The hinges squeaked as if the place were something out of a gothic novel. He stepped inside and immediately sneezed. The furniture, the windows, everything was covered with a thick layer of dust. Well of course it was. No one had been there for a year.
He glanced around the living room at the familiar overstuffed sofa, comfortable chairs, Professor Browning’s cave pictures. Where should he start? Actually, scratch that. What should he start? He’d never inherited a house before, and certainly not one belonging to his mother. What were you supposed to do?
The bequest had been a shock. Sure, he’d known all along that she was his biological mother, even though Pastiche Holmes, together with his father, Olimus, had raised him. But since Okimma had died it had never occurred to him to think about her will, even though he knew he was her only relative. After all, what kid thinks about things like that? Then, when the lawyer had phoned and told him, he’d let it go for months. There were so many other things to do, and anyway he still couldn’t believe she was dead. But now that Amanda had hurt him so badly, hurt him for good, he needed to move on, and so he had asked for the key.
He ambled over to a table and wrote, “I miss you, Okimma,” in the dust. Then, annoyed with himself, he rubbed out the words, raising a cloud of particles and sneezing twice. His mother wasn’t a touchy-feely sort of person. She was one of the best hackers in the world. She wouldn’t have approved. He didn’t know what was wrong with him being all sentimental like that.
But he did feel privileged to have been the son of a computing genius, dammit. Okimma hadn’t quite reached Hugh Moriarty’s rarefied level, but then he was a freak. No one else came close to her. That was the place to start. Perhaps she had some goodies on her computer. She was always deep into some pie in the sky project. Got a lot of them working too.
His shoes made clomping noises as he stepped across the floor to her study. He didn’t believe in ghosts, but the echoes gave him an eerie feeling. Perhaps it was the sound of grief. Maybe he should carpet the floor so he didn’t have to hear it. Right, with what money? Just because he owned a house didn’t mean he had cash.
What was he going to do with the place anyway? Windermere was a tourist town. Maybe he should rent it out. That would take funds in itself, though, to outfit and update it for today’s demanding travelers. Perhaps his parents would help him. They had loved Okimma too. Well, of course they had. She’d been their surrogate as well as their best friend. Without her he wouldn’t have been born.
He stepped into the study and beheld a desk full of papers. Okimma’s laptop was sitting in the middle, shut, as if she’d known she wasn’t coming back. Fortunately he had her password. She had always let him know, every time she changed it, and he had done the same with her. They told each other it was for backup, but it had been more: their way of expressing their love for each other.
He’d had to keep quiet about their relationship, she being his teacher and all. At one point he’d almost told Amanda, but now he was glad he hadn’t. It was bad enough that he’d loved her. That had been the biggest mistake of his life. But at least he hadn’t been stupid enough to compound it by trusting her with his most precious secret—Okimma’s most precious secret.
But then that slip of paper had been discovered in the secrets trove—the one that disclosed their relationship. Thank goodness only he could decode it. Of all the secrets for those stupid monkeys to drop, how it had been that one was beyond his comprehension. Or had someone placed it there on purpose? It was unfathomable. Who would do such a thing, and why?
No. It was a coincidence, albeit a freakish one. He’d thought about destroying the scrap, but in the end he knew that would be irresponsible. He’d returned it to Headmaster Thrillkill without a word. The man respected secrets. He wouldn’t tell. But if someone did decode it and the truth came out, he would find a way to deal with it.
He blew the dust off the laptop and opened the lid, then pressed the power button and waited for the login screen. There were a zillion updates to get through, but eventually he had the machine up and running. Now to see what Okimma had been up to.
There was a plethora of folders with names like “Anonymous” and “Wikileaks” and “Cyberforensics I.” It would take forever to go through them. And yet he knew that if she had been working on something important, something covert like rooting out corrupt officials or enemy spies, he’d have to look for the hidden files. He knew how she operated, though, so it was a simple matter, and in a few seconds he was staring, astonished, at a list of encrypted folders.
It seemed that she had been playing vigilante, but that was hardly unusual. It was what detectives did. What was absolutely stunning was that it looked like she’d been tracking a heretofore unknown descendant of Sebastian Moran, the Sherlock-era assassin who had worked for Professor James Moriarty. This new Moran, one Eamon Augustus, was apparently a member of a mysterious assassin’s circle, also unknown to the detectives. Or so it seemed. She hadn’t been sure.
The man was suspected of having perpetrated acts that creepily mimicked the original Moran’s modus operandi but that wasn’t conclusive evidence that he was related. The detectives had searched extensively for documentation, witnesses, any proof at all that the line had continued but never found any. So she was engaging in wild speculation. Or was she? Perhaps the similarity was just a coincidence. Perhaps she knew that and had been holding off telling anyone until she was sure. Or maybe, just maybe, she’d been onto something.
Holmes was fascinated. A descendant of Sebastian Moran? His ancestor Sherlock had come up against the man many times. He had been hard as steel, a sadistic killer who had murdered people for a living. Was it possible his progeny had continued in his footsteps all these years without the detectives knowing? It was, because when he compared the incidents involving the original Moran with those Okimma had been tracking, the similarities were striking. Unless there was a copycat out there. That was always a possibility.
Either way he had to do something. He couldn’t let this ruthless man continue operating. Too many people had died. More would surely follow. He needed to tell Thrillkill immediately. No, make that Buck. Thrillkill was in jail, blast it.
Why couldn’t he ever remember that Buck was in charge now? Anyway, the man would jump on the case immediately, no questions asked. Of course he wouldn’t credit Okimma. Buck didn’t believe in rewarding detectives for doing their job. Most of the time Holmes didn’t either, but this was different. This was his mother who had died in a freak accident. Her legacy should be respected.
No, on second thought he wouldn’t tell Buck. There was a much better way to honor her. He would find Moran and bring him to justice. He, Holmes, her only son. But he knew, he knew as he sat there and plotted in a way he never had, that that wasn’t the reason. It was all about Amanda, and Nick. He’d lost out to that criminal because he’d been too nice—too ethical and too good. And what had happened? Nick had got all the attention. He’d got Amanda even though he was evil, or maybe because he was evil. Girls loved bad boys. It made no sense but they did. How could he have failed to see that sooner?
Well, enough. He wasn’t going to lose out anymore. Starting here, starting now, he would toughen up. No more Mr. Nice Guy. He was a Holmes, a winner if there ever was one.
He made his way into his mother’s bedroom and stood before her mirror. He wiped off the dust and studied his image. No wonder Amanda didn’t love him. His face was pleasant, his body soft. No one would take him seriously. Well, no more. He would fix that right here and now.
Watching himself in the glass, he grabbed a lock of his frizzy hair and divided it into three strands, then braided it nice and tight. He held it up and checked his handiwork. Yes, that was it, exactly what he wanted. He took another and braided it too. He shook his head and felt the dreadlock fly from side to side. The smack it made against his head felt good. He grabbed another tuft and braided it even tighter. If it hurt, so much the better.
He stood there s
o long he lost track of the time. He didn’t even remember turning on the light, but somehow there it was shining from the nightstand in the early evening, lighting the way to the new Holmes. When he had finished he gazed into the mirror and surveyed his work. There wasn’t a single stray hair peeking out, just long, powerful snakes streaming out from his head. He nodded approvingly. It would do. It would do very well..
The Lovelace Earful Archives
The day after their London trip Amanda and Ivy called their friends together for a strategy meeting. As they sat around the common room, which had been decorated as an English garden featuring outlandish topiary in the form of fantastic beasts, gobs of fragrant flowers, and an ancient sundial, they agreed that enough was enough and it was time to tie up all the loose ends that had been dangling for days, weeks, and months. A new approach was in order and they were going to come up with something that would work if they had to lock themselves in overnight.
Of course resolving all those problems was easier said than done. There were so many personalities involved, and so many unknowns, that even coming up with a plan would be tricky. They’d been trying to find The Detective’s Bible for ages with little success. The whereabouts of Moriarty’s secrets was a complete cipher, and getting the stolen secrets back came down to wresting them away from Taffeta Tasmania, the girl who had stolen them from the trove, and figuring out who had taken the rest and where they’d put them. And getting Thrillkill out of jail? Well, if the great Scottish lawyer Balthazar Onion hadn’t been able to do it, no one could.
Amanda was wrestling with another problem as well: Nick. It was one thing if he didn’t want to be with her or even hear from her, but quite another that both Banting Waltz and Blixus Moriarty were trying to kill him. Not only that, but there was the PTSD. She’d researched it and it was debilitating. Victims could suffer flashbacks, nightmares, emotional numbness, fear, and insomnia, for starters. Between that and the deafness, she couldn’t imagine how he could defend himself properly. That meant they had to stop the two men or Nick could die.
She scanned the room. Everyone looked tired, especially Simon. She wondered what he’d been up to that had caused those dark circles under his eyes. No, wait. One person was in good shape. Gordon was bright-eyed. He always was though. He was such a funny guy. Despite the fact that he seemed so upbeat he was also impenetrable, kind of like Professor Scribbish, and for about the seventieth time she wondered if he was hiding something.
“I’m thinking we should go after Moriarty’s secrets first,” said Ivy, interrupting her thoughts. Her normally bouncy hair looked limp and a bit tangled after their long trip. It was the way you could tell she was tired.
“Really?” said Amanda, snapping to. She reached up and felt her own hair. It was a bird’s nest as usual. “Why?”
“Because we haven’t tried that yet,” said Ivy, running her fingers through her hair. How had she known what Amanda was thinking? “Everything else is something we’ve already worked on and failed at. Maybe we’ll have more luck with something new.”
“It’s probably the hardest problem,” said Simon, patting his cowlick. What was this, a hair orchestra all of a sudden?
“They’re all hard,” said Binnie, getting up and smoothing Simon’s hair down. He looked up at her as if to say, “What are you on about, woman?” “But I agree. Maybe we’ll get some fresh ideas if we try a different puzzle.”
“Okay,” said Amanda. “Moriarty’s secrets it is.” She glanced over at Clive and Gordon. “You guys okay with that?” They nodded and she strode into the middle of the room, assuming her usual role as discussion leader. She’d often wondered why it was always her taking the lead but had never figured it out. “When the spiders bit Blixus and Waltz asked him about Moriarty’s secrets, he said ‘Earful.’ I know he was under the influence of their venom and probably wasn’t lying—”
“Couldn’t have been,” said Ivy, crossing her legs and then immediately uncrossing them. Nigel looked up at her, then stretched his neck and licked her hand.
Actually he could have, but Amanda wasn’t about to tell them that Nick had beaten the spiders. That would just complicate matters. At least not now. If it became important she’d have to fess up.
“Wasn’t lying,” she corrected. “But what did he mean? Earful isn’t a place. He was a person.”
“Maybe the secrets are in Earful’s grave,” said Gordon. He seemed to like the idea because he began to bounce his legs up and down. Binnie shot him a look and he stopped.
It was an interesting idea but Amanda didn’t completely follow him. “Moriarty’s secrets? How could that be?”
“I don’t know,” he said. “Professor Moriarty killed Earful.”
“Yes,” she said. “For Earful’s secrets.”
“Right,” said Gordon.
“But that isn’t Moriarty’s secrets,” she said. “Unless Earful stole them and Moriarty was trying to get them back.”
“Even if that was the case, why would Moriarty’s secrets be in Earful’s grave?” said Simon. He sat down on the floor next to Nigel and scratched the dog’s ears.
“I don’t know,” said Amanda. “Gordon said it.”
“I dunno,” said Gordon. “I was just trying things. Maybe they’re in Moriarty’s grave.”
“Moriarty doesn’t have a grave,” said Amanda. “Unless there was a fake grave created so his family could have closure after he fell down Reichenbach Falls. Anyway, why would Blixus have said ‘Earful’ if that’s the case?”
“We’re obviously on the wrong track,” said Ivy. “What does have to do with Earful?”
“Legatum,” said Amanda. “Maybe Moriarty’s secrets are right here.”
“Do you think Earful did steal them and they’re in the headmaster’s residence?” said Binnie. She squirmed in her seat, causing her phone to fall on the floor. Gordon laughed. “Oooh, do you think Thrillkill knows they’re there? Hm, but if that’s the case, wouldn’t he use them against the Moriartys?”
“And wouldn’t Nick have tried to get them back when he was acting as a mole?” said Amanda. Clive gave her a funny look. It made her uncomfortable when he acted all anti-Nick. “He didn’t. He told me he doesn’t know where they are and I believe him.”
“Maybe they’re in Earful’s house,” said Clive.
“His house? You mean he had another house?”
“Sure, why not?” said Clive. “Most of the teachers do.”
“Now that’s an idea,” said Amanda making a note. “We should check the archives. Phew. I feel better. We have a plan.”
“One down,” said Ivy. “Now, about Thrillkill.”
Amanda glanced in her direction. Yup, there was Simon trying to move his hand over Nigel’s neck so he’d touch Ivy’s, which was stroking his back. He really had it bad.
“Poor Thrillkill,” said Amanda waiting for the collision to occur. “He’s been through so much. Wait, did I just say that?”
Ivy laughed. “Are you really Amanda? Amanda is totally intimidated by that man.”
“No she isn’t,” said Simon moving closer.
There he went again with some off the wall remark. He could be so annoying.
“What are you talking about?” said Amanda.
“You’ve never been intimidated by anything,” Simon said.
She shot him a “Huh” expression. “Where do you get that idea?”
“Because you always run toward danger, not away from it.”
“Yeah,” said Clive, nodding. “He’s right about that.”
Amanda frowned. That couldn’t be right. “Since when?”
“Since always,” said Binnie. “I’ve never seen you afraid of anything or anyone.”
“I don’t think you know me if you think that,” said Amanda.
“I know you, and Simon is right,” said Ivy.
And . . . there it was. He’d touched her hand and was attempting to cover it with his own. She hadn’t pulled away so maybe he actually was mak
ing progress.
“But Thrillkill has always freaked me out,” said Amanda.
“That’s not what it looks like from here,” said Binnie, eyeing Simon and Ivy.
“Good grief,” said Amanda. “What do you guys think of me? You’re so wrong.”
“No we’re not,” said Gordon. “You’re a gutsy bird.” He giggled. Amanda wasn’t sure if he was laughing at her or with her, or maybe at Simon.
“Uh, well, anyway,” she said, attempting to get the discussion back on track.
“Say,” said Gordon brightly. “I heard Buck telling Dean Canoodle that your mum did some terrible things.”
“Excuse me?” said Amanda. Where had that come from?
“Yeah,” he said. He looked downright gleeful. “I mean besides poisoning the peacocks and trying to kill Muffet.”
“Your mum tried to kill Nick?” said Binnie incredulously.
“Professor Lester is not a nice person,” said Simon, saving Amanda from having to answer the question. He had Ivy’s hand now.
“I like her books,” said Binnie. “She’s a good writer.”
“That’s just a persona,” said Simon.
“Simon!” said Ivy, pulling her hand away.
“You know it’s true,” he said. “I’m sorry, but it doesn’t do any good to deny it.”
“Anyway,” said Gordon, “as I was saying, Professor Lester broke into the teachers’ personnel files and made unauthorized changes.”
“You’re kidding,” said Clive. “What did she change?”
“Added icky stuff. I guess she wanted to make them look bad.” Not that it bothered him. He seemed to be finding the whole thing hilarious.
“Like who?” said Ivy.
“She put some awful things in Professor Also’s file,” said Gordon.
“Her rival for teaching History of Detectives,” said Simon, staring at Ivy’s errant hand. He looked as if he couldn’t decide whether to go for it again.
Amanda Lester and the Gold Spectacles Surprise Page 4
