A Game Most Foul, page 28
This had been a daily occurrence since what I was referring to as the night—when we inadvertently stumbled across the truth of what had happened to our missing classmate as well as the old case Holmes had been attempting to solve for a century.
Watson’s abrupt resignation from Ashford College and the remaining weeks of the writing seminar being cancelled had come as quite the disturbing shock to Thierry, who had promptly returned home to France without saying goodbye.
I’d thought my own fate would be something similar, but thanks to another private phone call between Adele and my mother, I was given permission to see out the rest of my time in London and catch my return flight home as scheduled—which now, sadly, was tomorrow.
So when I wasn’t lending a hand in Dreams of Antiquity or playing the role of maid in Holmes and Watson’s flat, I was with Suruthi and Percy, doing just about every touristy thing under the sun I could think of.
“We could always go ride the Underground for the evening,” Suruthi said, pausing where she was clearing out an old trunk Holmes had dragged out of his room. Fortunately, this one wasn’t full of spiders. “That way you can have another laugh every time the automated voice says, ‘Now arriving at Cockfosters Station.’”
“That could get expensive,” Percy said at the same time I pointed a threatening finger at Suruthi and said, “Hey, I’ve gotten pretty good about not doing that anymore.”
“Well, I’d be happy to stay in tonight if you two would rather go on a date,” Suruthi continued, her tone morphing into something a little suggestive. “You could enjoy a nice dinner, perhaps, or maybe find a new place to snog.”
“If you’re referring to this morning when Percy and I were alone, that’s your own fault,” I told Suruthi while Percy rolled his eyes.
“Yes, but I was concerned!” Suruthi said with false sincerity. “You’d been gone for a while, you see, and I just wanted to make sure you were being safe, so I—”
“Okay, okay, I think that’s enough,” Percy said loudly. “But it’s not a bad idea,” he added quietly, just for me.
It was very hard to keep from giggling at that, which had Percy grinning and Suruthi scoffing.
“I take full credit for whatever adorably nerdy relationship this is, by the way,” she said, motioning at the two of us. “You two dancing awkwardly around each other this whole time, I swear. You’d better invite me to your wedding.”
“Yeah, we’ll get right on that,” I said teasingly.
Obviously something like marriage wasn’t even on the table, but seeing where this went with Percy—whatever long-distance thing we managed to come up with—was something I was very much looking forward to.
“I’m only agreeing with you, Jules,” Suruthi said, trying and failing to smother a laugh.
“Well,” Percy said forcefully, changing the subject. “We’re just about done, believe it or not. This was the last of the rubbish from Holmes’s room we had to go through, and he and Watson should be back from their solicitor’s any minute now.”
Unlike the first night I’d seen it, shrouded in darkness and coated in dust, the sitting room seemed more inviting with the sunlight washing through the open curtains. And now that some of the older pieces of furniture had been tossed out, there wasn’t quite the same claustrophobic air either.
“Remind me again what they were supposed to be doing,” I said, taking a seat on the sofa beside Percy.
Suruthi joined us last, throwing herself down on the sofa, her head landing in my lap. “Something about settling their affairs, I think. Can’t imagine how many affairs they must have for as long as they’ve been . . . living.”
“You know, I asked Holmes the same question,” Percy said. “The best I could make of his very confusing answer was that they’ve been pretending to inherit their own fortunes. And he did say Watson had a penchant for living frugally.”
“Come again?” Suruthi and I said together.
“Well, it’s not that difficult to forge documents,” Percy explained. “Give it a few decades, tack on a junior to your name, and there you have it: you’ve essentially just inherited wealth from a close relative as far as anyone else is concerned.”
“That’s actually pretty smart,” Suruthi said after a moment of thought.
“What are they going to do with all that money?” I asked, and I almost regretted it the next second.
We had been dancing around this subject for the last few weeks, after that initial discussion.
Holmes had not once wavered from his decision to destroy the silver coin that had been responsible for drawing out his existence for so long. When Watson eventually regained consciousness, he’d had no say in the matter.
Watson had no say either when Suruthi, Percy, and I had informed him that he was going to write a letter to Ashley’s grandmother explaining exactly what had happened to her and what his hand had been in her death. The bumblebee pin, although far from a replacement for her granddaughter, would be returned to Edith as well.
None of this had been easy to digest, but that part had been the most difficult—the realization that Ashley really was gone.
Percy grimaced, rubbing his hands on his pant legs as if he were nervous about answering. “I—I told Holmes that the money should go to Edith. I don’t know if he’ll actually do it, but . . .”
“That’s an excellent idea, Perce,” Suruthi said quietly.
Percy shrugged, leaving it at that.
“She’s right,” I agreed. “It won’t make up for any of what happened, but maybe it’ll help ease some of her financial burdens.”
We lapsed into silence after that.
Strangely, all of this didn’t feel like closure, even though that was pretty much what we were helping Holmes and Watson with now. Once they’d taken care of their finances and we finished sorting and cleaning their flat, all that would remain would be for them to . . .
“Okay, I’m just going to say it,” Suruthi said abruptly, sitting upright, spinning around to face us on the sofa. “I don’t know how I feel about the fact that we’re . . . helping Holmes and Watson prepare for death. Or at least that’s Holmes’s theory, but still. It’s . . . sad.”
Sad probably didn’t even begin to cover everything that this was.
“That’s because it is sad,” Percy said. “On the one hand, we have a completely innocent girl who died, even if it was by accident, and on the other hand, we have two men who’ve spent more than one hundred years wandering around without their souls, not fully knowing what happened to them. I know you can’t compare the two issues and some of this had to have been preventable, but they’re both just . . . awful.”
I rested my head on Percy’s shoulder, taking in a deep breath. He kept quiet but still laced his fingers through mine, squeezing gently. I’d done enough crying the last few weeks. I didn’t think I was capable of producing any more tears, but that didn’t stop the fresh wave of grief from breaking over me.
“Well,” Suruthi mumbled, swiping at her cheeks. “I guess there is one good thing that came about after all this.”
Percy and I both sat upright, immediately on edge. What could’ve possibly occurred that was good about all this?
“What do you mean?” I asked suspiciously.
Suruthi managed a grin. “Holmes also made Watson turn Joel over to the police.”
“What? When?” Percy demanded.
Suruthi shrugged a shoulder. “Not sure. Actually, I probably wasn’t supposed to hear any of this, but I overheard their conversation just yesterday. Watson apparently phoned in an anonymous tip to the police about Joel that had something to do with embezzlement and illegally selling artifacts from the Bodleian. Needless to say, he’s been placed on administrative leave pending a formal investigation.”
“Oh.”
I wasn’t going to call that facing justice for his part in the aftermath of Ashley’s death, but Joel would most likely be going to prison for a very long time after this.
And instead of prison for Watson . . . well, he was going to end up facing what I was willing to bet may have been his two biggest fears: losing Holmes and death.
“In the interest of full disclosure then,” Percy said, shifting uncomfortably on the sofa. “I suppose now is a good time to tell you both that Watson gave me his journals.”
“What, all of them?” Suruthi asked, her eyebrows shooting up in surprise.
The dozen or so diaries we’d first found hidden beneath the floorboards of Watson’s bedroom like some tell-tale heart business was plenty, but there’d been at least a hundred journals we had managed to locate tucked away in various nooks and crannies around the flat since then. We’d already spent a good chunk of time on our hands and knees pulling up more floorboards, rummaging through cupboards or in closets, under various pieces of furniture, on the hunt for any small leather-bound journals.
“All of them,” Percy confirmed with a nod.
“Wow,” I said, blowing out a huff of air. “What are you going to do with them?”
Percy frowned. “To be honest, I haven’t gotten that far.”
“Do you even want to read them?”
“I’m . . . not so sure that I do,” Percy admitted after a beat of silence. “Maybe. A part of me feels like I have to keep them even if I don’t read them. And then there’s another part of me that wants to chuck all those journals in a bin and set that bin on fire.”
“Sounds perfectly reasonable to me,” Suruthi said.
“Why do you feel like you have to keep them?” I asked Percy as gently as I could. “Because Watson said he wants you to have them?”
“No, it’s not that,” Percy said quickly. “At least, not completely. It’s just . . .” He took in a sharp breath, then exhaled slowly. “Look at what we’re helping them do, getting rid of all their things. If I don’t take the journals, what’s going to be left of them? If Holmes’s theory is right and he destroys the coin like he wants to, that’s it. They’ll be gone and it’ll be like they never existed in the first place. Well, not entirely. I know they’ve got all the Sherlock Holmes stories and novels, but everything that came afterward—everything that we experienced. Just . . . gone.”
I had to swallow hard against the sudden lump stuck in my throat, making breathing difficult. I hadn’t even considered looking at it from that angle. Suruthi looked just as lost as I felt.
Holmes and Watson were going to die—or at least Holmes was very determined to make it happen, ready for it as he claimed he was. Even if destroying the coin didn’t work the way Holmes thought it might, I wouldn’t put it past him to keep trying now that we had unpacked the events of that night where this first started.
It certainly felt like an end, but maybe not the end.
“I don’t think that’s necessarily true,” I finally said. “They may not be around physically anymore, or all of their things might get thrown away, but we know the truth.” I tapped a finger to my forehead. “I think we all know we won’t be forgetting any of this any time soon.”
“What are you saying, Jules?” Suruthi asked slyly, giving me a nudge. “Might this be the subject of your first novel?”
“Might be,” I said, laughing. “What was that you said, Percy? Write about my experiences?”
“Something like that,” Percy said, grinning crookedly.
My hand went up instinctively to start fiddling with my left hearing aid—a habit I hadn’t entirely rid myself of yet. “Well, one could say we’ve had a lot of experiences this summer.”
Most of them had been gut-wrenching and sad and full of heartbreak, but not all.
I let Suruthi’s statement float around my brain as we got back to cleaning the rest of the sitting room. When I heard Holmes’s heavy footfalls on the stairs outside the flat, followed by Watson’s much quieter ones, I was halfway convinced that maybe I would write about everything that had happened this summer.
After that night when the truth had come out, I’d pulled out my journal and started writing the old-fashioned way because I didn’t know what else to do with the burning ache I felt radiating through my fingertips. Unbelievably, it worked, and my pen hadn’t stopped moving. The one time I went back to read through the pages I’d written, I noticed the paragraphs were reading more like one of Watson’s own journal entries.
Journaling had never been my strong suit, but this was a place to start. And maybe this would be something I’d actually finish. I wasn’t going to count on this story—Holmes and Watson and every other strange or unnatural tale we’d managed to dig up—to be something, say, publishable, but then I wasn’t sure that something like this should be published.
Even if Suruthi, Percy, and I were the only ones who ever read it, it would still be words on paper. It would still be a story that would not be forgotten.
Epilogue
Well, it’s about time you showed up!”
One of the Met’s newest hires did his best to hold back a sigh of exasperation at the greeting. Of course it would be his luck that he’d pull this type of call right before clocking out for the night. He wanted to go home and relax in front of the telly with a drink before going to bed—not get yelled at by some angry pub owner.
But the young man knew complaining would get him nowhere; he was still a new recruit after all. Paying his dues was required.
“Apologies, sir,” he said to the older man filling the doorway of The Bronze Archer pub. There was an angry flush to the older man’s face as he wiped sweat from his forehead with a handkerchief. “What seems to be the problem?”
“The problem is that stench! It’s driving away my business!”
“Stench, sir?”
Almost as soon as the words left the young man’s mouth, he understood exactly what the pub owner was referring to. The smell of rotten eggs was quickly filling his nostrils, making the officer feel nauseated.
“Ah, never mind,” he said as politely as he could manage. “I . . . see what you mean.” This was what he’d been called here for? He couldn’t believe it. “Did you, er . . . forget to empty the bins, perhaps?”
The pub owner’s face scrunched up in annoyance. “Are you daft? Of course I emptied the bloody bins.”
“Of course, sir,” the officer replied. He pulled out the small notebook he kept in the pocket of his trousers and began to jot down what the pub owner was saying—or rather pretended to. Now was as good a time as any to start his shopping list. “So, how can I—”
“You can help by looking in that flat upstairs,” the pub owner interrupted, jabbing a finger up at the ceiling. “That’s where the stench is coming from, I’m sure of it.”
The younger man paused in his writing. “The flat upstairs is occupied?”
The pub owner gave a short nod, his jaw set. “For a long time now, I suppose, by two blokes.” He frowned as he debated his next sentence. “Odd ones, they are. Keep to themselves mostly.”
The new recruit couldn’t deny that his curiosity was now piqued. “Odd how?”
“Dunno, do I? Seeing as they keep to themselves,” the pub owner said with an impatient growl. “But I haven’t seen them in a while. Then that smell started up day before yesterday and it’s only gotten stronger.”
“I see,” the young man said, slipping the notebook back into his pocket. “I’ll look into this, if you’d be so kind as to direct me to the stairs.”
The pub owner motioned for the officer to follow him, and together they exited the pub and walked around the corner from the main entrance. The owner pulled a set of keys from his apron pocket and fiddled around with a few before he selected the right one to unlock the door directly beside the alleyway.
There could be several reasons for bad smells, the young man thought as the pub owner stepped aside to let him pass through. Needn’t jump straight to the dead body assumption.
It could just as easily be that the two men upstairs forget to empty their rubbish bins.
“There,” the owner said, pointing to the door at the top of the narrow staircase. “That’ll be them.”
“Thank you, sir.”
The stench of rotten eggs grew stronger as he approached the door, struggling not to gag. Perhaps these two men had several rubbish bins they needed to attend to.
The young man raised his hand to knock politely on the door, forcing himself not to pinch his nostrils shut. “Hello there! Is anyone home? I’m from the police and I’d like to speak with you about your bins.”
He heard the pub owner give a scoff behind him and ignored it. When no response came from behind the door, he knocked again, more insistently this time.
Perhaps it was from the force of the knock or that it hadn’t been fully closed, but the door gave way with a quiet groan, revealing a dimly lit entryway beyond.
This time the young man did slap a hand over his mouth and nose as he was hit full force with the unnaturally foul odor.
The pub owner cursed, his voice muffled as he called out from below, “Told you it was coming from this flat! I’m not going in there!”
The young officer didn’t want to either. A feeling of unease settled deep in the pit of his stomach. He knew now that there was something else going on inside the flat that was far beyond a few nasty rubbish bins. A gas leak was another possibility, but still . . . nothing about this seemed right.
He tried to scrounge up whatever nerve he had left and all but shouted, “Hello?”
When the young man was met with nothing but eerie silence, he took a moment to gather his wits. This is all a part of the job, he reminded himself.
He crept forward into the flat, wincing when he heard the wooden floor creak ominously beneath his feet.
“Hello?” he called again. “Anyone here?”
His heart skipped through a few uneven beats as the silence stretched on, his pulse jumping as he took another step. He made it as far as the sitting room just around the corner and was met with the unexpected sight of what looked like a science experiment gone wrong.
