Page 76 of Miss Moriarty, I Presume?
Lord Ingram felt himself grow tenser. “The same thought occurred to Holmes, I believe. Last night she asked me what the weather in Andalusia is like this time of the year.”
More than once they had talked about a long trip abroad, he and Holmes. But the discussion had always been in vague terms, the voyage more a metaphor for the future than an undertaking for which one sketched out an itinerary and packed one’s steamer trunks.
Perhaps the time for that trip had come.
Mrs. Watson wrapped her arms around her reticule. “I believe I would like to see Andalusia, too,” she murmured.
“We should prepare,” he said. “We may not be able to leave today or tomorrow but we should prepare.”
Charlotte adjusted her scarlet turban,which did not match her dress of blue-and-yellow plaid, but nevertheless looked very nice on her head. In fact, all of her seemed to look very nice. So much so that she twirled before the looking glass, nodding with approval.
Excellent lovemaking did put one in an excellent mood, even if she’d forgotten about the ring until it was too late. Not to mention that in the morning, Mrs. Watson, being the kind and wonderful person that she was, had sent Polly Banning over to 18 Upper Baker Street with a basket of proper breakfast—eggs, bacon, and buttered toast.
Charlotte had, with her second cup of tea, snuck in one of the jam tarts Lord Ingram had bought for her the night before, which had further improved her outlook on the day.
All the same, when the doorbell rang, as she was swirling around a second time before the mirror, she stopped abruptly, her entire person tensing so much that her neck ached.
Correspondingly, upon opening the door and seeing that only de Lacey had come, her smile became that much more brilliant.
De Lacey, on the other hand, did not appear as pleased to see her. “Miss Holmes, you are back so soon.”
“Indeed, we always work fast,” said Charlotte cheerfully. “Please come up.”
“I’m not sure I understand what is going on,” said de Lacey as he took a seat in the parlor. “Only yesterday did we receive news that Miss Baxter refused to leave her house even though a woodpile next to the house had caught on fire. And yet here you are, hundreds of miles from the Garden of Hermopolis.”
Charlotte poured tea that she had set to steep earlier. “All to bring welcome news to Mr. Baxter, of course.”
De Lacey, regarding her with suspicion, picked up his teacup. “The welcome news being?”
“That we saw Miss Baxter last night. She was in excellent health. Radiated command and, I must say, quite a bit of contempt for those who had the gall to worry about her.”
De Lacey set down the cup he had just picked up. This time he looked at Charlotte as if she had taken leave of her senses. “You are sure, Miss Holmes?”
“Believe me, we were no less taken aback. And for that reason, we paid close attention throughout the meeting. In addition to us, Miss Baxter had summoned four other members of the Garden, all of whom had expressed puzzlement and anxiety on the night of the fireworks. They were surprised and delighted to see her. Awed, in fact, and flattered by the least condescension on her part.”
“That…does sound rather like Miss Baxter.”
“Her parlor was brilliant, her person dressed expensively and in the height of fashion. Good décor and good clothes are not cheap and she saw nothing wrong with selling her grandmother’s house in order to maintain herself in the style she is accustomed to, as it was her grandmother she loved, and not so much the house. As for the lawyer... Is it true that Miss Baxter was kidnapped when she was young?”
De Lacey came out of his chair. For a moment Charlotte thought he meant to denounce her third-hand hearsay as a preposterous rumor, but he only sat down again with a look of pure astonishment. “I’m afraid that’s something I do not know.”
Charlotte gave him a gracious smile. “I was shocked to learn of the story myself. But in any case, that childhood kidnapping made her deeply suspicious. The woman who took her from her grandmother had appeared properly credentialed. Therefore, when a second lawyer came—the one sent by Mr. Baxter—in spite of his credentials, or perhaps because of them, she refused to receive him for the sake of her own safety.
“Sherlock Holmes, however, is a well-known entity who is furthermore completely uninvolved in the enmities and entanglements surrounding Mr. Baxter. Miss Baxter therefore felt that at worst, a meeting with us would be harmless. And we, of course, were captivated by her presence.”
De Lacey shook his head slightly, as if he had trouble following the gist of the conversation. After a moment, he said, “I’m sure her presence is wholly enchanting, but what explanation did she give for the fact that members of the Garden had not seen her for months?”
“A need for solitude.”
De Lacey flattened his lips. “And for not coming out of her house when it was in danger of catching on fire?”
“A twisted ankle.”
“Do you believe that, Miss Holmes?”
Charlotte shook out the flounces of her skirt. “I could not assess the veracity of that particular statement: She was reclined on a settee during our interview and her feet, indeed all of her lower half, was obscured by a heavy blanket. But given that she was very much in charge of herself and the residents of the Garden were at least deferential and sometimes obsequious in their conduct toward her, it would be difficult for me to construe that any of them had somehow held her hostage the night before.”
“True, I suppose... ”
