Page 73 of Miss Moriarty, I Presume?
Mrs. Watson had just put a piece of biscuit into her mouth—and very nearly choked on it.
“Do excuse me,” she said, swallowing some tea and trying to recover a bit of her dignity. “The biscuit was not terribly cooperative.”
“Yes, wayward biscuits, I’ve known my share of those,” said Miss Baxter smoothly.
Mrs. Watson coughed some more and said, “I apologize. Please go on.”
“Where were we?”
“You and your beau saw each other once a year at the statue of Achilles for years, but not this last time,” said Miss Charlotte.
Mrs. Watson held her teacup in front of her face. She wanted desperately to look in Lord Ingram’s direction but also felt she ought to do no such thing. She recognized this story—how could she not—it was nearly the exact same story with which Lady Ingram had come to Sherlock Holmes, supposedly seeking help to find her girlhood sweetheart whom she’d had to give up to make an advantageous match.
“Right, he was not there this last time,” said Miss Baxter. “I was very cross with my father. I was sure that he or those acting under him had done away with my beloved. My father, of course, denied it and said that although he would have been happy to remove my beau from my life, as he had no idea who this man was, he could not have so pleased himself.
“Needless to say, we did not part on the best of terms. No one else was present for this disagreement except the two of us—and perhaps a loyal underling or two of his who overheard because I marched in without closing the door and they happened to be nearby.”
“Thank you, Miss Baxter,” said Miss Charlotte, rising, her expression as serene as ever.
Mrs. Watson stood up, too. “I’m most terribly sorry about your young man, Miss Baxter,” she heard herself say. “Were you ever able to ascertain whether he is all right?”
For the first time something approaching a genuine expression appeared on Miss Baxter’s face, a mélange of tenderness and regret underscored by something dark and ruthless. “No, to this day I don’t know what happened to him. I hope he is all right and I hope he does not regret everything he has had to endure for me.”
17
Mrs. Watson drifted about the cottage in a daze. She ought to check for any personal items that had been overlooked when she’d packed earlier, but she only managed to consult her watch repeatedly, and then to forget what time it was in the next instant. Miss Charlotte, on the other hand, not only found a handkerchief and several hairpins that belonged to Mrs. Watson, but set down from memory the names of all the Cornish papers in the stack Miss Stoppard had brought from Miss Baxter’s bedroom, as well as the issues’ dates.
She then left a note for Miss Fairchild, stating that they would be taking a trip to London.
She was no less busy on the drive to the village. With Lord Ingram outside at the reins, she lit her pocket lantern and used the light to scan the local gazette that she had asked Miss Baxter to hold and which Miss Baxter said that she should read.
Upon reaching the village of Porthangan, Mrs. Watson at last began to recover from her stupefaction. She took a sip from her canteen, rubbed a spot behind her ear, and asked Miss Charlotte, “Anything useful in the gazette?”
The young woman pointed to a small notice that readI’m glad to see you well. And that you are carrying on as usual. “I don’t know that it’s useful, per se, but it caught my attention.”
From his room above the pub, Mr. Mears must have seen their carriage arriving. When they rolled to a stop, he was already at the curb, waiting. At Mrs. Watson’s beckoning, he entered the carriage.
“We saw Miss Baxter tonight and are headed for London to give Moriarty our report,” said Miss Charlotte. She entrusted the piece of paper on which she’d written down the names and dates of Cornish publications in Miss Baxter’s private collection to the butler. “Would you visit the archives of these papers and survey the issues I’ve listed here?”
Mr. Mears blinked at the news concerning Miss Baxter. He then glanced down at the list. “Should I be on the lookout for anything in particular, miss?”
“I’m not sure. If an article makes you think it might be relevant, make a note of that. If there are any small notices that strike you as odd, or indecipherable, copy them down for me to look at. Particularly if you see something that echoes what you find in these other issues.”
Mr. Mears asked if there was an order in which he ought to visit the newspaper archives—any order that was convenient to him, deemed Miss Charlotte—and whether he should speak to those running the papers while he was there. That he could decide for himself, answered Miss Charlotte.
He nodded, wished the ladies good luck in London, and bade them good night. With his hand on the carriage door, however, he turned around. “Ladies, should I head for London once I’m finished with my tour of newspaper archives? Or... ”
Silence. After a while, Mrs. Watson realized that Miss Charlotte had ceded the question to her. “Well,” she said, her voice heavier than she’d intended, “one would think Moriarty would be happy to learn that his daughter is alive. But we cannot predict how he will react... ”
“I see,” said Mr. Mears. “I’ll come back here and keep an eye on the Garden until you have further instructions for me.”
He placed his hand over Mrs. Watson’s. It was a fraction of a second, and then he was outside, on the pavement watching their carriage roll away. Mrs. Watson waved—and understood all at once that in her unexceptional answer he had heard what she herself was only beginning to understand.
The situation was as uncertain as it had ever been.
More so, if anything.
At the railway station,Miss Charlotte read the gazette again, at a slower speed, paying attention to every word.
