Page 99 of Miss Moriarty, I Presume?
Early in his career de Lacey had dug graves to dispose of bodies. It was hard work. But digging up the same soil for the third time must be much easier. Yes, the third time. He remembered from the dossier that several members of the Garden had died of pneumonia and been buried on the headlands. Judging by what Charlotte Holmes had just said, she suspected that one of the graves had been dug up recently. For the purpose of placing another body inside the coffin?
The coffin was not buried deep. She finished digging with only one rest, and then applied the claw of a hammer to nails from the lid of the coffin.
De Lacey’s man tapped him on his shoulder and pointed. He squinted. Two figures emerged from the night.
“Miss Holmes, what are you doing?”
Miss Baxter.
Charlotte Holmes, crouched over the coffin, turned around. “Ah, Miss Baxter, Mr. Peters, out for a midnight stroll?”
De Lacey’s heart thumped. Oh, this would not end well.
“Indeed, Miss Holmes. We are enjoying this fine night, Mr. Peters and I,” said Miss Baxter. “What are you doing?”
“I have an interview with Mr. Craddock,” said Miss Holmes.
She knelt at the edge of the grave and lifted the coffin’s lid. “Mr. Craddock?”
No one answered.
Miss Holmes rose. “Would you care to identify him, Miss Baxter? Granted, the man’s face is somewhat decomposed, but perhaps you remember his clothes?”
“That is Mr. Kaplan’s eternal resting place. I doubt he appreciates being disturbed.”
“Mr. Kaplan, who contributed all the skulls to the library at the Garden? The one who passed away years ago? I dare say he’s accustomed to being disturbed now, after sharing his casket with a newcomer since December.”
Miss Baxter’s voice, already cold, turned icy. “Don’t press your luck, Miss Holmes.”
“You are a woman shut in by the walls of the Garden, Miss Baxter. Your father is... your father. I would be a fool to ignore his directive simply because it would inconvenience you.”
“You are already a fool, Miss Holmes. You might need to worry about my father after you leave the Garden of Hermopolis, but if you never leave, he’ll be immaterial to your well-being.”
She lifted a pistol.
Charlotte Holmes picked up her umbrella.
Miss Baxter laughed with derision. “Is your rain gear bulletproof these days?”
“It’s better than that. It’s—”
A loud bang. A sudden burst of light. De Lacey blinked. Miss Holmes’s umbrella had caught on fire.
Miss Baxter and Peters glanced at each other.
Peters cried, “I think the umbrella is a—”
Another bang.
Miss Baxter laughed wildly. “Oh, Miss Holmes, what use is your clever new invention if you have no aim?”
With a cry Charlotte Holmes threw the umbrella aside. It knocked the pocket lantern, which had been standing at the edge of the grave, into the pit. The fire on the umbrella and the light from the lantern went out at nearly the same moment. In their final glow, de Lacey saw Miss Holmes whip out a derringer.
Darkness. Gunshots. A shrill feminine scream. A thud. Then silence, except the wind, the waves, and loud, harsh breaths.
Which emerged from the man by de Lacey’s side. He elbowed the man. The man quieted.
Several minutes passed before someone struck a match—Miss Baxter, lying in the grass but up on her elbows. She looked to the figure to her right. Peters rose from a prone position into a crouch. Farther away, the soles of Charlotte Holmes’s boots stuck out from the grave.
