I filed that piece of information away to examine later. Hadn’t she told me she was in London because she’d lost something?
“I’m only here for the week, I’m afraid,” I said. “I’ll barely make the auction.”
“It’s dreadful news, really,” she said. “I tried to put on a brave face for everyone last night, but between you and me, there’s no way we’ll get those papers.”
I straightened my tie, crossing one leg over the other. “Bernard will be disappointed.”
“You’re a colleague of his?” she asked.
I quickly ran through the options of what could work and went with: “I am. From long ago. More an admirer than a colleague. Obviously not nearly as close to him as you are.”
A bit of preening. “We’ve always been close because of the Society.”
I looked around at the paraphernalia—the disguises, the violin, the glasses on the table. “How long have you been a member?”
“Oh, give or take thirty-five years,” she answered. “At the time, Nicholas was the president, and Bernard and I were lowly secretaries.”
“Nicholas… Markham?” I asked, remembering the man from the pictures.
“Yes,” she said. “Nicholas has since died. His grandson, Peter, now owns his bookshop. Adler’s. Peter is extremely active in the literary community here in London as well as our Society. He and Bernard are also close, given Bernard essentially watched him grow up.”
I faked a smile while mentally tagging the Markham family as potentially interesting. “How lovely. I love a good bookstore. What was the Society like back when you joined?”
Eudora fiddled with her blocky earrings—they were shaped like novels. “Secretive in a good way,” she said with a smug sigh. “It was much harder to gain entry. Code words, secret meetings, that kind of thing. We were a Society with more purpose then, not only lectures and conferences.”
Code words.
“Nicholas was an inspiring president, but things became even more cloak-and-dagger when Bernard took over. It was a fun time to be a fan, even if the president was a Sherlockian.”
“Proud Doylean myself,” I said, raising a finger and pointing it at my chest.
“I wouldn’t have doubted otherwise,” she assured me.
I’d done my research.
“You enjoy the… cloak-and-dagger elements?” I asked, choosing my words carefully.
“I did,” she said. “Although with Bernard gone, it could be a wonderful time to bring back those elements.”
I let a second pass, kept my body language loose. “He’s been gone for a while it sounds like. On his sabbatical.”
A slight casting of her eyes to the left. A tightening around her mouth. “We’ve missed him, but he’s doing well.”
My training told me she’d lied.
“I’m guessing you’re in contact with Bernard often?” I asked.
“Someone has to be,” she said, as if it were a grave sacrifice. Was she lying about speaking with him? Or lying about his sabbatical?
“Is Bernard taking messages right now?” I asked.
Her head cocked like a bird’s. “Why?”
I made a show of glancing once over my shoulder. I was about to swing for the fences. “The reason why I asked to meet with you today is because I need to get a message to your former president.”
Her lips parted before she schooled her expression. “And what would it be about?”
Code words.
“Didn’t we once meet at Reichenbach Falls?” I asked. I had not a single fucking idea if she’d recognize what I was asking.
An awkward silence hung between us. Eudora placed her cup down onto its saucer with a jangling crack. “We have.”
I nodded, respectful, even as my pulse jumped. “I potentially have special access to what’s about to be auctioned. If the Society is interested, I’d be open in sharing more.”
There was swinging for the fences—and there was throwing the damn bat as far as you could. I had no idea what possessed me to do this, yet I felt gratified at the flash of greed across her face.
“I’ll take it into consideration,” she said simply, then stood, indicating the door. “I have more guests to see, as I’m sure you understand.” There was a curtness to her tone that hadn’t been there a second ago.
“Thank you.” I stood, re-buttoned my jacket. Scribbled my cell number down on a slip of paper. “I really would appreciate if you’d pass the message along. You can reach me with this.”
Her responding smile was less matronly, more snake-like. “Certainly. And a word of caution, Mr. Fitzpatrick. If a man has gone off the grid, he usually doesn’t want to be found.”
I paused, momentarily stunned by the warning in her tone. “I see,” I finally said. I raised my palms in a submissive gesture. “I’m merely a colleague with something to offer. I’m no threat.”
“Good.” She indicated the exit behind me. “I suggest you keep it that way.”
As I left, a jumble of thoughts raced through my head because I wasn’t quite sure what her message meant. For all I knew, she was nothing but hot air, and Bernard was living peacefully in Switzerland right now under an assumed name with zero contact with members of a Sherlock Holmes fan club.
Or possibly I’d successfully gotten a direct message to Bernard Allerton.
A tiny table held loose leaflets, advertising a talk tonight at Mycroft’s Pub. Humphrey Hatcher, Secretary of the Sherlock Society was listed as the speaker. I picked it up, drawn in, until Eudora’s voice sounded directly behind me.
“You’re still here?” she asked, a slight knife-edge to her words.
I gave her my warmest smile. “Just interested in this talk tonight, perhaps.”
That seemed to win her over a bit. “Everyone loves Humphrey. He’s Bernard’s oldest friend, actually.”
“Excuse me?” I asked before I could stop myself.
“Humphrey,” she said clearly. “Bernard’s best friend.”
“Interesting,” I mumbled, surprised that such a greedy, nefarious man could acquire friends—best friends. Although my father, at one point, had his fair share of friends he used to invite over for barbecues and drinks. Friends I’d liked actually. Though they no longer came around once he’d walked out the door and left my mother and I to fend for ourselves.
I slipped the piece of paper into my pocket. Tried not to ruminate too much on the last time I’d seen a friend.
Eudora slipped out into the main lobby, which was now officially bustling with tourists. And my eyes immediately locked with a sultry siren’s—leaning against the far wall with one black-booted foot propped against it. Red lips blossomed into a full smile I was fucking helpless to resist.
“Ms. Atwood,” I said evenly. “You’re still here?”
Between her fingers, Devon held my Codex business card. “Care to walk me back to my hotel, Daniel?”
8
Abe
Devon and I stepped out onto the bustling London street, filled with busy locals walking to work and roaring buses. The sky was heavy with the threat of rain, a crisp nip chilled the air, and for a moment, I caught her eying the storm clouds with fear.