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?”
“As I did once before to such great success? No, this time I will not march in to impose my will,” said the man who imposed his will with every breath and every deed.
But as he regarded Charlotte, he radiated only the virtuous resolve of a desperately worried father. One who had tolerated enough questions from the lowly consulting detective. “Per my agreement with my daughter, once every four years, I can appoint a neutral party to inspect her living situation, provided she approves of my choice. I have made inquiries. Your clients, Miss Holmes, while in awe of your brother’s great deductive abilities, are no less complimentary of your courtesy and good sense. Now that I’ve met you, I see that they are right. You are well suited to the task at hand, which calls for a subtle, yet trenchant approach.”
From the first mention of the Hermetists, Charlotte had guessed where this conversation was going. Still, her stomach dropped. “Are you suggesting, sir, that I should enter this commune?”
“I am willing to pay handsomely for your trouble.”
He was the supplicant here, the one ostensibly seeking help. Yet Charlotte felt as if she were but a knight who must obey the command of her liege lord. “You mentioned that Miss Baxter must approve of your choice of a neutral inspector—”
Moriarty smiled. “She has already approved of my choice of a representative from Sherlock Holmes—or so I have been informed by those responsible for the running of the Garden of Hermopolis.”
His statement felt like a grip tightening around Charlotte’s throat.
“That is good to hear, Mr. Baxter. But I know next to nothing about this community where you wish me to take up temporary residence. Moreover, I am an unmarried young woman; to travel respectably, I must have a companion. Not to mention—however much I hate to point it out, sir—that something untoward might have befallen Miss Baxter. While I am distressed about her fate, I would be greatly more distressed about my own safety.”
Her disequilibrium seemed to please Moriarty. His smile widened. “Fear not, Miss Holmes. I have brought a dossier—after reading it, you will feel sufficiently well informed. And of course you must do everything you deem necessary for your respectability and your safety. I’ll leave the measures entirely up to you.”
She could protest more, but it would be useless and she wanted her adversary gone. “In that case, I shall first need to consult all those who will be involved in this endeavor. If you will leave your address, Mr. Baxter, we will deliver our answer tomorrow.”
The vainer and stupider Charlotte she had been playing would have wanted this meaningless victory, to be able to say that she didn’t give him a response right away.
Moriarty, who seemed to understand the vainer and stupider Charlotte very well, inclined his head, his courtesy edged with a trace of contempt. “Very well, I shall send someone for your reply at nine o’clock tomorrow morning.”
Charlotte mustered a weak smile. “That is perfectly agreeable.”
“Then we will leave you to your deliberations and look forward to a favorable outcome,” said Moriarty, rising.
Mr. Marbleton, who had been as still as a statue for several minutes, scuffed his shoe against the carpet one last time and stood up, too.
Charlotte saw them out and offered her hand to each man to shake. “Good evening, gentlemen. Thank you again for your confidence in Sherlock Holmes—and myself, of course.”
5
After the door closed, Charlotte stumbled backward and collapsed onto the staircase. With some difficulty, she turned sideways. Her hands on the balusters, she tried to pull herself up again. But her arms—and every other part of her—seemed to have turned into gelatin. Her breaths echoed; their unsteady cadence didn’t sound so much exhausted as frightened.