A Game Most Foul, page 26
An unsettling feeling began to form in the pit of my stomach as Watson’s words filled the silence.
“So, maybe if . . .” Suruthi took in a deep breath as if trying to steady herself. “If either of you broke the circle, then you were . . . punished.”
Watson’s grim expression deepened as he rolled his shoulder as if he were suddenly very uncomfortable. “That would be my assumption as well, Miss Kaur.”
“Forgive me, Watson, but I don’t believe I understand what our punishment was,” Holmes said, overly polite. “Would you care to elaborate upon the finer details? Presumably you must have read a great deal in that grimoire of yours.”
“A kind of ancient magical text,” Percy muttered to Suruthi before she could ask.
“Magic,” Holmes repeated, his derisive snort impressive. “My dear boy, surely you know that such a thing does not exist.”
“Doesn’t it?” Watson said quietly. “Look at us, Sherlock. We both know we should have died that night, and now think about all we have done and experienced over the last century. Would any of it have been possible without some type of magic playing a part?”
“Um, excuse me?” I interjected hesitantly. “I mean, sirs. There’s something I’m still confused about.”
Watson motioned for me to continue.
“If the medium was using that bracelet as a conduit, you broke the circle to, what? Take her bracelet? To see if she was actually channeling spirits or whatever?”
Holmes blinked a few times, his lips pressing together in a hard line. “Yes, I suppose so. Why else?”
“So, what then? The coin sucked out your life force?” Suruthi threw out, laughing nervously.
It was safe to say none of us were expecting Watson’s answer to be a simple, “Yes.”
After that, the only thing I could manage was an articulate, “Huh?”
“That is to say, I believe so,” Watson clarified. “I consider myself to be intelligent enough, but even then I had difficulty interpreting what I read in the grimoire. Holmes and I may have broken the circle by touching the silver Miss Shaw possessed, but I am sure we very much remained seated at that table.”
“So, let me get this straight,” Percy said, a frown overtaking his features. “Whatever . . . ritual the medium had been doing ended up killing Violet Ramsey, but instead of doing the same to you both, you had your souls ripped out of you instead?”
“That is what I believe occurred, yes,” Watson answered.
“But then why take your souls instead of killing you too?” I asked.
“Because there was no opportunity,” Holmes said. His gaze was directed at Watson, but the glassy look in his eyes made it obvious he again was seeing something much different than the rest of us. “We were interrupted, weren’t we, John?”
“Yes,” Watson answered plainly. “It was the butler who had returned, presumably because of all the racket. I can’t recall every detail, but I do remember there was so much screaming and a terrible chill that I felt deep in my bones, unlike anything I have ever experienced.” Watson’s voice trailed off into nothing as he fought to conceal a shudder. He cleared his throat a time or two before he tried to speak again. “When I finally came to, we were no longer in that drawing room in Miss Shaw’s residence, but instead in some back alleyway a good distance from where we had been. Eventually I surmised that Miss Shaw must have believed us to be dead and tried to dispose of our bodies. Clearly that did not work, so I rousted Holmes, and we made our way back to Baker Street. A considerable amount of time had passed before we began to realize that something had happened to us that night.”
And from what we’d read in Watson’s journals, that time hadn’t been enjoyable.
“Jules,” Percy whispered. “You’re hurting my hand.”
I quickly dropped his hand with an apologetic look.
“Now I believe because Holmes had succeeded in ripping the piece of silver from the leather band Miss Shaw wore, she—”
“—got burned,” Percy finished for Watson.
Watson nodded in response.
The thought occurred to me as Holmes walked heavily to the desk and dropped into the chair beside it, immediately reaching for the box with the typewriter. He had the thing unboxed in a matter of moments and had started messing around with the keys again, much like he’d done in Adele’s shop the other day. The noise from the keys jamming had me wanting to cover my ears with my hands.
“If you were interrupted mid soul stealing, what happened to the parts that were taken?” I voiced aloud.
“Beg pardon?” Watson said, taken aback.
“What happened to the parts of your soul that were taken?” I said, somewhat impatiently. “Obviously you must have some bits left because you’re still technically alive, aren’t you? That must’ve meant all of Violet’s was taken.”
“Yes,” Watson said slowly. “You are probably correct, Miss Montgomery.”
“So, that being said,” I continued. “Where’s the rest of yours and Holmes’s souls?”
“Have you not listened to anything I have said this evening?” Holmes suddenly said, looking right at me.
The speed with which he hefted the typewriter up was enough to have all of us leaping back in shock.
“Holmes,” Watson started, reaching out to him. “What are you—?”
Holmes hurled the typewriter at the floor with such an astonishing amount of force that it seemed to shatter upon impact. He was on his knees the next second, slamming the pieces of typewriter again and again on the floor. By the time Watson had managed to wrestle Holmes back to his feet, all but dragging him away, all that was left were mangled bits of machinery.
“Holmes! What do you think you’re doing?!” Watson yelled, struggling to keep him at bay. “Why would you—”
Holmes threw Watson off with another burst of that immense strength that had Watson stumbling back into the wall. On his knees again, Holmes started sorting through the broken pieces of the typewriter, frantically searching for something.
I caught a bright glint of light hitting some object just as Holmes snatched it up, shouting gleefully. His excitement lasted all of one second before he was cursing loudly, the object hitting the floor with a sharp ping!
Holmes was clutching his arm to his chest, his fingertips covered in angry red burns.
Suruthi’s sudden gasp was impossibly loud in the room as she pointed a shaking finger toward Holmes. “Oh my God. Oh my God. It’s the—that coin!”
“What?” Percy and I exclaimed.
Percy moved first, bending down beside Holmes to pick up the object he’d dropped almost like a literal hot potato. His quick yelp of surprise was enough confirmation that Suruthi had been correct.
“You’re right, Suruthi,” Percy said, sounding awed. “It’s the coin.”
“How can you be certain?” Watson cut in sharply.
“Because.”
A shout of warning was on the tip of my tongue as Percy reached for the coin, but nothing happened—no cursing or burned fingertips this time.
“Look at the little design there,” Percy said, the coin resting in the center of his palm as he held his hand out to Watson. “The symbol made up of the three rings? You can see the same one there in the photograph of Adelaide Shaw that I found.”
I couldn’t be sure how long the room was silent as we all stood staring at the coin still resting in Percy’s palm. There didn’t seem to be anything extraordinary about the thing. It was a little larger than a coin you might find in a bank, the edges a bit jagged, but it was overall plain. There had to be something magical about it though if Adelaide Shaw had used it as a conduit during a séance.
“They’re in this, aren’t they?” Percy said suddenly.
“What is?” Watson said distractedly. He hadn’t once looked away from the coin.
“The pieces of your soul,” Percy explained. “And Holmes’s. Somehow they got trapped in this during whatever happened, and somehow the coin got lodged in that typewriter, maybe during all of the chaos Holmes was talking about. The chances are astronomical that the typewriter ended up in Jules’s aunt’s antique shop over a century later, but there you are.” Percy glanced over at Holmes, smiling uncertainly. “I think you were right, Holmes. You must’ve been subconsciously drawn to the shop because that’s where bits of your soul were.”
“No, don’t!” Watson lunged forward, grabbing Holmes’s forearm, before he could take the coin from Percy. “You can’t, it’ll burn—”
“Let go, John.” Holmes’s voice was dangerously calm. His face was blank as he stared at Watson, and that was somehow even scarier. “Now.”
Watson released his grip, but he definitely wasn’t happy about it. Holmes slipped a silk handkerchief from his pocket and carefully took the coin from Percy. The barrier must’ve only partially worked; Holmes still winced as he wrapped the coin in the handkerchief, then returned it to his pocket.
It had become so quiet I could hear my pulse pounding in my ears and I was feeling as if I was about to take a tumble off the edge of a high building, my stomach was churning that much.
Suruthi broke the silence, voicing exactly what we all must have been thinking. “What now then?”
Holmes’s answer was immediate. “We destroy the cursed thing.”
Watson went slack-jawed, his eyebrows shooting up. His voice came out a croak as he repeated Holmes’s words. “Destroy it?”
“Obviously,” Holmes snapped, turning a glare on Watson. “What else?”
“But won’t you—you know, die if you do that?” Percy said apprehensively.
“One can only hope,” Holmes said, and the longing in his voice was unmistakable.
Holmes hadn’t made it a secret that he was tired of the way he had been existing with Watson, and I couldn’t really blame him. It had been a period of wakefulness for over a century for the man. I didn’t want to imagine how exhausting that must’ve been, to see everything Holmes had and without a way to escape from the horrors of the world. Even if it solved nothing, an hour or two of good sleep always offered a clean slate for you to start over.
“Sherlock. We must consider every course of action as to how we proceed.” Watson was speaking like he were addressing a small child, one hand extended toward him. “We cannot simply destroy—”
Holmes’s thunderous expression was enough to silence Watson. “We can and we will.”
Watson swallowed hard. Why did it look like he was getting nervous?
“Sherlock,” he repeated, now imploring. “Please see reason, my friend. Everything I have read in that grimoire suggests that we might . . . we may meet a most . . . unfavorable end should that silver piece be destroyed, and not in the way you are hoping. We must—”
The only one who must have seen it coming was Watson, but even then, he wasn’t fast enough to dodge Holmes’s fist suddenly hurtling toward his face. There was a sickening crunch as Holmes’s fist met Watson’s nose, and then Holmes was slamming Watson up against the wall, forearm pressed into his neck.
I moved without thinking, grabbing the back of Percy’s shirt to keep him from interfering.
“Your hesitation concerns me, John,” Holmes said, that dangerous calm reappearing. “As I see it, there is no other course of action but to destroy that piece of silver. A simple solution of concentrated sulfuric acid should dissolve it in due time, and we should have whatever remnants of our souls returned to our being, at least that is what I suspect will occur. Then all that remains is to wait for the last century to catch up with us.”
As if having anticipated Watson’s reaction, Holmes caught Watson’s fist rushing toward him open-handed. A full-out brawl unfolded from there.
Holmes clearly had the advantage, but Watson was holding his own, managing to get a few good punches in before Holmes knocked his feet out from underneath him, sending Watson crashing to the floor.
“For crying out loud!” Suruthi exclaimed, throwing up her hands.
She dodged my attempt to hold her back too and snatched the closest thing she could reach, what looked like an old cigar box, off the dresser. She threw it in the direction of Holmes and Watson.
The box collided with the side of Holmes’s head, stunning him long enough for Percy to rush forward and drag him quite literally off Watson.
“That’s enough, Holmes! Watson!” Suruthi was hands on hips as she glared at the two men. “Quit fighting like a couple of schoolboys and let’s have a reasonable discussion about this, like the adults you’re supposed to be!”
Holmes sounded only marginally breathless as he straightened up, fixing his shirtsleeves. “There is no discussion to be had. We will destroy that coin, and we—”
“No, I think we actually do need to have a conversation,” I said, taking a step toward Watson. “Professor, is that Ashley’s bumblebee pin that just fell out of your pocket?”
There was nothing but a tense silence in the wake of my question. No one spoke, and no one budged an inch; everyone’s attention fixed on the bronze bumblebee pin that lay on the floor a short distance from Watson.
“I’m sorry,” Suruthi finally said, her tone overly polite. “But I could’ve sworn you just asked the professor if Ashley’s pin just fell out of his pocket.”
“That’s because I did.” I pointed to the pin in question on the floor beside Watson where he sat, breathing harshly. It looked like Holmes may have gotten enough good hits in to break Watson’s nose, but there wasn’t a single drop of blood anywhere. Watson had yet to answer, and I was suddenly dreading it.
“Sir?” Percy spoke carefully. “There has to be a good explanation for this. Right?”
Watson remained silent.
“John,” Holmes said sharply. “What the devil did you do?”
Chapter 29
Veritas Nunquam Perit
Watson used the desk to hoist himself up to his feet after scooping up the bumblebee pin, then offered it to me with an outstretched hand.
I didn’t need to take a closer look. It was without a doubt Ashley’s pin. How many other bumblebee pins had I seen recently?
“Can I see it, Jules?” Suruthi asked quietly.
I passed the pin over without a word.
“Ashley must’ve dropped this in your classroom, and you just picked it up, right? You were going to give it back to her,” Suruthi said earnestly to Watson. “Right?”
We waited with bated breath for Watson to answer. When he finally did, what I heard made my heart skip a painful beat.
“I wish I could say that you were again correct, Miss Kaur.”
I closed my eyes as I pressed a fist against my chest, trying to massage away the pain I felt blossoming there.
“Dare I ask why?” Holmes said, working to keep his voice level.
“You could,” Watson said slowly. “But you would not like the answer.”
“Well, as long as we’re on a roll here, you might as well tell the truth, Watson!”
I hadn’t meant to shout, but I thought it got my point across well enough.
There was a tic in Watson’s cheek as his jaw locked, hands curling into fists at his side. He didn’t seem able to meet the eyes of anyone in the room.
Holmes, apparently tired of waiting for a response, gripped Watson by the shoulder and forced him down into the chair at the desk. “I should be happy to assist in case you are having difficulty remembering, Watson. Your students and I discovered tonight that the missing girl and Miss Adelaide Shaw may very well be one and the same. What do you have to say on the matter?”
Watson seemed to deflate as he sagged against the desk, head falling into one hand. His shuddering inhale sounded like the last breath of a dying man.
“My students, though remarkably intelligent, would be incorrect.”
Any last shred of hope I’d been holding on to shattered in that moment.
I rubbed at my eyes with the heels of my hands, inhaling sharply. There was no way this was happening. There was no way this could be happening. So what if it was some massive coincidence that Ashley looked exactly the same as Adelaide Shaw, and maybe I’d been mistaken, and Ashley’s bumblebee pin hadn’t been on the strap of her bag. Maybe it had fallen off in Room 217 at some point and Watson had found it and meant to give it back.
“I . . . I must confess I . . .” Watson’s voice was a low rasp and I had to move closer just to hear what he said next. “I am not sure what I first thought upon seeing Ashley James enter my classroom, but the similarities between the two young ladies were . . . almost frightening indeed. So much so that I found myself . . .”
“Obsessing over the matter?” Holmes supplied. His response was practically dripping with sarcasm, but Watson seemed oblivious to it.
“That would not be inaccurate,” he said after a moment of debate. “At first I tried to convince myself that I was overthinking things. Ashley James, at least in her mannerisms, was the exact opposite of Miss Shaw, and no burns seemed apparent on either of her arms. Ashley also presented herself as extremely confident and rather loud, whereas Miss Shaw had been mild-mannered and soft-spoken.”
Out of the corner of my eye I saw Suruthi wince and Percy look as if he’d just had a bucket of ice water dumped on him, and I figured we now all had to be on the same page about this: Ashley and the medium were not the same person.
So where was she now? I had a sinking suspicion that by the end of this conversation we were going to know, and none of us were going to like the answer.
“That must’ve been it then,” I said. “You realized Ashley and Adelaide Shaw weren’t the same person and you just let it go.”
The answer was evident on Watson’s face before he’d even spoken. “No. No, I did not just let it go, Miss Montgomery. I couldn’t. I agonized over my decision for several days, but ultimately knew it would be the safest choice.”
“To do what, exactly?” Percy asked hesitantly.
“To observe,” Watson said simply.
“Observe what?” Holmes demanded.
“Everything.” Watson passed a hand through his hair, exhaling slowly. “I began to take notes on Ashley James to refer to and compare to what I had written of Miss Shaw in the past. Perhaps she had simply had some sort of cosmetic surgery to rid herself of the burn or yet again dabbled in some kind of magic to find a cure. But it . . . later, when I would revisit my journals, nothing made sense. I couldn’t—I could not understand what I’d written, whether I was describing Ashley James or Miss Shaw, and it very quickly became infuriating. Yes, I would see Ashley regularly in my classroom, but I had no photograph of Miss Shaw. What then could I refer to after my classroom had emptied for the day and I was left alone to wonder by myself?”
