A Game Most Foul, page 20
“Couldn’t sleep,” I said, which wasn’t entirely a lie. “Thought I’d get a head start on the day and all that.”
“Indeed.” Watson gave me a curious look as he unlocked the classroom door. “And are you well?”
“No,” I said automatically. “I mean, yes. Okay, actually, I mean, did you manage to find anything on Ashley’s iPad? Holmes said he was going to—”
“I must ask you to refrain from finishing your sentence until we are inside the classroom, Miss Montgomery, if you don’t mind.”
I snapped my mouth shut at Watson’s abruptly serious expression and scuttled into the room as instructed.
Rather than shut the door, Watson left it slightly ajar, and didn’t speak a word until he’d set his things down on his desk.
“I might ask you, Miss Montgomery, if you fully understand just what you’re doing.”
My artful response to this was a confused, “Huh?”
Watson crossed the room and took the armchair closest to me, leaning toward me with the kind of expression that made me feel I was in for a big scolding.
“Seeking out Holmes as you have been,” Watson clarified. “Choosing to involve him in this search for Miss James.”
“Okay, yes, I understand that Holmes is—”
“I am not sure you do understand, Miss Montgomery,” Watson said sharply, speaking over me. “Obviously I am not unaware that Holmes has been . . . ill at ease with the way we have been living the last several decades, and I cannot say I blame him. But undoubtedly as you have seen for yourself, time has taken a toll on him.”
It took a lot of effort to sit there quietly as Watson continued speaking.
“I know it appears as if Holmes has kept most of his faculties, but there are times where he . . . isn’t entirely in the present, where he’s clearly seeing something the rest of us are not. And when these spells come over him, so to say, it is as if he is reliving moments from our previous lives. Eventually—sometimes a few hours, sometimes a few days—he comes back around, but he is . . . that is, Sherlock is not the man he once was.”
Isn’t he, though? I wanted to say.
Holmes had managed to find Ashley’s iPad when even the police hadn’t (even if he claimed they were always out of their depth) and he’d been pretty spot-on in his deductions of me and my conflicted feelings around Ashley’s disappearance.
But rather than tell Watson this, I said, “The other day, Holmes seemed to think we were trying to solve a case about someone named Violet Ramsey, this woman who apparently died at a séance. He was trying to take us to the morgue at a place called Saint Bartholomew’s.”
Watson didn’t seem surprised by this news.
“Yes, he revisits that moment frequently, being that it is the last case we worked on together before we became . . . whatever it is that we are.”
“So . . .” It took a moment to muster up the right words. “Is that the reason you and Holmes are . . . stuck this way? Because that case dealt with the occult or something?”
“That would be a logical assumption,” Watson said grimly. “But to be perfectly frank, Miss Montgomery, we do not know with one hundred percent certainty what exactly happened to us that night.”
“Did you ever solve the case?” I asked curiously.
“No,” Watson answered, his voice flat. “Obviously we did not, given that I am here now in the twenty-first century speaking with you. And I would encourage you, Miss Montgomery, not to dig any further into the case of Violet Ramsey.”
“Can I ask why, sir?”
“You only have to look at Holmes to find the answer to that question yourself,” Watson said. “Holmes has been gifted with extraordinary skills of deduction and oftentimes has even seemed almost superhuman. But the man is not used to not knowing. I can provide you with only two instances where Holmes has been bested, and I can assure you, he’s never fully recovered.”
I was wishing for the opposite, but Watson was making sense here. When you got down to it, Holmes was a major know-it-all. And apparently he didn’t know the exact cause of why he and Watson were stuck the way they had been since 1899.
“He must get pretty . . . upset by all this then,” I said carefully. “The not knowing.”
“Precisely. And I have discovered that when you have lived as long as we have, memories begin to fade,” Watson said, and his tone had become strangely wistful. “I haven’t entirely given up hope that one day Holmes might completely forget that last case of ours. I have tried to encourage him toward other pursuits, but I am sure you can imagine I have had little success there.”
Other pursuits.
As far as I was aware, Holmes either spent his time binge eating, watching television, or hunting for spare change. Two of those things I could rule out as having to do with their last case.
My stomach did a funny little free fall as I carefully asked, “Sir, does the . . . I mean, is Holmes always looking for coins or whatever because it has something to do with Violet Ramsey?”
“Indeed,” Watson said, and he didn’t sound that happy about answering. “To what extent, I cannot rightly say.”
My fingers started twitching with the urge to immediately send a message to Percy and Suruthi with this information. I wasn’t ready to let the conversation end here; Watson had been pretty forthcoming so far, and I wanted to know more.
“I guess you just decided to take up writing after all that happened,” I said, desperate for Watson to keep talking. “As your other pursuit.”
Watson seemed to lose some of his hardened edge at this. “More or less. I have always enjoyed writing.” That wistful tone was back and only growing. “I do not think I would’ve recovered from the war if I hadn’t begun to write of my experiences with Holmes. On occasion, when I decide to revisit my early writing, I feel as if I am greeting an old friend.”
This I could relate to. Writing was like an old friend. That was what made it all the more difficult when I couldn’t even get myself to write a single sentence.
“Do you wish things were different, sir?” I asked Watson after another beat of silence.
Watson exhaled slowly again, leaning back to cross his arms over his chest. “Oh, sometimes. Death plays a crucial part in the balance of the universe, does it not? But it is much easier to endure hardship when one has their closest companion for comfort.”
Regardless of the tension that constantly simmered between the two, or that ridiculous fight in Watson’s office last week, Holmes and Watson obviously still relied on each other a great deal. The stories hadn’t been wrong about that.
“I’m sorry to keep pushing, Professor, but did Holmes at least give you Ashley’s iPad?” I asked in a rush, unable to hold it back any longer. “Did you—”
“Of course he did, and of course I gave it over to the authorities,” Watson said, as if I should’ve known better. “I had no reason to keep it.”
“But even if—”
“I am sorry, but am I interrupting?”
I wanted to shriek out of frustration when Thierry came waltzing into the classroom, clearly not sorry about anything.
“Certainly not, Mister Garnier,” Watson said, gesturing for Thierry to join us. “Miss Montgomery and I were merely discussing her manuscript.”
Ouch.
Chapter 23
You Might Have Mentioned the Literal Conspiracy Board in Your Bedroom
This morning had gotten off to a pretty rocky start. Seeing Percy come dashing into the classroom with about one minute to spare, backpack hanging off his shoulder and his glasses askew, was enough to provide me with some amusement I felt I’d sorely been missing as of late.
Suruthi sat up straight as Percy threw himself onto the couch between us, short of breath like he’d just run a marathon. “What happened to you?”
“I may—” Percy sucked in a series of short breaths, struggling to speak. With how hot his face seemed, he must’ve run all the way here from the Underground. “I may—have overslept.”
“Research going well then?” Suruthi asked, leaning in close.
It was like Christmas morning had come early for Percy as his eyes lit up. Despite the exhaustion radiating from him, I’d never seen him look so excited.
“Suruthi, you have no idea. I can’t wait to—”
“Shall we begin, class?” Watson cut in loudly, taking a seat in his winged armchair. “Mister Garnier has come to me with an interesting idea this morning which I thought we might take advantage of.”
I was only able to absorb about half of what Watson was saying about sharing bits of our manuscript, too focused on Percy, who was now scribbling down a note in the top corner of a blank piece of paper in his notebook.
I am almost positive I’ve found it!!
What was that supposed to mean?
It? I mouthed at Percy.
He immediately started scribbling down his response, a very sloppy the missing piece for potentially both cases!!!!
Percy thought he’d solved both cases? I definitely knew about one case—that of our missing classmate—but the second? What was he talking about?
Suruthi somehow managed to jot down a note above Percy’s as I halfheartedly listened to Watson explain that Thierry had volunteered to share the first chapter of his manuscript today and that it might be a good idea for all of us to consider doing the same.
Did you tell Holmes?
Percy wasn’t as sneaky as he answered Suruthi’s question with another note.
Already did. He’ll meet us at the coffee shop across the street once class lets out and I’ll take it from there.
There were about a dozen more questions bouncing around my brain at this point, none of which were making much sense. How was I going to make it through the rest of the day when I knew Percy was apparently sitting on a gold mine of information?
Hopefully he would have told us at once had he found anything related to Ashley’s whereabouts, rather than wait an entire weekend.
“Now, if I may have your attention,” Thierry began in what I could only refer to as an overly dramatic voice. “I am excited to share with you the first chapter of my manuscript, which I have decided to call Alias Unknown.”
“Intriguing,” Watson said, sounding genuinely interested.
That was all the permission Thierry needed to dive right in. I had to give him credit for an action-packed beginning, kicking his manuscript off with the kidnapping of the US president’s son, but I’d never had much of an interest in politics after I’d taken last place in running for student council president in the eighth grade.
I stopped paying attention to Thierry’s enigmatic storytelling completely when there was a sudden heavy weight on my shoulder. I looked over to see that Percy had fallen asleep. His head was resting on my shoulder, glasses crooked, and the position had to be far from comfortable. But he was definitely asleep.
This made me seriously wonder just how long he had stayed up this weekend doing his own research.
The dark circles under Percy’s eyes were even more evident up close, which then gave me the opportunity to notice just how seriously long his eyelashes were, and that his nose was just the slightest bit crooked. There was a scar that cut through his left eyebrow too. Where my attention was drawn to the most though were his lips. His bottom lip was slightly fuller than the top, which was curved in a perfect Cupid’s bow.
This is so, so stupid, I thought. But even that knowledge did nothing to squash the internal panic steadily increasing. I shouldn’t have been so fixated on Percy’s lips. I should not have been thinking about what it would be like to—
“Could always shove him off,” Suruthi suggested quietly, making me jump.
Crap.
“Or would you rather keep mooning over him?”
“I’m not mooning, thank you,” I whispered back. “Just—surprised.”
I blew out a sigh before nudging Percy as gently as I could with my elbow. He came awake with a squeak that left Suruthi giggling.
I could get through this without self-imploding. Percy had only fallen asleep on my shoulder. It was completely innocent.
At any rate, we had bigger fish to fry.
***
He may have spent the latter half of the day forcing himself to stay awake, but Percy had no problem taking charge once we were on our way to meet up with Holmes that afternoon. Percy looked relieved when we found Holmes waiting for us outside the coffee shop, just like he’d said, immediately calling out, “Over here, sir!”
Holmes regarded us with a mixture of curiosity and probably annoyance as we approached, flicking the remnants of his cigarette on the ground and snubbing it out with his shoe.
“Dare I ask what you want now that you have requested my presence again?” was the first thing Holmes asked when we were close enough. “Surely the fact that I did not reply to any one of your incessant messages was clue enough I have no desire to converse. I’ve other, better ways to occupy my time, I hope you know.”
“What exactly did you tell Holmes to get him here?” I asked Percy quietly, who breezily answered, “I told him he could have the pick of my mum’s typewriter collection.”
“And your mum is on board with this?” Suruthi said, fighting a laugh.
Percy shrugged. “I sent pictures.”
“I’m sure there are better things you could be doing,” he continued, addressing Holmes. “But you’re going to want to humor me on this one, sir.”
“Oh?” Holmes arched an unimpressed brow. “Do tell.”
“I’m afraid you’ll just have to come with us,” was Percy’s response.
I could definitely stand to see more of this confident side of Percy.
Holmes looked to Suruthi and me as if we might have a better answer for him, and we both shrugged.
“Now, if you don’t mind,” Percy said. “I reckon we should be on our way.”
One very long ride on the underground where Holmes seemed to annoy everyone in a ten-foot radius with his constant fidgeting and playing of the air violin, and we were setting off in a part of London I hadn’t been to.
“We’re going to your apar—I mean, flat, aren’t we?” I said, quickening my pace to catch up to Percy.
“Yes.” I caught just the slightest hint of a grin when Percy glanced over at me. “I have a flatshare for the summer, if you’ll recall, and thankfully, my flatmates have gone on a spontaneous holiday to the Netherlands for the week.”
“Ooooh!” Suruthi seemed thrilled at this idea. “Are we really going to see Percy Bysshe’s inner sanctum?”
“It’s a flat, Suruthi,” Percy said with an eye roll. “Don’t read too much into it.”
“Still! You keep to yourself so much in some ways, I can hardly wait to see for myself where you have your morning tea, or how clean you keep the loo. It’ll be like some great mystery solved at last.”
“I feel it is my duty to inform you, young lady,” Holmes said, solemnly addressing Suruthi, “that you are in need of reconsidering your priorities.”
Suruthi complained about us ruining her fun the rest of the semi-lengthy walk to Percy’s flat. There was definitely a more residential feel to the area, and the building Percy led us to was on the shabbier side, but still pleasant, probably made up of a dozen or more apartments.
“Afraid the lift isn’t working, so it’ll be the stairs,” Percy said when we were inside the lobby. “This way.”
Up two flights of stairs and down a short hallway had us standing in front of a door marked with a simple 2B. Fitting.
“Any idea what we’re about to walk into?” I whispered to Suruthi as Percy fiddled with a key ring he’d pulled from his pocket. “Percy isn’t, like, a hoarder or something, is he?”
“With the way he keeps his notebooks organized? No way,” Suruthi said, shaking her head. “But your guess is as good as mine, Jules.”
Percy stepped aside to let us inside once he had the door open and immediately shut the door behind us, sliding the lock home.
It took a second for Percy to get a few lights switched on and then he was quite smartly ushering Holmes down a short hallway to our left before Holmes had the chance to continue snooping anywhere else.
I was able to see a cluttered living area to our right with a vibrantly orange couch and a plain kitchenette against the far wall before I followed Suruthi into what had to be Percy’s bedroom. When the light came on, my jaw dropped when my gaze landed on the display directly in front of me.
Percy looked somewhere between proud and embarrassed as he walked to the oversized corkboard on the wall next to the lone window in the room. It was covered with an array of multicolored tacks that pinned up a series of black-and-white photographs, sketches, newspaper clippings, and pages that looked as if they had been neatly removed from old books.
To top it all off, everything appeared to have been pinned up in chronological order thanks to the long pieces of red yarn connecting each item to the next.
Percy’s confidence from before was nowhere to be found when he spoke. “I realize that this is, er, perhaps a bit—”
“Insane?” Suruthi threw out. “Percy, you do realize this looks like something a serial killer might put together, right? How long did this take you? A full twenty-four hours? Or did you—oh.” A look of realization suddenly crossed her face. “This is the research you’ve been doing? Why, you little Hermione Granger, you.”
Holmes glowered disapprovingly at Suruthi as Percy spluttered out some kind of rebuttal.
“You shouldn’t berate the boy, young lady. It is never an inconvenience to have all the facts available when working a case.” Holmes gestured to the corkboard. “The evidence here has been arranged well indeed.”
“Er. Yes, I thought . . . thank you, sir,” Percy managed to say once he’d cleared his throat several times. “I thought it would be helpful to see all the facts laid out in chronological order.”
“And so it would,” Holmes remarked.
Holmes hadn’t once looked away from the corkboard since we’d entered the room, and I was curious to see what he’d observed so far that the rest of us average citizens hadn’t.
