A Question of Holmes

by Brittany Cavallaro

  It was a full two minutes before I realized she’d jotted down a list of monologues. Act number, scene number, line number—the best pieces to audition for Ophelia, listed out in her spiky hand.

  Fine, then. I’d use this list for its intended purpose—squaring the handwriting against the note from the theater. I’m in the sound booth upstairs. Meet me there? it read, so both samples at least used the capital and the lowercase I. But there was no similarity, neither in shape nor in pressure points, the places where she’d set down and lifted her pen as she wrote.

  Theo muttered again, and my eyes lit on his messenger bag, toppled over on the rug next to his shoes. But a cursory examination of its contents proved only two things: one, he was a meticulous notetaker in his theater history lectures, and two, he hadn’t left the note on the theater door. The handwriting wasn’t a match in the slightest. I tucked his notebook back in his bag and stretched, feeling a satisfying pop in my shoulders.

  The newspaper took only a cursory glance. What I wanted was on the second page of the culture section, in a little column at the bottom. It was an item on this summer’s production of Hamlet—a blurb, nothing more—and a brief profile of Dr. Quigley. Twenty-nine, a London native, educated at St. Genesius (“which makes this new position a homecoming!”), danced, surprisingly, in the chorus of Billy Elliot on the West End straight after university. Then came graduate school, and his new position. “My sister was an actress,” he’d told the paper, “and so I grew up in the theater. There was nothing else I’d rather do.”

  Than act? If that had been his goal, his role with the Dramatics Soc was a demotion. That would make him bitter, certainly, but how could that have led to Dr. Larkin’s death?

  I became aware of Watson in the bedroom doorway, and looked up. “I can’t sleep,” he said, rumpling his hair.

  “I couldn’t either.”

  He smiled a little. He was still a bit drunk. “You look so picturesque, out there. The moonlight on your hair. It hurts a little.”

  “I’m only working,” I reminded him. “Nothing more.”

  “There’s always more, with you.”

  Once, Watson had liked to tell stories about the two of us in his head, and in those stories, the girl who looked like me, who had my name, had reasons for her behavior far crueler and more romantic than mine had ever been. When we first met, I had only been trying to survive. And he had snuck in, somehow, when I was at my lowest, and now I didn’t know myself without him. His steady hands, his quick wit. How we were telling a new story, and I was holding the pen.

  “Come to bed,” he said, and after a moment, I did.

  WATSON WAS STILL SLEEPING WHEN I LEFT TO KEEP MY appointment with DI Sadiq. The morning was colder than I’d expected, and I was thankful that I’d brought along my leather jacket. Unlike in the States, where whatever I’d had on was a notch or two stranger than the camisoles and cardigans the other girls wore, here I felt as though I made sense against the scenery. I paid attention to this sort of thing, to whether I could be picked out easily in a crowd, and oftentimes I’d change the way I presented to more easily maneuver through my day. Girls do this; boys do this; everyone does, really. I monitored how I felt in the world as a sort of barometer for how I felt about myself.

  Would a Holmes go out in a moto jacket and velvet loafers? No. Why on earth call that much attention to oneself? I was meant to sketch in the rest of the world, leaving myself a perfect blank.

  But still—I liked these loafers.

  I made a point to walk by the St. Genesius theater, but the doors were cordoned off with police tape. A lone PC leaned against the railing, scrolling through his phone. While I’d made myself known to Sadiq, I didn’t think that I could talk myself into that theater without a number of tricks that I was too tired right now to try out. Still, I wondered about it as I walked to the police station: the wall by the dressing rooms in the basement, how I could hear the sound coming through. There was another way in, I was sure of it.

  I made a quick stop at Blackmarket before I took the bus to the police station. There, I didn’t ask for DI Sadiq. Instead, I said that I had an appointment, that I had been at the St. Genesius theater yesterday (all truths, far easier to sell than lies), and was ushered to a bench outside the squad room.

  It wasn’t empty. Three people I recognized from the auditions yesterday sat there, two girls and a boy. One of the girls gave me a walleyed once-over as I sat down; she was Keiko, the girl who had been so excellent at her audition yesterday. I didn’t recognize the other. She was crying into her hands.

  “This is so messed up,” I said quietly.

  Keiko sighed. “That’s an understatement.” She eyed the carrier on my lap. “Bringing them coffee? The police?”

  “No, I thought—I thought I might see Theo and Rupert and Anwen here,” I said, shimmying one of the cups free. “But they’re not, so I guess I have some spare lattes. Do you want one? They’re all mochas or vanilla. I thought some sugar might be on order.”

  The girl accepted it and took a sip. “I’m Keiko,” she said.

  “Charlotte,” I said, and silently handed over the other two coffees. The second girl didn’t stop crying as she cupped it between her hands. “Have you heard anything? Did they catch the killer?”

  “No,” the boy said. He made a face. “They’re still out there, somewhere, deciding which one of us they’re going to kill next.”

  A bit dramatic, but I could see his point. “I’m new this year,” I said. “Were any of you here last year? Shouldn’t somebody have warned us if this stuff was happening?”

  “Finley wasn’t here,” Keiko said, looking at the other girl. “I was. Do you know if they found an orchid at the crime scene?”

  “An orchid?” I asked, widening my eyes.

  “And the footlights—did you see the footlights? They flashed twice before the light went crashing out of the rig.”

  Finley took a deep, shaky breath. “I saw it,” she said. “I thought there was a power surge. Especially when the light fell right after. It was blinding. I thought there had been a bombing, or that everything was going to explode.”

  “Someone was signaling someone,” Keiko said. “To move out of the way. To act. That’s my thought.”

  She was a clever girl, but I was more focused on my not having been told about this last night. I made a note in my mind, category bullshit, subcategory things being kept from me.

  “Can you all stop?” the boy asked, looking down at his shoes. He was small to begin with, but the slump of his shoulders made him look even more diminutive. “It’s not like we’re going to figure it out. I don’t even want to try. People are dead, and they’re missing, and it’s not safe to even think about it.”

  At that, the door to the squad room opened, and the PC from yesterday came out with a clipboard. His eyes narrowed when he saw me, but he only said, “Sebastian Wallis,” and the boy gave us all a miserable look and followed him inside.

  The name from the file. The other friend who had gone drinking with Anwen and Theo and Matilda and Rupert, the night that Matilda was attacked.

  Keiko watched him go with an unreadable expression. “I wonder where they dug him up from,” she said, taking a sip of her latte. “He didn’t come back this year. Thanks for the coffee, by the way.”

  I nodded. It had done what I’d hoped it to.

  A SHORT WHILE LATER, DI SADIQ CAME OUT TO PULL ME into an interrogation room. It was one of the purposely horrible ones: chairs with uneven legs, a low whine emanating from the high-mounted speakers.

  “Sorry,” she said, sitting down. “The ‘comfortable’ rooms are all taken right now.”

  I eyed her from the doorway.

  She laughed. “I’m not interrogating you, Charlotte. You know procedure well enough—I’m not cautioning you, I’m not turning on the cameras. To be honest, I’m in need of some help. You were in here just yesterday to remind me of this case, and now we have an Oxford don down.”

/>   “Down.” I eased myself into the chair across from her. It wobbled. “That’s a euphemism.”

  Sadiq smiled a bit. “That’s really all I can say.”

  It was a fairly common trick: tell the suspects the victim was dead, and they could be moved to confession through guilt and shame; tell them she was still alive, just in a coma, and they could be moved to confession through the fear of her waking up. I wasn’t sure what game Sadiq was playing. In the end, it wasn’t my business.

  “I’ve spoken with the fellow who does tech for the St. Genesius theater,” she said. “Unfortunately, late last year after the light fell onto the stage, he led a workshop in proper lighting safety—how to rig a light, how the board works. All the members of the Dramatics Society were required to attend. Any of the returning students would know exactly how to make a light fall.”

  “And the tech himself?”

  “He’s been in hospital the past few days with pneumonia, which is an alibi if I’ve ever heard one. I spoke to him by phone today. Dr. Quigley had volunteered to run basic tech while he was out. We’re investigating both further. How about you? Dug up anything?”

  “I had some interesting visitors late last night,” I told her, and described the situation in detail. The important details, that is. I finished by relaying Theo’s warning about Anwen before he ignominiously passed out on my sofa.

  “Facedown, I hope,” she said, taking notes.

  “Facedown.” I grimaced. “He was still sleeping when I left. Honestly, they’re all so private, even Rupert, but there’s something one of them needs to confess, and the rest suspect it. They wouldn’t keep pulling in Watson and I otherwise. They can’t stand to be alone with each other.”

  “Have you tried isolating any of them? Asking questions?”

  I shook my head. “They’d rabbit. No, I have to let them come to me. They know my history. My . . . profession. I can’t just innocently inquire about their lives, at this point.”

  “So you’re only quasi-undercover, then.”

  “I’m not undercover at all,” I said after a moment. “Quite honestly, I’d wanted to take some summer classes and go punting with my boyfriend. And now . . . well, I should be in my chemistry tutorial.”

  Sadiq whistled. “They don’t take well to being blown off, your tutors.”

  “No.” An understatement. “Anyway, I know better than to ask you what you’ve learned this morning. This isn’t a collaborative exercise. But I hope you don’t mind if I ask if you’ve followed up with Matilda Wilkes’s father?”

  Sadiq sighed. “I tried their home number twice. The mother rushed me off the phone both times—she wants nothing to do with us ‘unless we have firm information.’ And as for the father—well, you have a message waiting.”

  On her phone, Sadiq pulled up her voicemail and set it to speaker.

  “This is George Wilkes, returning a call from a Charlotte Holmes. I hope you’re following up as to my daughter’s disappearance. I’ve been traveling for work but am available off and on these next few days . . .”

  “Interesting,” I said, playing it back again, listening for the nuances in his voice.

  “I know. A different tack than his wife’s. Though it makes sense, if she’s a nervous wreck. Wants to shove it all under the rug while he wants answers.” Sadiq tapped her pen on the table. “Anything else you want to share?”

  “You’re bringing in Rupert Davies and Anwen Ellis this morning, yes?”

  “An hour from now.”

  I thought for a moment. “Is there anything you can do to upset Anwen? Something that perhaps implicates Rupert, so she wouldn’t go to him for solace?”

  Sadiq thought about it, a smile pulling at the corners of her mouth. “You’re not a terribly nice person,” she said finally.

  “No,” I said. “I’m not.”

  “As long as you can admit it. I’ll see what I can do.”

  “And one last favor?” I asked, handing her back her phone.

  She slipped it back in her pocket. “Depends.”

  “How good are you at making a scene?”

  “Hmm,” she said. “Most likely not as good as you are.”

  “I TOLD YOU, I DON’T HAVE TO TELL YOU ANYTHING WITHOUT a lawyer!”

  Sadiq stormed out after me into the hall. “Then get a lawyer,” she growled, pointing a finger between my eyes. “You’re going to need one.”

  The finger was a bit much, but her tone was actually quite believable. “I’m not guilty!” I let myself spiral up into panic. “I’ve only heard things, I haven’t done anything myself! How could I—last year I was in New York!”

  “Someone has died,” Sadiq said, advancing on me. “If you don’t tell us what you know, there will be consequences. Don’t leave town. We’ll be picking you up tomorrow, if we aren’t at your door tonight.”

  At that, she slammed her way through the door back to the squad room, leaving me, lost and forlorn-looking, to gape after her.

  (Really, I was proud. She wasn’t a bad actor. And I knew the lines I’d given her were realistic, as Detective Shepard had once used them on me in earnest.)

  “Um,” a voice said. “Are you okay?”

  A boy was behind me, frozen in the door of his interrogation room. One of the comfortable ones, from the look of it.

  “Oh my God,” I said, wiping at my eyes. “I’m sorry. I didn’t see you there.”

  “No—I, uh. They, like, threw the door open and told me I could go, but then you were, um. Out there.”

  As she’d promised, Sadiq had excellent timing.

  “Can you walk me out?” I said to Sebastian Wallis. “I feel sort of shaky.”

  He agreed, swinging his bag over his shoulder. I kept my head down until we made it clear of the front doors, and then, halfway down to the street, I swayed a little, clutching at the railing.

  “Hey, hey, hey,” he said, grabbing my arm to steady me. “Slow down. Do you need to find a place to sit?”

  I didn’t. I needed to ride the momentum all the way out of the police station to a place where this boy I’d just met would give up some of his secrets.

  He shaded his eyes, looking up the road. “We’re not far from Magdalen College,” he said, “and past that’s the botanic garden. Have you been? It’s a good place to collect yourself. I used to go there last year when I needed to . . . escape.”

  We wandered up the bridge, the spiny thrust of the Magdalen Tower in the distance. The small talk we were making was exceedingly small: where I’d grown up, where I’d gone to school. I didn’t lie, but I also didn’t provide too much information. (These days, my surname was too much information.) He told me more or less the same. He’d grown up outside of Bristol, and it was where he was this summer, scooping ice cream at a shop before he went off to Bath Spa to study communications.

  “I took the train in this morning. I got a call late last night from the detectives that they wanted me back in, that Dr. Larkin . . .” Sebastian swallowed. “I’d known it wasn’t over, but I hadn’t expected murder.”

  I let the silence hang between us. “I’m worried,” I said finally, as we approached the ticket window. There was a short line, as it was a weekday: a girl in a Ramones shirt, a man wearing a baby in a sling, juggling her as she fussed. At the gate, we showed our student IDs—Sebastian still had his in his wallet from last summer—and paid. “My boyfriend is living with these Dramatics Soc kids, and there’s something off about them.”

  Sebastian slowed, then sped up, shouldering past the people ahead of us. I followed. We ducked through a wrought-iron gate and into one of those wonderful wide-open spaces that Oxford had in abundance—an expanse of vivid green wound through with walkways, and beyond, a hedge maze. Watson would tell you more, I’m sure, but I wasn’t considering the flora.

  A fountain burbled water up into the air, and I cut across the grass toward it. After a moment, Sebastian followed.

  “Is that what you were talking to the police about?” he
asked, sitting beside me on the wet marble. “His roommates?” I nodded.

  “Are they . . . Theo Harding? And Rupert Davies? And Anwen Ellis? Just by chance?”

  I nodded again.

  “Huh,” he said, and I said nothing.

  The fewer words while drawing someone out, the more you were often given in return.

  Sebastian Wallis held out a good long while. He was a small boy—small feet, small ears, a small upturned nose. He had a sprightliness to him that suggested its root word, sprite, and I wondered if he had been cast as one of the fairies in Midsummer before that production had fallen apart. I’d been surprised by his burst of fellow-feeling that had led him to suggest gardens; the most I’d hoped for was a brief conversation on the street, a suggestion of the next tree I needed to shake. And yet he’d led the two of us here, and nothing about him suggested malicious intentions.

  He had something he needed to say. That was a commonality I was finding amongst the players in this case—this need to express, to speak, to be seen.

  Sebastian squinted straight ahead, massaging his small hands. “I can’t tell you much,” he said. “Especially since the police still want to talk to you. If I’ve learned anything, it’s that there are consequences for doing the right thing.”

  I nodded. I, too, was familiar with this lesson.

  “Last summer, they wanted nothing to do with me. I wasn’t rich, or some artistic genius, or a hot girl. I was just their stupid suitemate who worked theater tech and stayed out of their way.” He stood. “The day after Matilda disappeared, I was in Anwen’s room, and I had this . . . feeling. I looked around. I found some . . . weird things in there. Have you been there yet?”

  “I haven’t been to the dorms yet,” I said, cursing myself. Why on earth hadn’t I gone there first? “My boyfriend’s been staying with me.”

  The stakes had shifted only last night. It wasn’t even noon. And still it felt like I was running out of time.

  “It doesn’t matter now,” he said. “Matilda’s gone for good. Dead. Locked in someone’s garden shed. Who knows. And everyone else . . . they’ll just drop one at a time, until there’s no one left.”