Page 66 of Miss Moriarty, I Presume?
He licked his lips in the exact same manner. Or, perhaps, more blatantly.
She stared at him. “That is... shameless.”
“You wouldn’t have kept after me all these years if you didn’t always believe me to be shameless, deep down.”
She perused him again, her gaze passing over him like a flame. “Others have esteemed my judgment for years. For the very first time I, too, am filled with admiration for my insight.”
He laughed—and put his head down on the table because he couldn’t stop laughing.
Sounds came from the bath—not sounds of water, but of Mrs. Watson gathering up her things. He rose. “I’ll go fetch our luncheon from the kitchen.”
In case he couldn’t stop laughing even in front of Mrs. Watson.
The sea fog that had rolled in earlier in the day still persisted, not as bad as a pea-souper, but dense enough that visibility was reduced to fewer than twenty feet. He checked the carriage house first—the coach taken by Mr. Peters hadn’t returned. Then he walked by Miss Baxter’s lodge—walked three times around it, in fact. The house had its doors and windows tightly secured, but not a single person came to demand what he was doing.
At last he headed for the kitchen, skirting around it so it would appear that he’d come from the direction of his own cottage, rather than the cluster of houses that contained Miss Baxter’s lodge. As he approached, voices rose from the large portico in front of the kitchen. By habit he concealed himself along a side wall.
“Miss Stoppard, Miss Stoppard, did I hear you say that you are picking up Miss Baxter’s luncheon today?”
He recognized the voice less by its timbre than by its marked tone of ingratiation. Mrs. Steele.
Miss Stoppard’s reply was curt. “Yes.”
“Is Mrs. Crosby unwell? She’s usually the one who does that for Miss Baxter, isn’t she?”
“And I do it in her absence. Mrs. Crosby has gone to visit a friend in Brighton.”
“All of a sudden?” This voice belonged to Miss Ellery. “And how is Miss Baxter?”
“She is well.”
“When can we call on her?” Mrs. Steele again. “We are anxious to see her.”
“Shortly, I’m sure. Shortly,” said Miss Stoppard, sounding as impatient as Mr. Peters had in the small hours of the morning. “Good day, ladies. Miss Baxter is waiting for her meal.”
She departed, her footsteps light but brisk.
“Shortly. Shortly,” mumbled Mrs. Steele, her words resigned. “How many times have we been told we’d see Miss Baxter shortly?”
Miss Ellery only sighed.
Lord Ingram spentsome time every year at his seaside cottage in north Devon and understood the variability of maritime weather. But after a long inland winter of many similarly grey days, the rapidly changing atmospheric conditions of the Cornish coast still managed to startle him. It was as if he’d been living with a companion of a dour but steady temperament and was now thrust into the presence of someone who bawled his eyes out one minute and keeled over with laughter the next.
The fog, so dense and omnipresent before luncheon, had completely disappeared an hour later, when he, Holmes, and Mrs. Watson left on their afternoon excursion. The sky was a bright, transparent blue; the sea gleamed silver with reflected sunlight. The storm of the night before was evident only in rooftops that still glistened damply, and the mud stuck to carriage wheels and soles of boots.
They collected Mr. Mears from Porthangan and drove up the headlands. Several brown goats scrambled away when they alit from the remise. At Mrs. Watson’s suggestion, they climbed up an outcrop. At the top, standing in a knot, they listened to Mr. Mears, who had been making inquiries concerning the Garden of Hermopolis and Miss Baxter, give a summary of his findings.
To be sure, there were those who did not care for a heathen outpost here in the heart of Christendom. But by and large, the residents of the Garden were not thought of as heretics. Rather, they were considered peaceful neighbors and, often, generous patrons. Much of their foodstuff was supplied by village fishermen and nearby farmers. They bought local crafts and contributed to local charity efforts. Miss Baxter, in particular, had even served as judge in a village boat race.
Mrs. Felton, the only villager in direct and regular contact with the Garden, inspired mixed feelings. Some thought her too self-satisfied, but even those who believed so had to admit that she had a good heart and was altogether harmless. Mr. Mears had spoken to her brother, who defended her good fortune inhaving been remembered in her late employer’s will—the excuse she gave for being able to afford her own house, carriage, and horse—as a natural consequence of her caring nature and capacity for hard work.
With regard to Mr. Young, the disturber of the peace the night before, his skills as a boat maker were universally praised. As a man, he was judged a good uncle to his orphaned nephew, thougha little less steady than he ought to be at his age, was also a recurring refrain.
Mr. Mears confirmed that Mr. Young was seen walking with a visitor to the harbor the previous afternoon. Mindful of Mrs. Crosby’s reputation, Mr. Mears had refrained from any questions that directly connected her to Mr. Young, as news of the unwanted fireworks had not yet spread, and the villagers were blissfully unaware that one of their own had been the cause of so much chaos three miles away at the Garden.
“For all that the Garden is a religious oddity,” he concluded, “the community seems to enjoy a fine reputation. Miss Fairchild is thought of as a very respectable lady. Miss Baxter, furthermore, is considered grand. More than one person recalled how majestic she had appeared the time she served as the boat race’s judge, how she stood on the seawall of the harbor looking like the queen of the sea herself.”
From where they stood, the seawall was almost directly below, a ribbon of defense against the ceaseless waves. Lord Ingram tried to imagine a crowd of awestruck villagers surrounding a regal Miss Baxter, her face proudly upturned, her skirts billowing in the breeze. But his gaze kept shifting to Holmes, a few steps to the side, slowly twirling her parasol, observing everything with her usual expression of impenetrable blandness.
