My hand clenched my stolen treasure—the business card. “And you’ll never know for certain if I was lying.” I swayed past the sexy stranger, laying a hand gently on his arm. “Good night, man-on-vacation.”
I felt his eyes on my hips for the duration of my slow walk out of the ballroom. Was grateful he couldn’t see the heat that sent a flush to my cheeks. Instead, I walked as quickly as I could to a back hallway, fishing out the card I’d pickpocketed.
I read the words written there. Felt my brain cells explode in the best way possible.
“Holy shit,” I whispered, heart hammering in my chest. The card read: Abraham Royal, Owner. Beneath that, the name of his company: Codex.
Codex.
The renowned private detective firm that Henry Finch, Bernard’s former assistant, now worked for.
Abraham Royal.
The man who hired Henry right out from under Louisa.
Now what in the hell was Abe fucking Royal doing in London? And what were the random chances he was simply enjoying a lecture from a woman who claimed to know all about Bernard’s location?
I tapped the card against my lips. That man wasn’t on a goddamn vacation. And maybe, if I played my cards right, he’d lead me right to Bernard.
I strode right to the front desk at The Langham. Revealed my most charming smile. “Hi there,” I said. “I was wondering if you had any rooms available?”
6
Sloane
Eudora handed me a tiny, china cup with steam rising from the black tea. The gentle matron had reappeared on her features—today she wore an even frumpier sweater with threads loose at the sleeves. Her earrings were book-shaped, and she’d donned a deerstalker hat.
We were sitting at 221B Baker Street—the fictional home of Sherlock Holmes and John Watson and the current Holmes museum where Eudora volunteered twice a week. Sitting in armchairs next to a replica of Holmes’s fireplace gave me an out-of-sort feeling I had to suppress.
I was, after all, supposed to be a cheerfully enthusiastic fanatic.
“This is my fifth time here,” I said, leaning forward as if sharing a secret. “Does that make me a nerd?”
“Oh, of course not,” she said, waving a hand. “I volunteer here twice a week, my dear. And it is, to some, a god-awful tourist trap. And yet…” She trailed off, indicating the red-wallpapered space around us. “I feel happy when I’m here amongst Doyle’s ideas and inventions.”
Sipping my tea, I thought about what I’d done last night after securing a room at The Langham and moving my suitcases and laptops: curled up and re-read A Study in Scarlet. When I’d crafted Devon Atwood and her Sherlockian obsession, I knew I’d have to read every single novel and short story in order to blend in with the crowd of scholars and fans.
I found myself absurdly drawn into the mysteries—the sense of Victorian London, the intriguing deductions, the aspects of the mystery that never made sense until the very end. It called to the part of me that loved solving things. And while I wasn’t prone to the stalwart fanaticism I’d witnessed here, I did, kind of, sort of, get it. During these weeks of mounting frustration, reading about Sherlock Holmes every night had become a source of comfort.
I did wish I’d had more books during the harshest days of my childhood. It would have felt like a doorway into another world—maybe a world where I was safe or cared for or understood the chaos of our constant movement. Instead, I had to work. Always. During the limited schooling I managed to grasp onto in my younger years, I gobbled up books and stories in the classroom like a greedy kid on Christmas morning.
“There is a sense of wonder being here, tourist trap or not,” I admitted. “It makes me feel like a child again, excited by the smallest things.”
A nod from Eudora. “Over the course of my life, I’ve been called batty more times than I can count. And I am a bit batty. I’m the president of a literary organization, and I have four cats. Such a stereotype.” She tittered like a bird. “But the Sherlock Society has given me life in this cold and brutal world. This community has sheltered me from storms. Do you know what it’s like to connect with other people over a subject so unique?”
No, I did not.
“Absolutely,” I lied. “I’m an office assistant back home, in New York City, and it wasn’t easy for me to save the vacation time or the cash I needed. Yet my soul called me here.” I placed a hand above my heart and held her gaze, which softened at my gesture. “And to think I’m now sitting with the president of the oldest Sherlock Holmes society in the entire world…”
I trailed off, correctly guessing that Eudora had a tender ego that loved a good stroke.
“You make an old woman quite happy, Devon,” she said. “I’m a normal person, like you. A fan who was willing to step into a leadership role when a vacuum appeared.”
I tilted my head. “A vacuum?”
“Our current, well former, president Bernard Allerton is on a very long sabbatical. He made the tough decision to step down while away, allowing me to step into his role.”
Her smile was all wolf—granny was gone.
“You seem better suited to it,” I said, adding a wink. “Always nice to see a woman in charge.”
“Always,” she agreed. “I’m very close with Bernard and there are no hard feelings. When he returns—” She coughed a little here. “Excuse me, when he returns, we’ll see which leader our members prefer.”
I didn’t blink. “And when is Bernard coming back?”
Eudora touched her ear. “We shall see, my dear. He’s been vague with his return plans.”
“Oh,” I said, tapping my mug with my fingernail. “Where is he, by the way? I know he’s a little bit famous around these parts. I was surprised his whereabouts are unknown.”
I held my breath, testing the waters, seeing how much she knew and what she was willing to share.
“They’re not unknown. They’re a secret,” she said. “Only a chosen few know where he is.” Her smile turned smug. I wasn’t sure if this was bullshit or not, but she believed it. Which made Eudora Green rapidly change from source to suspect.
“You know where he is, don’t you?” I teased.
She mimed a lock at her lips, a key she tossed past her shoulder. I was aware of how tightly I held the china cup—how badly I wanted to throw the tea in her face and demand she tell me where the fuck this man was.
“Will you tell him about the Doyle papers being auctioned?” I asked, studying her reaction.
“Yes, I’ll get in touch with him,” she said. “I’m fully in charge and the key decision-maker regardless of where he is. And between you and me, we won’t get those papers. They’re not even up for auction yet, and they’re basically gone.”
I took another sip. “Bernard will be disappointed, sounds like.”
“We’ll all be,” she said quickly. “My job is to lead us through rough waters and smooth sailing alike. That’s the job of a leader.”
I cranked up my smile—while internally remembering every story I’d heard these weeks about her nasty temper and vengeful spirit. “Do you miss Bernard? I heard the two of you were especially close. Which means you must be special to attract the attention of such a famous man.”
Bernard Allerton wasn’t famous like a movie star, but he was extremely well-known in the world of academics and librarians, the fields of antiquities and history, and even archaeology. His reputation had a far-reaching impact.
“We’ve always had a connection,” Eudora said.
“Romantic?” I asked with a girlish look.
She giggled—it was jarring. “Not at all. Bernard had one love in his lifetime—she was also an American, like you. That was years ago.”
I grabbed onto that lead with both hands and shoved it away for later. Who did Bernard love? And did this woman know where the hell he was?
“No, our connection has always been deeper. I’d say more intellectual. We have similar minds.” She touched her earrings like a shy schoolgirl.
“I can see why,” I said, playing into it. Assessing where to go next—the woman clearly loved Bernard in her own way. Was she protecting him? Or was all of this a fantasy for her?
“Now you haven’t told me if you’re a Doylean or a Sherlockian?” Eudora asked. “I’m sure the other members have grilled you appropriately.”
I’d done my research before coming here. Each member of the Society had a D or an S listed next to their name on the website.
“Doylean,” I answered.
“Very good,” she said proudly. “Of course, the Society is unique in that we accept members from both schools of thought, and even those who straddle the middle. But…” She leaned across the small space. “I’m a strict Doylean.”
“No Great Game for you,” I teased.
She rolled her eyes. “That was all Bernard. He was a Sherlockian and a member of the Baker Street Irregulars, you know.”
“I did not,” I said, which was the truth and only added to my interest in these damn papers. The intensity of Bernard’s obsession with Holmes was so deep he believed the characters were real. In my time with the Society I’d learned the community was divided into Doyleans and Sherlockians.
A Doylean, like Eudora, worshipped the genius of Arthur Conan Doyle and his stories and characters. A Sherlockian embarked on the Great Game—a form of scholarship that presumed Holmes and Watson were flesh-and-blood human beings. Arthur Conan Doyle was merely their literary agent. The Baker Street Irregulars were a tight-knit group of Sherlockians, and the fact that Bernard was one of them intrigued me. Did he truly adhere to their academic ideas? Or were they just a source of rabid literary lovers he could easily sell stolen books to?
“As president, I’m not supposed to take sides. Between us girls…” Eudora lifted a shoulder and smirked.
“I think it’s pretty dumb,” I said. She laughed, coquettish, and I felt a small sense of satisfaction that I’d read this woman so quickly and so correctly.
Although the original source of these undercover skills—the charm, the easy lies—wasn’t something I liked to think too hard about. Immediately, my hand slipped into my pocket and gripped Abe Royal’s business card. The advantage this information had given me was thrilling.
The fact that I’d pickpocketed it was not. It wasn’t even an old habit—it was an old skill I was forced to do for years, even after I understood the harm it unleashed.
Abe Royal’s presence had provoked a chemical, lizard-brain reaction in me, and stealing from his pockets was the result. If I didn’t suspect I’d need him over the coming days, I’d steer clear. Because a devastatingly handsome man who made me lose my mind—literally—was not the distraction I wanted to deal with as my deadline rapidly approached.
Whatever information he might provide would need to come from a distance.
Eudora peeked at her watch. “I hate to cut this short, but I do have more people coming by today. I’m sure I’ll be hearing all about the auction and what their proposed solutions are.”
I stood, placed the teacup down next to the fireplace and a replica of Sherlock Holmes’s violin. “Thank you for chatting with me. And for answering my nosy questions.”
“Anything for another Doylean,” she said. “We have to stick together. It’s important to cultivate true friends in this world. That’s what I’ve learned from being in the Society. Real friends, friends you can trust, you’d move mountains for.”
I fixed a smile on my face. “That’s the truest thing I know.”
And the biggest lie I’d told all day.
She led me through the small rooms that comprised the museum and out into an even smaller lobby. Already, tourists were starting to stream in dressed in various costumes. Eudora was scanning the room, face brightening at a man standing in the corner.
“My next appointment,” she said. “We met last night, and he promised he had information we could use regarding the auction.”
“Oh?” I turned, catching myself just in time before my jaw dropped.
Abraham Royal, dapper as ever, stood in a suit with a polite smile directed right at Eudora. Until he saw me, of course. Surprise flared in his expression, followed by a hunger I knew well. Unnecessary distraction or not, that man had appeared in my dreams all night, turning them hot and edgy and painfully erotic. I’d tried all morning to forget those teasing sensations, yet here he was, provoking them again.
“Mr. Fitzpatrick, how nice to see you,” Eudora said, blushing a little when he shook her hand. “Do you know Ms. Atwood?”
“We also met last night,” I said. “Although I actually didn’t catch your name?”
The man on vacation swallowed hard. “Daniel Fitzpatrick.”
My mouth curved into a genuine smile. Now what was this private detective doing, meeting with Eudora, using a fake name?
“A pleasure,” I said.
He nodded, followed Eudora back into the Victorian-era rooms. And I sank down onto the closest couch to await his return. Last night, after moving into The Langham, I’d done the deepest dive on information about Codex, Abe, and his team. I now knew he was an accomplished, well-respected, former special agent with the FBI. I knew his team was responsible for two extremely high-profile cases in the past few months—including infiltrating an underground antiquities market that resulted in dozens of arrests.
And I knew he’d hired Henry Finch, ten-year assistant to the man I was desperately searching for. The more Abe lied, the more I believed he was here for one reason only.
Bernard.
7
Abe
Bernard Allerton stared back at me from a black-and-white picture dated fifteen years ago. He didn’t have his cane yet, but his posture was meek and timid. Next to him stood Eudora and a man I didn’t recognize. The caption read: Sherlock Society president Bernard Allerton and vice president Eudora Green stand with former president Nicholas Markham outside Adler’s Bookshop.
The picture hung on a wall surrounded by others—tourists at the museum, ribbon-cuttings, re-enactments, costume parties, galas, lectures. It easily spanned fifty years of history through the Sherlock Holmes Museum and other Sherlock-inspired happenings.
Bernard was in many of them.
I’d woken this morning with an overwhelming drive to follow-through on my promise yesterday to visit with Eudora Green at 221B Baker Street. After a night of tossing and turning, tortured by dreams, I knew I’d only rest if I’d tied up these remaining mental threads. It wasn’t that I thought Bernard would be sitting at this museum, waiting for capture. But the combination of the auction, the sighting reports, and Eudora’s relationship with the man was a compelling enough reason to come here.
And it was only one meeting. One more final piece of a puzzle I’d have to, eventually, let go of solving. After this, I had plans late in the afternoon to visit Parliament and tour the National Gallery followed by a nice dinner out with an even nicer glass of whiskey. Culture, history, whiskey. Vacation things for a man on vacation.
As if sensing my guilt from 2,000 miles away, my phone chirped with a text message from Freya. I glanced at the pictures of Bernard, winced. Glanced back down to her text:
Just a friendly reminder from your team to enjoy the fuck out of your vacation! Sam and I constructed a life-sized cardboard cut-out of you, which we have sitting behind your desk. Every so often we make it say something stern and uncompromising, and we all pretend to be scared.
I chuckled softly, scrubbing a hand down my face. Your respect for authority is truly an inspiration, I typed back.
Sounds like you miss us, she wrote.
I didn’t reply, casting my eyes toward the door where Eudora would be appearing soon for our appointment. I pictured calling Codex, telling them what few clues I’d spotted since arriving here, imagined their excitement, their thirst for justice that mirrored my own. Deep down, buried beneath the guilt, was the obsessive element I hated to acknowledge. The selfish part made me feel like a bastard—if anyone was going t
o find Bernard, it was going to be me.
And me alone.
Last night I’d given Eudora a name I hadn’t used since I was an FBI recruit—Daniel Fitzpatrick. At Quantico we’d had rigorous undercover drills, and if I wasn’t assigned a name, I chose Daniel whenever I needed something fast.
Today’s issue was that I wasn’t working a case. I had no clients, no support, no funding. So I’d flown all the way here and given Eudora Green an undercover name because I was Ahab sensing the presence of the white fucking whale.
I slipped my hands into my pockets, leaning back against the wall. My fingers brushed against the silk material, evoking a memory of what I’d discovered last night. Back in my room, I’d removed my suit jacket and gone to empty the pockets—only to realize my Codex business card, with my name on it, was missing. I had a sly suspicion about the perpetrator. I cursed beneath my breath—even as a smile caught me off-guard. Perhaps the reason I’d dropped a fake name had to do with a raven-haired siren who’d bewitched me completely, a new and not entirely unwelcome sensation.
Do you always try and kiss liars?
I didn’t, not ever. I did, however, spend a large portion of last evening fantasizing about the curve of her spine beneath my palm, her pliable muscles, her fire-hot skin, the hollow of her collarbone calling to me. I’d watched her seductively swaying hips with the stare of a starved man. My fingers were sore from the way I’d gripped my glass, a futile attempt to temper my response. By the time I’d made it to Eudora, I was off my game, dazzled.
Yet another new sensation.
I was potentially under the spell of a liar and a pickpocket, so why did she have to be the most beautiful woman I’d ever seen?
“Mr. Fitzpatrick, how nice to see you again.” I turned fully at Eudora’s voice, caught her outstretched hand and slight blush. “Do you know Ms. Atwood?”
Goddammit to hell.
In the Clear (Codex Book 3) Page 5
