“… Of course we’re coming up with a plan. Of course, Robert, let me finish…”
The woman shifted in her seat next to me, and I caught her scent—warm, intoxicating, sunshine through a dense forest, leaves and wildflowers. Why was I sitting here surrounded by deerstalker hats? Why wasn’t I taking this woman on a date at an elegant restaurant in this gorgeous fucking city?
“Bernard will be told,” Eudora said. I blinked, trance-like. Blinked again, re-focusing on Eudora with real effort. What was she saying? Did she say—
“Bernard Allerton, of all people, would want to know what was happening, yes of course.”
I snapped to full attention—although not before noticing that the woman, too, seemed to perk up next to me, a slight lean forward like she’d spotted a rare bird in the sky. Eudora was attempting to quiet an agitated crowd.
“Let me begin again,” Eudora said sweetly. “Ten years ago, there was a great debacle when Doyle’s last living child died at the glorious age of 100. His son’s will did not mandate that the private papers in his possession needed to stay within the family. Bernard was our president at that time, and he fought valiantly to gain control of those papers, rightly claiming that the Society had a responsibility to steward his works for both private and public admiration.”
Without realizing it, I was leaning forward in my seat.
The woman did as well, upper body tilting more dramatically now.
“We did not win that fight,” Eudora said. “And they are now in the care of The British Museum.”
I made a mental note of that outcome. Bernard wasn’t the kind of man who took losses lightly.
“However,” she said as the chattering intensified. “Right before coming here, I received a call from James Patrick, the president of the Kensley Auction House in London. Doyle’s great-niece has discovered an extremely large collection of her great-uncle’s private papers beneath a trap door in her attic—and is moving ahead with auctioning them to a private owner. These are never-before-seen and a complete mystery to Doyle scholars.”
There are rare moments during an investigation when a genuine clue drops in your lap as if from the fucking sky. A solid clue, heavy with implication, with edges you can grip.
This felt like that clue.
“The auction will happen one week from today,” Eudora said. Hands rose like a college classroom filled with eager students. “Yes, I will try and get a message to Bernard. The problem being that his sabbatical is off-the-grid, and he isn’t really available via the phone or the internet.”
An off-the-grid sabbatical. I shook my head, impressed at the man’s fucking gall. And curious to know how or why Eudora Green thought she could contact him, since he was technically in hiding from the authorities.
“Until I can get in touch with him, my decision as acting president is to work with Doyle’s niece and convince her to donate those papers to the Society. Obviously, if they end up in the hands of a private collector, we may never know what was on them. There could be entire Holmes stories that have never seen the light of day, other mysteries, other villains, other dreams we deserve to appreciate and care for.”
“What if they end up at auction?” A man in the front row asked.
Eudora’s lips pursed. “I truly do not know. We can see what funding we have in our war chest. I think we all know a treasure of this size will go for millions, which we absolutely do not have. I hate to be pessimistic, but I’d never lie to all of you.” A heavy silence hung over the crowd. “This is both the best and worst news.”
I scanned the crowd for a third time, noted real distress on their faces. Real distress on Eudora’s face. Next to me, the goddess seemed primed for movement, a runner waiting for the gun to fire.
That felt like a clue too.
“I will take questions after we end here if you want to come find me,” Eudora said. “If not, the next two days are my shift at 221B Baker Street, giving talks to the tourists. Please come visit. I’ll have a pot of tea waiting for all of you.”
The maps I’d studied had pin-pointed Bernard’s possible sightings within a two-mile radius of this hotel and that museum on Baker Street. And Eudora happened to be at both of them.
The stranger altered her posture slightly, releasing a wave of body heat that snatched my attention away from Eudora and back to her enchanting scent: sun-drenched branches, the hint of autumn in the air. I wanted to hear her smoky voice say more than May I?
So I turned, intending to adhere to the advice screamed at me for the past twenty-four hours and actually talk to a woman. Yet the moment I did just that, she vanished. I found her in the crowd immediately, striding with an obvious confidence toward the podium. Toward Eudora. I admired her bare, beautiful neck before I noticed the body language between the two. The woman was being greeted by Society members like a cherished friend. To Eudora, she appeared open, touching the other woman’s elbow, smiling with a charm I felt all the way in the back row. Every ounce of light in the room seemed to emanate from her.
I swallowed the beginnings of an impatient sigh—stood instead. There was a bar in the far corner and a glass of whiskey was shouting my name. And as I moved through the crowd in the opposite direction of the raven-haired beauty, I was careful to keep my eye on the interaction between her and Eudora Green. Because something didn’t feel right—and I was pretty damn sure she’d reacted at the use of Bernard Allerton’s name.
And I was pretty damn sure Bernard would want to know about this auction.
As the bartender poured my order, I leaned against the bar and caught the attention of the goddess yet again. For a brief, thrilling second, her lips parted in recognition. I raised my glass from across the room and maintained eye contact as I took my first, burning sip.
What had Eudora said in her speech?
True coincidences rarely exist.
5
Sloane
“Oh, Devon, of course. I’ve heard so much about you,” Eudora said. The president of the Sherlock Society of Civilized Scholars looked matronly and projected a naïve, eager innocence from her frumpy sweater to her earrings shaped like cats.
Beyond her sweet smile, I sensed a flash of pointed teeth and a suppressed snarl. The wolf dressed in the grandmother’s clothing, perhaps. At the many afternoon teas and cocktail hours I’d had with Society members, it was clear her secret reputation was more canine-like than motherly. They were a social group, and chatty during dinners and lectures, so it was easy to take advantage of their gossipy nature when it came to their thoughts on Eudora.
“A snarling dog off the leash” was one of the descriptors I’d heard. Of course, it was sandwiched passive-aggressively between two compliments, and the person who’d said it blushed furiously afterward and begged me not to repeat.
I’d just watched Eudora mention speaking with Bernard Allerton like he wasn’t, in fact, a criminal in fucking hiding. Tea with Eudora suddenly seemed even more vital.
“And you as well,” I demurred, shaking her hand. “The Sherlock Society has been so welcoming to me on my pilgrimage throughout London. It’s been so inspiring. And to think I haven’t even gotten a chance to meet the president yet.”