Page 92 of Miss Moriarty, I Presume?
As platters of roast and peas were passed around, Mrs. Felton told the company that the day before she had at last seen Miss Baxter in the flesh—and the latter had promptly berated her for being inattentive to the floor in her overweening excitement.
“Perhaps I shouldn’t have been so happy to see her,” moaned Mrs. Felton dramatically. “She hasn’t forgotten how to dress me down, Miss Baxter.”
She laughed. Her exasperation was genuine. But her relief was also immense—with her laughter, her eyes had nearly disappeared.
When Charlotte had been a child, the emotions of others had been, by and large, strange and unpalatable—much like the sip she’d once taken from a wineglass abandoned by her mother. But these days she sometimes appreciated the sentiments radiated by those around her. Perhaps she still had an immature palate, for she enjoyed those potent yet simple feelings best. Livia’s delight in summer, Mrs. Watson’s warm sympathy, and Mrs. Felton’s contentment in Miss Baxter’s wellbeing—the emotional equivalent of pastries and cakes, perhaps.
She turned her face. Her gaze landed on her lover. All his emotions used to be so complicated. But now...
He looked up, caught her stare, and smiled, with a slight raise of one brow.
Now he was letting himself be happier—and she relished his happiness.
She looked back at Mrs. Felton, “At least you no longer need to worry about Miss Baxter.”
“True, true,” Mrs. Felton readily agreed.
Mrs. Watson raised her glass mug of ale. “To Miss Baxter, long may she be grand.”
“Hear, hear! And may she grow a little sweeter in temperament someday,” said Mrs. Felton, clinking mugs with her.
She took a good gulp of her ale and looked about the table. “But how is it that you are back again? Miss Baxter said she already met you and spoke to you.”
“Mr. Baxter sent us back to find out what happened to Mr. Craddock,” said Charlotte.
Mrs. Felton’s eyes widened. “Mr. Craddock? What’s the matter with him? And why does Mr. Baxter care?”
“According to Mr. de Lacey, Mr. Craddock is Mr. Baxter’s man, there to keep an eye on Miss Baxter,” answered Mrs. Watson. “But he failed to send in a report after the fireworks.”
Mrs. Felton sputtered. “How many people does Mr. Baxter need to keep an eye on his daughter?”
And then, after a moment of silence: “No report?”
Mrs. Watson shook her head.
Mrs. Felton looked around the table again, her bafflement turning into dismay. “Come to think of it, I haven’t seen him since he moved out of your cottage last December.”
“When in December?” asked Lord Ingram.
“Miss Ellery gave me a few days off before Christmas. When I came back, Mrs. Crosby told me that Mr. Craddock had moved. She also said that he’d started a meditative retreat and wouldn’t need me to clean for him for a while.”
Charlotte ate a piece of potato from her plate. “Do you know what happens to a body that is cast out to sea around here, Mrs. Felton?”
Mrs. Felton choked on her ale. Mrs. Watson thwacked her on the back. Mrs. Felton coughed, panted, and coughed again. “Surely—” she began, still catching her breath, “surely Mr. Craddock just decided to take a holiday.”
“You’re most likely right,” said Charlotte. “But we must consider all the possibilities.”
Mrs. Felton looked about the pub and then whispered, “You can’t just cast a body out to sea in these parts, Miss Holmes. The sea washes them right back to Fetlock Cove, two miles southwest.”
“I’ve heard the same,” said Mr. Mears. “It’s no use weighing bodies down either. The currents are such that not even clothes can stay on, let alone ropes and chains and whatnot.”
Mrs. Felton quailed. Mrs. Watson hastened to put her mind at ease. “I wouldn’t worry about Mr. Craddock yet. Remember how anxious everyone was for Miss Baxter? She proved right as ninepence, didn’t she?”
That reassurance worked. Mrs. Felton, her good humor restored, finished her hearty lunch and shared a heroic serving of rice pudding with Charlotte before bidding the London visitors good day outside the pub. The London visitors, driven by Mr. Mears, headed for the Garden.
The day continued to be beautiful, the air clear and pure, with bright notes of salt and grass. But perhaps because there were more clouds in the sky, or perhaps because the wind had nearly sheared Charlotte’s turban off her head as she was about to climb into the remise, but it seemed only a matter of time before atmospheric conditions changed.
Charlotte watched the sea for another minute, then turned to Mrs. Watson. “Ma’am, I didn’t give you a complete account of what happened when I went to Dr. Robinson’s cottage.”
