Henry blew out a breath. “The way that Delilah and I accessed Victoria’s secret passageways was by pulling a book from her bookshelf. It unlocked the door and sprang it open. The Hound of the Baskervilles is Bernard’s favorite. He…” Henry cleared his throat. “He would always talk about Victoria whenever he was handling that book. We had a rare first edition at the McMaster’s Library he was unbearably proud of.”
I turned from my prone position and stared at Sloane. Her eyes dazzled with pure excitement. “Any guess why there are thirteen of them?”
“Thirteen members of The Empty House,” Henry said. “Bernard loves his symbols.”
Sloane dropped next to me, cupped my face with her palm. “Together.”
I struggled to swallow past this rising emotion—that even if searching for Bernard turned up fruitless, meeting this woman, trusting this woman, falling for this woman was actually bigger, bolder and much more beautiful.
“Together,” I repeated.
I pulled the first book. Nothing.
“It’s only because I’m nervous,” Henry said. “But I feel compelled to share with everyone the relevance of the name of this bookstore.”
“Irene Adler, the woman, right?” I said to Henry.
Sloane pulled the second and third book. The fourth book. The fifth book.
Nothing. Her lips pressed into a grim line.
I pulled the sixth book and the seventh.
“Exactly,” Henry said. “And she only ever appeared to Sherlock Holmes in disguise. Hiding in plain sight. He never saw her as she truly was.”
Hiding in plain sight. I looked over at Sloane.
The eleventh book. The twelfth book.
Nothing.
Delilah squeezed Henry’s hand.
Sloane hooked her finger into the thirteenth copy of The Hound of the Baskervilles and pulled it. Waited—every single one of us holding our breath.
The entire bookshelf creaked open.
“Oh my god,” Sloane whispered.
An intense calm settled through my body in that vital moment, a total clearing of my nerves and my racing thoughts. I remembered ten years ago, a file landing on my desk with the research I’d requested on a famous librarian in England that didn’t seem quite right. Four years ago, starting Codex and wondering if I’d ever have the chance to go after him for real. One year ago, sitting in front of a guilt-stricken Henry as he nervously shared his remarkable story.
And one week ago, meeting Sloane at the lecture, both of us leaning forward in our seats at the name Bernard Allerton.
I grabbed Sloane’s hand and stood slowly. Peter and the guards were making loud, wild sounds behind their tape. Behind the secret door was a narrow, shadowy hallway.
I held out my palm to Henry and Delilah, who were primed for immediate action. I mouthed wait.
Sloane and I slipped between the gap and into the hallway. It was wall-papered, and on the wall hung old black-and-white photos I couldn’t make out. We reached a warm light, an open door, a large living room.
There was a fireplace. An expensive-looking sofa. Built-in shelves filled with novels. An open bottle of expensive whiskey.
And sitting in a high-backed chair, book open on his knee, was Bernard.
I blinked, sure it was a mirage. But Bernard remained in focus, staring at Sloane and me like we were minor annoyances.
He was that fucking confident.
Sloane and I stood, silent and shocked.
“Well, don’t just stand there,” he said, in his dignified British accent. “Sit, sit. I can’t have the great Abraham Royal in my home away from home and not offer him the finest whiskey on the market.”
If Henry and Delilah had called the police, we’d need only a few minutes to keep him in place. So Sloane and I sat down for whiskey. With a famous con man.
“And you are, my dear?” he asked. His back was ramrod straight, no cane.
“Sloane Argento,” she said. “Private detective.”
“Two private detectives in my midst?” Bernard smiled. “How charming. I’ve got a soft spot for detectives, given my devotion to Holmes. Although my guess is you specialize in cheating spouses? Naughty college students?”
“Book theft, actually,” Sloane said coolly. Bernard’s nostrils flared, but he remained calm.
“I’m sure you’ve already heard that Julian King and Birdie Barnes successfully won their bid tonight at the Kensley auction,” I said.
He cocked his head. “I’m afraid I’m clueless as to what you’re talking about, Mr. Royal.”
I crossed my ankles. “I don’t think you’ve ever been clueless a day in your life, Bernard. I think being publicly humiliated over the loss of Doyle’s private papers was hook enough to cause you to make a greedy mistake.”