleeping soundly. He would like to sleep soundly, too—he was too old to stay up all night.
Even Mr. Peters yawned loudly enough for him to hear. Fatigue surrounded him like the night. He could sit down, draw his knees up, and set his chin between his knees.
He started—he’d almost fallen asleep on his feet and lost his balance. He rubbed his eyes, opened them again, and was nearly blinded by a flash of lightning that threw the entire compound into sharp relief.
Thunder cracked with ground-shaking force. He covered his ears. On the southeastern corner of the walls, a man did the same.
A more brilliant bolt of lightning sizzled, followed by an even more deafening boom. Rain poured, striking the top of the shade hut with such force that he barely heard Mr. Peters scream, “Get off the walls, you two,” at the top of his lungs.
The two people on the walls obeyed. Lanterns swinging, they ran and climbed down the ladders, then headed for Miss Baxter’s veranda.
Lord Ingram was no longer on the verge of falling asleep, but his head was filled with glue. He remained where he was not because it made sense, but because he couldn’t arrive at a new decision.
He did, however, dig out his pocket watch. Another streak of lightning lit the sky; he looked at the time. Quarter past four. Almost morning. He could endure until sunrise.
The rain let up briefly, only to come down harder. Thunder roared. He glanced at his watch every time lightning flashed. Time crawled. He felt like a tree in winter, all bare trunk and peeling bark. For a while after the rain started, it had not been difficult to keep awake. But now hibernation beckoned, the idea of being unconscious for an entire season the most appealing idea he’d ever encountered.
By the time he awoke again, Holmes would have sorted out matters with Moriarty, somebody would have informed his children about the divorce, and he would begin anew, well rested, if nothing else.
He was jerked out of his lethargy by the sight of Mr. Peters, a lantern in hand, running onto the central carriage path. Was he headed for the gate? No, he veered off to the southwest, where the stable and the carriage house were located. Ten minutes later, a coach came down the carriage path.
Lord Ingram blinked. But the carriage path going east ended in a wall.
Mr. Peters did not drive the coach into a wall, but went around a circular flower bed and stopped, the vehicle now pointing west. A man with a lantern sprinted for the gate. At the same time, a woman rushed toward the waiting coach, a satchel in one hand, a lantern in the other. Lord Ingram recognized her from when she’d stood on the wall and glared down at Mr. Young—Mrs. Crosby.
As soon as Mrs. Crosby was inside, Mr. Peters cracked his whip and the coach shot forward, bolting out of the compound just as the man at the gate opened it fully.
Lord Ingram hesitated. Lanterns had been freely deployed while all this running and driving took place, but now it was pitch-black again, rain coming down loud enough to drown out his thoughts.
He swore, lit his pocket lantern, and left the protection of the shade hut. The ground squelched underfoot as he made his way to the western wall. The gate had been locked again. He fought his way up a wet, slippery ladder, the pocket lantern’s grip clenched between his teeth. From the ramparts, the coach was still visible, by virtue of its two exterior lanterns. It was headed not toward the village, but northwest across the moorland.
A noise made him look back. A flash of weak lightning illuminated a man coming up the other set of ladders, in a mackintosh similar to his. A muffler covered most of his face. Sensing Lord Ingram’s attention, as the man reached the top of the wall he headed in the opposite direction.
For some reason, though their eyes had met for only a second, Lord Ingram thought he’d seen this man before. He tried to rack his exhausted brain, but couldn’t think of when or where such a meeting had taken place, let alone who the man might be.
In the distance, the coach disappeared.
He waited for some more time before deciding he was no good to anyone anymore, descended the ladder with as much care as he could muster, and headed back to Holmes.
14
Mrs. Watson had been startled awake when it sounded as if the sky was tearing in two. But once the rain began, though the thundering continued, she drifted back to sleep and didn’t open her eyes again until morning.
