“Oh they will, Abraham. They will,” my mother cheered. “We’ll clean out one of the guest rooms and turn it into a makeshift office. The glass doors open onto the beach, which would make your employees extremely jealous.”
“When I’m not inspiring fear in their hearts,” I said, “I do like to inspire envy.”
“Inspire is right,” my mother countered. I attempted a scowl. “Freya tells us all the time in our group chat what a great boss you are.”
“What group chat?”
“All three of us are watching Love Island,” Jeanette said. “Which you should watch while you’re there. Unwind. Relax a little. Maybe throw on a sweatshirt.”
I indicated my attire. “This is my relaxing suit. A man should only wear a sweatshirt while sleeping.”
“And have you been sleeping?” my mother asked. I could feel a gentle rebuke, wrapped in nurturing, all the way across the ocean.
“I am trying,” I said, which was the truth.
“Please keep trying,” she replied. “I hate seeing you like this.”
“Like what?” I asked. I hadn’t been aware I appeared differently to anyone.
I watched both women exchange a look. “Joyless and frustrated,” my mother said.
A dozen standard pithy remarks rose in response. The expression of sincerity reflected on that little screen evoked a tightness in my throat. I wasn’t opposed to happiness, nor was I opposed to ease. The instability and chaos that ensued after my mother’s accident was only conquered with order, security, and preparation. My work—the pursuit of justice—fulfilled those needs perfectly. Joy was reckless and chasing it low on my list of priorities.
“And yet I’m drinking tea with the two people I love the most in my life,” I finally said. “There’s a lot of joy to that.”
My thoughts pinged to Bernard and the email waiting for me. My fingers tensed on the delicate china. Frustrated. Maybe they had a point.
“Of course,” my mother agreed. “We’re only saying… it wouldn’t kill you to let loose a little. Embrace the efforts of your hard work. Maybe bring home a girlfriend.”
I worked to loosen my jaw. “Freya and Delilah gifted me Hawaiian shirts for this trip in the effort to get laid, as they would say.”
The women on the screen shrugged—judgmentally.
“She said it, not us,” Jeanette said.
“And I’ve already reached my limit in talking about this with my family members,” I said. “Drink your tea. I’ll order some tiny cakes so you can get the full afternoon tea experience.”
They oooohed when cake arrived and entertained me for a full hour with stories about the dogs and their recent Bingo nights. I was jet-lagged, tired from the plane, and in a city where I knew not a single soul. But this—this virtual tea-time filled with Pomeranian anecdotes—felt like the closest thing to relaxation I’d come to in months.
An hour later, I was back in my hotel room, setting up multiple screens and laptops on the small mahogany table by the plate-glass doors. Open, they led to a balcony overlooking a bustling London that was darkening beneath a slate-gray sky.
In a few hours, I was attending a lecture called The Final Problem at Reichenbach Falls and How Sherlock Holmes Refused to Die.
It was being conducted by Eudora Green, the president of the Sherlock Society of Civilized Scholars. Bernard was, according to Henry, an absolute fanatic when it came to his devotion to Sherlock Holmes and his creator, Arthur Conan Doyle. Interestingly, Bernard was still listed as the vice president of the Sherlock Society on their website.
The Problem of Reichenbach Falls…
I founded Codex because I believed a firm of private detectives could more successfully recover stolen rare books than the Bureau. Museums and libraries hired us to work quickly and quietly—they trusted us to keep the theft out of the press, protecting their reputation and status with their donors in the process. It never boded well when a museum or library had to step forward and announce they’d lost a priceless artifact. And yet it was happening all across the industry. While at the FBI, I was hamstrung by red tape and frustrated with the bureaucracy. Yet my Codex agents were recovering stolen books left and right. Often working undercover, my team could manipulate known criminals and gain the trust of potential suspects. We had an impressive close rate and an impressive reputation, made more so by Sam and Freya’s infiltration of The Empty House.
The man I’d always believed to be at the top of this pyramid of wide-scale book theft was Bernard.
Didn’t we once meet each other at Reichenbach Falls?
About a year ago, Freya had started picking up the threads of code words used on the website Under the Rose. Book thieves were inserting coded language into their posts to alert others they had stolen goods for sale or were interested in buying stolen goods. The first one she’d ever uncovered was the phrase “Didn’t we once meet each other at Reichenbach Falls?”
Every other code word we’d deciphered had roots in Sherlock Holmes.
I was currently staying in The Langham Hotel, where Arthur Conan Doyle had once famously eaten dinner with Oscar Wilde. In the ballroom off the lobby, the Sherlock Society was about to give a talk with an explicit mention of the code word.
Rubbing the back of my neck, I opened my email and clicked on the message that had been burning through my brain. I’d received it three weeks ago, had planned this trip to London a week later. I would call it a happy fluke if ever questioned about it. And deep down, I wasn’t entirely sure what I expected would happen here. Only that my need to see Bernard behind bars felt like rocket fuel in my veins, propelling me forward at a rapid pace.
The location of Bernard Allerton, said the subject line.
The sender was anonymous, but the tone of the email smacked of an FBI agent’s pragmatism. I thought the Deputy Director might be the culprit, except he was much too prideful. Possibly a former colleague from Art Theft had sent it or an old supervisor. Who would think to send it to me? Before he’d joined our team, Sam had been my FBI contact. We had a quid pro quo that worked well. I sent him evidence of any criminal acts we stumbled upon. He sent me tips if we were stalled on a case. That contact was gone now—and my leaving had sparked outrage and dismissal from my FBI coworkers. Not a desire to help.
The email was short and direct:
The Bureau is sitting on detailed surveillance that indicates Bernard Allerton is residing in London. Resources are extremely limited right now. With every picture attached, agents gave chase and attempted to apprehend the man they’d spotted, only to have him elude their efforts. We got word that those Interpol agents are being pulled from the London-Oxford area and sent to Prague instead, leaving the suspect unattended. I’m sending this to you because I believe Bernard will make a move without the daily threat of being caught by the authorities.
I recognized this feeling—decisions made that often didn’t line up with what agents on-the-ground could tell you. Red tape keeping suspects from being apprehended for no damn reason. But it was true that large agencies like the FBI and Interpol were spread thin with limited resources, and so often it deeply impacted the success of these cases.
The pictures and surveillance reports attached were numerous, and I’d spent a number of nights pulling through tedious details and attempting to put together a picture of the man’s whereabouts. The Langham Hotel was within a two-mile radius of the most recent sighting.