“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 to 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.
The beautiful liar stood next to Eudora Green looking as astonishing in the morning hours surrounded by tourists as she had in a grand ballroom framed by golden light.
“We also met last night,” Devon said. “Although I didn’t catch your name.”
The playful tug of her lips made me wonder if she’d read that card—knew my real name.
“Daniel Fitzpatrick,” I said, loosening the clench of my jaw.
“A pleasure.” Her smoky voice curved around the word pleasure, and I was keenly aware that I might have been caught in my own lie. I managed a nod, frustrated. Followed Eudora back into a room designed to look like the apartment Holmes and Watson shared in the stories.
“You’ve been busy this morning,” I said, by way of opening.
Eudora adjusted her wire-rimmed glasses and pressed a strand of hair back into her tight bun. “When you’re the president of such a prestigious society, people want to talk with you.”
“Especially given the news,” I said. “The auction, I mean.”
She brightened. “Ms. Atwood and I were just discussing it. She’s a fan all the way from America, like you. Except she’s been here for an entire month already.”