The Last of August (Charlotte Holmes #2)(52)

“It is now,” she said quietly.

The ride operator was appropriately toothless, and the boys above us kept throwing popcorn down at our heads, and when our car stopped, it didn’t stop at the top to give us a view of the city—instead, we jerked down to the stop before we disembarked, the perfect place to stare up at everyone else’s feet.

“It only goes for two minutes? For five euros each?” She dug through her brown paper bag. “I wish I had something to throw myself.”

“You’ve never been to a carnival before?”

“I rode the London Eye with my Aunt Araminta. She believed in taking my brother and me on ‘excursions.’” Holmes made a face. “She gave us clothes for Christmas, a size too large, ‘to grow into.’ She’s the sort of person air quotes were invented for.”

“Leander said that the Moriartys killed her cats,” I told her, and then blanched. I hadn’t meant to bring that up. Not just when we were on the other side of this case (But are we on the other side of this case? a voice in my head asked), but when we were getting along so well.

But Holmes just nodded. “Totally did her in. She sells honey, now, from her apiary, and doesn’t talk much to anyone. I haven’t seen her in two or three years.” Our spangled metal car tipped forward, then back. “Are they ever going to let us off this thing?”

“I thought you liked the swinginess.”

“It’s making me nauseous.”

“Just close your eyes and enjoy the L.A.D. It’s ‘Girl I See U Dancin.’”

“You knew the name.”

“Girl I see u dancin / something something ransom—oh, come on. You love it.”

“I love it? I think that’s your job.”

I wrinkled my nose at her. “I know your deepest, darkest secrets, Charlotte Holmes. Don’t you give me that.”

The smile on her face went frozen and forced, all at once, like a gust of cold wind from the north, and as I opened my mouth to ask why, the ride lurched forward again.





eight


WE MADE IT BACK TO HOLMES’S ROOM AROUND MIDNIGHT to find August Moriarty waiting at the door, hat literally in hand.

“Where’s Nathaniel?” she asked him, an edge already in her voice.

“I let him go,” he said.

She started, like she was keeping herself from lunging at him. “You ask for my trust, for all of our trust, and then you go and drag away the man I want to question and you announce yourself and everything you know to Hadrian Moriarty and—”

“We didn’t see Hadrian. My brother’s gone to ground, Holmes,” August said. “I don’t know where he is. Nathaniel doesn’t know where he is. And neither does Milo, though his being on a red-eye flight does limit his resources somewhat.”

“So why did that compel you to let Nathaniel go?” I asked him. “We have a stack of invoices here, for forgeries Nathaniel’s students made that he sold to your older brother. We have a business card for David Langenberg, Leander’s alias that we found in Nathaniel’s apartment. And you let him rabbit? Just like that?”

“Because he doesn’t know where Leander is,” August said, “and this has never been about the Langenberg paintings. I don’t care what you found.”

“You’re sure he doesn’t know.” Holmes took a step toward him. “You’re sure.”

August shook his head, as if trying to clear out noise. “I’m sure.”

“How?” I asked. “How are you being so cavalier about this?”

“I pulled up pictures of Nathaniel’s elderly parents. They’re in a home, north of the city. I had its name within seconds. Its address. I threatened to kill them, tonight, if I even imagined he was lying.” His voice broke. “Do you remember what my last name is? Or do you need an explanation for why he believed me?”

“There’s a link,” I said to Holmes. Anything, anything to defuse this situation. “We have the link. We know your uncle was posing as a Langenberg—”

“We don’t know that,” she said. “We don’t know anything.”

“But—”

“Go to bed, August,” Holmes said, opening her door. She shut it behind us so emphatically it was like she was sealing off a tomb.

“That was loud,” I said.

“There isn’t anything left for us to do tonight. We have to wait until tomorrow.”

“Are you sure?” To my embarrassment, I stifled a yawn.

To my surprise, she turned to look at me. Really look at me, like she was straining to see some faraway sign.

“Watson, you look like hell. Haven’t you been sleeping?”

“Not since October.” I leaned against the wall. It felt good to put my weight against a solid surface. “Is this you saying you’re worried about me, or are you really feeling the hard truths thing tonight?”

Holmes started to snap back a reply, then stopped herself. Very deliberately, she reached up to put her fingers against my face. “I’m worried about you,” she admitted. It didn’t sound practiced, that admission, as it did when August was trying to be nice. Really, I didn’t think either he or Charlotte Holmes were nice, at their core. At their best, they were kind. It was that kindness that prompted Holmes to lead me over to the ladder to her lofted bed. “It’s more comfortable than the cot. But you know that, you’ve been sleeping there.”