Page 58 of Miss Moriarty, I Presume?

After Dr. Robinson went back inside Miss Baxter’s lodge, the door of the lodge opened and shut another few times. Lord Ingram could not tell who darted about in the dark, though he did occasionally make out harried footsteps, those of a single person running.

In the middle of these rushed entrances and exits, a lantern shone down from the south wall.

“Not now, Mr. McEwan,” growled Mr. Peters.

The light went out immediately. And didn’t shine again until whoever was running in and out of the house appeared to be done with their task.

Lord Ingram imagined a dying Miss Baxter being kept alive by strange and terrible means, just so that she could last through one interview with Holmes and exculpate the other members of the community.

Since Mr. Peters seemed committed to remaining in the vicinity of Miss Baxter’s lodge, Lord Ingram crept closer. At around half past one, he had just set himself under the eaves of a nearby cottage when Mr. Peters’s lantern suddenly came on. “Who’s there?”

Lord Ingram’s heart pounded. Had he been seen?

“Craddock,” answered a gruff voice from the other side of the cottage, closer to the lodge.

Lord Ingram clenched his teeth and tried not to breathe too loudly in relief.

“Go back inside, Mr. Craddock,” said Mr. Peters. “There’s nothing for you to do or see here.”

Craddock. Lord Ingram remembered the name from the dossier. But also from Mrs. Watson’s incredulity that anyone would move across the Garden of Hermopolis for a view of fruit trees espaliered against a wall.

There was no more answer from Mr. Craddock, presumably he did as Mr. Peters asked—or at least appeared to do so.

Probably another hour passed before Mr. Peters again called out sharply, “Who’s there?”

“The Steeles,” said a woman, her tone ingratiating. “We were about to go to bed when we saw Dr. Robinson running to his cottage, and then run back here with his bag. Since then we’ve been waiting for him to go back to his cottage again but that still hasn’t happened. Is everything all right? Is Miss Baxter all right? We’re worried.”

“I haven’t the slightest idea about Miss Baxter,” said Mr. Peters. “I’m just here because Mrs. Crosby told me to stand here. But I’m sure Miss Baxter must be fine or Mrs. Crosby would have said something to me.”

“So Mrs. Crosby is inside, too?” came a man’s somewhat reedy voice, likely that of Mr. Steele’s.

“Yes. And if you think Mrs. Crosby will let you in, feel free to knock.”

Apparently the would-be callers didn’t think so. The woman sighed. “All right. We’ll go back for now. But don’t you think all this is awfully strange?”

“Not particularly,” said Mr. Peters. “When I last saw Miss Baxter, she was perfectly fine. Mrs. Crosby has seen her more than once in the past twenty-four hours and hasn’t mentioned anything being amiss.”

“All right, then, if you trust Mrs. Crosby,” said Mr. Steele, sounding petulant.

“I trust her with my life and so does Miss Baxter,” said Mr. Peters coldly. “Good night, Mr. Steele. Good night, Mrs. Steele.”

Approximately another quarter hour afterward, Mr. Peters’s lantern came on again. “Miss Ellery, can I help you?”

The brusqueness in his tone had become pointed. The young man was running out of patience.

“Y—yes. Neither Miss Fairchild nor I can sleep. I thought I’d come and see whether everything is all right with Miss Baxter.”

She sounded sincere and—embarrassed.

“Miss Baxter isn’t seeing anyone now and I don’t think Mrs. Crosby has the time either.”

“Oh well, then, do you mind if I have a look at the woodpile? Seems strange that it simply caught fire like that.”

“It’s already been looked at: Someone poured a small amount of kerosene on the pile and added a few matches.”

“What?” cried Miss Ellery, her dismay stark.

“Yes, I know,” said Mr. Peters wearily. “But there’s nothing we can do now so why don’t you go back inside and take some rest. I would, too, but Mrs. Crosby has stationed me here.”