Page 62 of Miss Moriarty, I Presume?
Inside the station, the ticket agent was not terribly helpful, though he was apologetic about it. The early morning had been busy and he had looked only at the amount of money handed in, not at the faces of the travelers.
They yielded their place when others queued up at the window. Mrs. Watson paced in frustration. At last they’d found the carriage, but where had Mr. Peters and Mrs. Crosby gone?
When the ticket-buyers had left, Miss Charlotte went up to the window again and asked the clerk if by any chance one of the urchins that hung about the station had bought any tickets this day. The man blinked but said no, he did not believe so.
On the drive back, Mrs. Watson joined Miss Charlotte on the driver’s perch. The scenery would have been beautiful but for the fog that already obscured the sea and crept steadily inland.
At one point, a gust dispersed some of the vapors, only to reveal three sinister-looking tombstones on a desolate headland, one of which tilted drunkenly.
By the time they arrived at the Garden of Hermopolis, Mrs. Watson’s mood had become as overcast as the day. But Miss Charlotte leaped down from the driver’s seat, stretched, and said cheerfully, “It’s time for lunch. I hope they have a good pudding.”
The previous afternoon,Livia had spent futile hours scouring newspaper archives, seeking information on Snowham. Today, her venue was the Reading Room at the British Museum, but her work was no more productive: She called for books, flipped through them, and found little of note.
She closed her eyes and rubbed her face. The last time she had been in the Reading Room, it had been summer and she’d arranged a clandestine meeting with Charlotte. The occasion had been hopeful, very nearly giddy. Charlotte had just found her footing as Sherlock Holmes, Livia had decided that she would write a story based on Charlotte’s exploits, and the future had seemed bright and appealing.
The name Moriarty had not yet entered their lexicon. And she had yet to meet Mr. Marbleton—though undoubtedly he already knew of her. And was probably following her about town, waiting for an opportunity to introduce himself.
Her hand settled atop a hidden pocket in her skirt and felt the outline of the cloisonné box.Please. What are you trying to tell us?
Agitated, she rose and returned a stack of books to the clerks at the catalogue tables. She still had a few more books to go through, but what should she do after that? Ask for the even more marginally related tomes? What other avenue of inquiry was left?
She turned around to go back to her seat. Three men marched in her direction. A jolt shot up her vertebrae.
The man in the middle looked like Mr. Marbleton.
No, itwashim.
The moment seemed caught in tree sap, barely flowing. The light washing down from the oculus of the blue dome overhead gleamed upon his top hat. The flaps of his long coat fluttered sinuously around his knees, like water plants in a pond. He pulled off his gloves and took all of eternity to gently tuck them into a pocket of his coat.
Alarm surged in her veins. No, no, she must not stare at him. The men beside him were Moriarty’s minions. It would not do to attract their attention. Not only would she put herself in harm’s way, but she would make his already-trying situation that much more difficult.
She looked straight ahead and marched on limbs that felt like wet clay. Her hands tight around her reticule, her face pinched, she hoped she presented the very image of a bluestocking, even though she wasn’t learned enough to be one. As she passed the trio, however, she couldn’t help but glance in his direction, a look toward his chest rather than his face.
Only to see him raise a hand and touch something on the lapel of his greatcoat.
As slow as the earlier moment had been, everything now happened in acceleration. Whatever he’d touched was a blur of color and texture. And then he and his escorts were behind her.
Her heart pounding, she didn’t dare turn around, but headed directly for her seat and sat down. She shook. Even her teeth chattered.
What was he doing at the Reading Room? Had Moriarty let him out? Perhaps he was permitted to go about London, or whichever city he and Moriarty happened to be in, as long as he was properly “escorted.”
But why the Reading Room?
In all their exchanges—too few, alas, always too few—he had never given her the impression that he was a scholar. To be sure, Charlotte, a frequent visitor to the Reading Room, wasn’t one either, but she was encyclopedic in her reading habits. Mr. Marbleton, like Livia, preferred fiction, not exactly what the Reading Room was best known for in its collection.
Had he come for her, by some chance?
She pressed a hand over her heart, trying to slow its thunderous beat.
Hadn’t she just been thinking about the previous summer, when he had followed her in secret around London? Had he observed her trip here to meet with Charlotte?
Present-day Mr. Marbleton, if he wished to see her or give a message to her, could not possibly drop by Mrs. Watson’s place. Nor could he approach her hotel, even if he knew where she was staying, for the same reason that a minute ago they hadn’t looked at each other.
Was the Reading Room his educated guess then?
If—if his presence here was intentional, then he must have a purpose. Did he want to convey something that would help her understand the message embedded in that lowly, dirtied, precious ticket stub?
But how could he, when he was being watched?
