As was 221B Baker Street, the Sherlock Holmes museum.
They were blurry images, and no guarantee. Which was one of the main reasons why I hadn’t told the rest of Codex, because every other clue we’d followed on Bernard’s trail had ultimately led to a fucking ghost. Bernard was as brilliant as he was conniving—a dangerous combination when you had untold wealth at your fingertips.
In so many ways, Bernard had profoundly impacted the lives of my team, none more than Henry’s. I knew, I hoped, the guilt I felt at keeping this secret would fade. Because dragging my team across an ocean on a manhunt with no contract, no money, and no reason behind it was risky, dangerous, and probably a giant waste of time.
As was disappointing them.
I caught a glimpse of my reflection in the mirror above the dresser—the lines around my eyes, the exhaustion etched around my mouth. Obsession. This was a giant waste of time and yet here I was.
My phone buzzed with a text from my mother—a simple, direct message that said, Enjoy your damn vacation, Abraham.
I smiled, rubbed a hand down my face. Rolled out my shoulders. I would. I really would.
I just needed to attend a lecture on Sherlock Holmes first.
3
Sloane
Oxford, England
“Three weeks into your contract and you’ve learned what, exactly?” Louisa Davies asked, face pinched and dismissive.
I schooled my features. Crossed one leg over the other and projected as much confidence as I could. What I’d learned was Bernard Allerton was a cunning son-of-a-bitch who’d expertly covered his tracks for the past ten months.
What I said to my client was, “I’ve been undercover as a Sherlock Holmes enthusiast named Devon Atwood, attending all of the meetings and events hosted by the Sherlock Society of Civilized Scholars. Gaining their trust, attempting to find the loose link in whatever circle of people is currently guarding his exact location. It’s subtle work. It takes time.”
She and I both knew I didn’t have much time left, necessarily. I forged on, ignoring my rapidly increasing pulse.
“They’re a devoted group of literary scholars and academics,” I said. “They’re insular, community-driven, wealthy. They keep secrets. If Bernard’s criminal actions, as well as his location, are known to the Sherlock Society, then it’s a secret they’re proud to keep to themselves. That’s where my cover comes in.”
Devon Atwood was a bright and cheerful Sherlock fan, desperate to know every single person in the Society—including their mysterious vice president, Bernard. What I knew—and was reluctant to tell Louisa—was that these past three weeks in London had exposed jack-shit when it came to the man I was going to be paid an extraordinary amount to hunt down.
Supposed to be paid. That check would never come if I didn’t find him. Which was a damn shame since Louisa was offering five times my standard fee for a successful capture.
The Sherlock Society was a mixture of whimsical fan club and dedicated academic intellectuals. They wore Holmes and Watson costumes and made pilgrimages to sites mentioned in the stories. But they also gave lectures and wrote essays, spoke at symposiums and universities. It was the oldest Sherlock Holmes society in England and had the reputation, and respect, to prove it.
Louisa rubbed her forehead, looking slightly more sympathetic. She was an older white woman, with short red hair and red glasses, and highly respected at Oxford. It had been unsettling to watch her facial expressions around me transform from ‘hopeful’ to ‘concerned’.
“I’m sorry if I’m coming off as a bit cross. I know it’s subtle work. I know it’s how you succeeded with the Audubon case, which is exactly why I hired you. You can imagine my frustration that eleven months after being made aware of Bernard’s crimes we still haven’t caught him.”
Frustration was a feeling I knew intimately. And craving punishment was a feeling I understood even better. I’d been manipulated, used, and lied to for eighteen years by two expert con artists. The lies were like walking around every day with a bandana covering your eyes, obscuring your sight, limiting your senses on purpose.
“I understand,” I said firmly. “I expect a break in the case any day now. I’m attending a lecture by Eudora Green, the president of the Society, back in London as soon as I leave your office. We’re also meeting tomorrow morning. My instincts are she’s close to Bernard.”
I couldn’t tell how assertive my tone was—Louisa’s face remained pinched with worry. And I couldn’t really blame her.
Three weeks ago, Louisa Davies had hired me to hunt down Bernard Allerton—a famous librarian who once oversaw the McMaster’s Library and their special collection of rare books. He managed their conservation efforts, had unparalleled access to some of the rarest manuscripts in the entire fucking world. Add in his academic prestige, and Bernard’s long con was one of the most epic forms of deceit I’d ever seen.
Honestly, my parents would envy it.
Louisa had been Bernard’s boss, and since he’d gone missing, she had been impatiently waiting for the authorities to catch the man. When she called me, she explained that it was time the McMaster’s Library took matters into their own hands. Apparently, hiring me was the first step in what she hoped would bring about justice. The minute Louisa had finished telling me the story of Bernard’s high crimes and misdemeanors, the hunger was there, the urgency was there, sweeping through my veins. I’d flown to London from New York City for my first international case.
Nothing brought me greater joy in this world than to hunt down a man like Bernard—it pissed me the fuck off that he’d lied for twenty years and was currently getting away with it. Contracts like this—clients like this—were the dream for me; they were the sole reason why I started my own private detective firm five years ago.
Recently, I’d helped a library in upstate New York recover a stolen collection of illustrations from John James Audubon’s famous folio, Birds of America. What I’d assumed would be a minor, run-of-the-mill case had brought me a bit of notoriety in the world of antiquities theft. And Louisa happened to be good friends with that library’s Board President, who’d been over-the-moon with my work and happy to recommend me to her colleagues.
Before, my cases had consisted largely of cheating spouses, in-depth background checks, and tedious stakeouts. Good work. Steady work. But not the kind of work that made my mind race with exciting possibilities.
Unfortunately, this exciting contract had a deadline and a countdown—only twelve days remained before it was yanked. Hunger only got you so far when going toe-to-toe with a mastermind.
“Bernard’s crimes are bigger than this,” Louisa said, tapping my contract. “So if you hit the deadline on this contract and you haven’t found him, I have no problem hiring the next private detective on my list. Time is of the absolute essence here.”
I managed a tiny smile. “I understand. This is a business. It’s not about ego. It’s about catching a very bad guy.”
It was very much about ego for me, though. Ego and money. Argento Enterprises was still young—and had only a single person on staff. Me, which was my absolute preference. Putting myself through college and clawing my way up through the quicksand of my past had incurred debt and loans and bills that desperately needed to be paid.