Page 15 of Miss Moriarty, I Presume?
A needier and more conceited Charlotte Holmes should still be able to detect an omission in the story.
“Ah, I see my attempt at eliding a few things did not go unnoticed,” said Moriarty quietly. “Very well, I threatened to burn the commune to the ground and she came home with me. But in the fifteen months that followed, she became engaged to no fewer than six unsuitable men—and I assure you, Miss Holmes, hers had not been an existence into which unsuitable men were granted entrée willy-nilly.”
Amazing how he managed to infuse that particular piece of information with such pathos. What would have been comedy recounted by another became a lament for a father’s thwarted love.
Charlotte was in awe of Miss Baxter. She ought to have tried something similar, perhaps, when her own father had reneged on his promise to sponsor her education. Not to mention, she didn’t know what kind of men Moriarty considered unsuitable, but to have won over so many of them in such a short time was a testament to Miss Baxter’s charm and determination.
“Indeed, she demonstrated that what I had originally believed to be an intolerable choice was in fact, the lesser evil. I could have continued to exercise parental authority and restricted her to such circumstances as to guarantee that she would not meet any man, but I did not wish to become her jailer.”
It took some effort for Charlotte not to look at Mr. Marbleton. Moriarty clearly had no trouble becominghisjailer.
“She returned to the commune under certain conditions. She was to write once a week. I or my representatives would meet with her once every six months. She could donate money to the commune, for her own and its upkeep, up to the entirety of her annual income, but she was not allowed to touch the principal sum from which her income is derived.
“I did not think these were onerous conditions and she agreed. For close to five years she kept to her end of the bargain and I mine. But of late, things have changed.”
He fell silent.
“When did you first notice?” Charlotte was obliged to ask.
“Too late, I’m afraid. There was upheaval in my own life in the second half of last year. I was, shall we say, indisposed for months on end.”
His voice changed. Until now it had put her in mind of a bassoon or a cello, an instrument that produced low yet beautiful notes. But all of a sudden the music left his words, and without it those words seethed with anger.
The coup that saw him overthrown—the thought of it still enraged him, so much so that it caused a stumble in his otherwise perfect performance. So much so that Mr. Marbleton shrank into himself.
Moriarty, too, must have noticed, for he stopped speaking. When he resumed, his voice became, if possible, even more mellifluous. “While my indisposition lasted, those around me failed to pay attention to her. Some subordinates did not know about her existence and many others had forgotten. The solicitor who usually visited her passed away. Her letters lay unread in a private postal box in Switzerland because no one collected them.
“I was not able to look after my own affairs again until the very end of last year. It took considerable time and energy to put my house in order, so to speak. I’m ashamed to admit it, but since her return to the commune, my daughter had led a quiet life, and I’d grown accustomed to not thinking of her as someone in need of my attention.”
A relief for Miss Baxter, no doubt.
“It was not until last month that I appointed another solicitor to visit her,” Moriarty went on. “To his surprise, he was refused at the door. The excuse given was simple: My daughter was required to meet with either myself or my representative once every six months, but six months had not elapsed yet since the previous visit.
“My new solicitor, not particularly familiar with what had happened under his predecessor, did not challenge that refusal. He returned to his office and wrote me. His letter, because it was not marked urgent, was not seen to for at least a week. When at last the matter came before me, I was perplexed. Had my old solicitor in Britain gone to see her on his own, for some reason?
“Then I noticed something. The commune claimed that a visit from my new solicitor wasn’t due until May, because one had taken place in November. But my old solicitor died in October. A telegram dispatched to his firm brought back the disconcerting news that he had not instructed anyone there to visit her on his behalf and certainly none of them had gone on their own initiative.”
Charlotte poured fresh cups of tea for everyone. A fragrant steam rose. Such an ordinary sight, such an ordinary scent, were it not for the fact that it was Moriarty himself, his brow knitted once again in fatherly concern, who lifted a gold-rimmed teacup and a took a sip.
“My daughter’s letters, more than half a year’s collection, were brought to me,” he said. “She has always been an interesting person, my daughter—possibly too interesting. But her letters, at least those addressed to me, did not make for stimulating reading. They were perfunctory recitations of a weekly routine that never varied and I’d stopped anticipating them long ago.”
“And stopped reading each one as it came in. Sometimes I skimmed through a few at a time; sometimes I failed to do even that. Needless to say, this entire batch at last received its due attention. The letters were as monotonous as ever. But one glaring omission stood out. She did not mention any visit by any solicitor—which she had always done before, as it constituted an event.
“I was more than a little alarmed at this point, and then I learned that she had sold the house that had belonged to her grandmother. It was not part of the untouchable principal I had mentioned earlier—that was what I had set up for her. In addition, she had a small inheritance from her grandmother, along with the house, though it must be said that every penny of that inheritance was needed to maintain the old house.”
“She loved the house. She used to draw it from memory. In its every nook and cranny there were memories she treasured.” His voice softened, as if he, who had never visited his daughter in her childhood, shared those memories with her and treasured them just as deeply. “I cannot believe she would have sold it except under duress.”
I don’t believe you. I don’t believe you care whether your troublesome daughter lives or dies. Why don’t you stop this pretense and tell me exactly why you have darkened my door?
Charlotte exhaled carefully, set down her pen, and straightened. “Mr. Baxter, does it not strike you as odd that she had lived among them for so long, apparently without any problems, but that things should suddenly change to this extent?”
“No indeed, Miss Holmes. There is a distinct possibility that those running the commune learned of my incapacity, threw aside all caution, and at last acted with the cupidity they’d long kept hidden.”
“You mean, they pressured Miss Baxter to sell the house she inherited from her grandmother and then made up the lawyerly visit last November in the hope that their arrogation of her property would go undetected?”
“Exactly.”
That sounded plausible. However— “Mr. Baxter, why not simply remove Miss Baxter from this commune?”
