in a suit with a polite smile directed right at Eudora. Until he saw me, of course. Surprise flared in his expression, followed by a hunger I knew well. Unnecessary distraction or not, that man had appeared in my dreams all night, turning them hot and edgy and painfully erotic. I’d tried all morning to forget those teasing sensations, yet here he was, provoking them again.
“Mr. Fitzpatrick, how nice to see you,” Eudora said, blushing a little when he shook her hand. “Do you know Ms. Atwood?”
“We also met last night,” I said. “Although I actually didn’t catch your name?”
The man on vacation swallowed hard. “Daniel Fitzpatrick.”
My mouth curved into a genuine smile. Now what was this private detective doing, meeting with Eudora, using a fake name?
“A pleasure,” I said.
He nodded, followed Eudora back into the Victorian-era rooms. And I sank down onto the closest couch to await his return. Last night, after moving into The Langham, I’d done the deepest dive on information about Codex, Abe, and his team. I now knew he was an accomplished, well-respected, former special agent with the FBI. I knew his team was responsible for two extremely high-profile cases in the past few months—including infiltrating an underground antiquities market that resulted in dozens of arrests.
And I knew he’d hired Henry Finch, ten-year assistant to the man I was desperately searching for. The more Abe lied, the more I believed he was here for one reason only.
Bernard.
7
Abe
Bernard Allerton stared back at me from a black-and-white picture dated fifteen years ago. He didn’t have his cane yet, but his posture was meek and timid. Next to him stood Eudora and a man I didn’t recognize. The caption read: Sherlock Society president Bernard Allerton and vice president Eudora Green stand with former president Nicholas Markham outside Adler’s Bookshop.
The picture hung on a wall surrounded by others—tourists at the museum, ribbon-cuttings, re-enactments, costume parties, galas, lectures. It easily spanned fifty years of history through the Sherlock Holmes Museum and other Sherlock-inspired happenings.
Bernard was in many of them.
I’d woken this morning with an overwhelming drive to follow-through on my promise yesterday to visit with Eudora Green at 221B Baker Street. After a night of tossing and turning, tortured by dreams, I knew I’d only rest if I’d tied up these remaining mental threads. It wasn’t that I thought Bernard would be sitting at this museum, waiting for capture. But the combination of the auction, the sighting reports, and Eudora’s relationship with the man was a compelling enough reason to come here.
And it was only one meeting. One more final piece of a puzzle I’d have to, eventually, let go of solving. After this, I had plans late in the afternoon to visit Parliament and tour the National Gallery followed by a nice dinner out with an even nicer glass of whiskey. Culture, history, whiskey. Vacation things for a man on vacation.
As if sensing my guilt from 2,000 miles away, my phone chirped with a text message from Freya. I glanced at the pictures of Bernard, winced. Glanced back down to her text:
Just a friendly reminder from your team to enjoy the fuck out of your vacation! Sam and I constructed a life-sized cardboard cut-out of you, which we have sitting behind your desk. Every so often we make it say something stern and uncompromising, and we all pretend to be scared.
I chuckled softly, scrubbing a hand down my face. Your respect for authority is truly an inspiration, I typed back.
Sounds like you miss us, she wrote.
I didn’t reply, casting my eyes toward the door where Eudora would be appearing soon for our appointment. I pictured calling Codex, telling them what few clues I’d spotted since arriving here, imagined their excitement, their thirst for justice that mirrored my own. Deep down, buried beneath the guilt, was the obsessive element I hated to acknowledge. The selfish part made me feel like a bastard—if anyone was going to find Bernard, it was going to be me.
And me alone.
Last night I’d given Eudora a name I hadn’t used since I was an FBI recruit—Daniel Fitzpatrick. At Quantico we’d had rigorous undercover drills, and if I wasn’t assigned a name, I chose Daniel whenever I needed something fast.
Today’s issue was that I wasn’t working a case. I had no clients, no support, no funding. So I’d flown all the way here and given Eudora Green an undercover name because I was Ahab sensing the presence of the white fucking whale.