A Question of Holmes (Charlotte Holmes #4)(37)

A sharp lash of thunder outside, a burst of wind. In the kitchen, Rupert set out trays on the kitchen island, bottles of juice, the rest of the Diet Coke.

“I’m starving,” Anwen said, jumping to her feet, “and I can’t talk about this anymore, not now. I’ve been with the police for hours.”

Theo followed suit, rum in hand, and the three of them together made short work of the rest of the breakfast I’d made for the week. I watched them gathered around the kitchen island, their heads bent, the three of them silent as they ate. Apparently, their animal brains had won out.

I looked up at Watson. He looked down at me. “It’s a party,” he said in an undertone, and kissed my forehead.

“It’s a party,” I said grimly. “Why are they here?”

“I know one way to find out.” He looked up, his mouth in a tight smile. “Who wants to do shots?” he called. “Theo, you’re hogging that rum.”

Theo flipped him off, mouth full of toast, but Rupert, ever obliging, was pulling glasses from the bar cart as though he’d lived in my flat for months. Anwen had already drifted over to sit at the table with her makeshift cocktail, stealing little sips of it. She traced a pattern on the floor with one sock foot.

The night went on like that, in fits and starts. Watson poured a round of shots, mine into the glass I kept in my fist so that no one could see that he’d given me only a splash. I understood the plan he’d come up with: it was simple, really. In vino veritas. If we could get them drunk, we could maybe get them to talk, and if we had to burn Watson on the pyre as well—

Well. At least alcohol was flammable.

There was a second round, and a third, Watson bellowing out the numbers like he was the sort of rugby asshole that we’d always avoided back at school. He fit the part, confidently broad-shouldered, slim-hipped (I had been thinking much more about his body lately, nemo malus felix); he performed his role with vigor, and soon enough they were all soused.

We’d turned on the lamps against the dark, and they cast strange shadows across the room. Rupert’s nose went peakier still, and Anwen’s chin disappeared as she ducked it, studying her hands, picking her cuticles. I was surprised by how cowed she was tonight, how she’d been holding herself apart. The only way they’d have known about my flat would be from her: she’d been here only yesterday. Rupert had made some throwaway apology about barging in on us, and Theo had said hollowly, “Where else could we go? The dorms? A pub?”

“Everyone else was going to The Bell and Book to, you know, grieve—”

Theo slammed his glass down on the table. “People repeating the same horrible patterns. Someone else is going to get hurt.”

“Hey.” Anwen glanced up. “We don’t have to talk about it.”

“I know we don’t, but I want to—”

“You haven’t told me anything about this spring,” she said. “How was Boston? How was your last semester of school?”

“School?” Rupert asked. He glanced between the two of them. “You two haven’t talked about it? I thought you’d been in touch.”

Anwen swallowed. “I mean—”

“Oh, school,” Theo said, fury lurking at the corners of his voice. “School. Yes, let’s not talk about Larkin. Let’s not talk about this summer. Why would we need to? It’s not like last year had anything to do with it—”

“Theo,” Anwen said, hands up, “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to pry—”

“Pry?” Theo laughed. “How is it prying? You and me are friends, Anwen, remember? Remember when my girlfriend broke up with me last summer, because she thought I knew why people were being attacked and wasn’t telling anyone. Who knows where she got that idea. Oh, and then she disappeared.”

At that, Anwen stopped breathing. For a moment, only, but I was watching for it.

“And so after that I went home, where no one knew anything about it, and no one would talk to me about it. Including my parents. So fuck them. I did a lot of this”—Theo lofted his glass full of rum—“and cutting class to go boxing with Gael and like, fuck around downtown, and so I got a bunch of Cs in the fall. But fuck it, Laurence Olivier didn’t have to do AP fucking Physics so why should I, especially when I was going to acting conservatory in the fall?” He looked around the room. “Tell me.”

“I can’t,” Anwen said softly.

“So then my mom talked to the Boston Players Club about giving away my part in Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-Time—”

“Oh God, Theo—”

“—the lead,” he bit out, “which I had auditioned for in the months after I got home from Matilda disappearing, but why does that matter? My parents said I had to focus on my grades, which didn’t matter, because senior spring and the Guthrie conservatory program emphatically did not care. So I understudied instead. Understudying’s the same, right? Totally the same. So yeah, Anwen, my spring was great. Fucking awesome.”

“That’s cold, Theo,” Rupert said, and he sat down next to Anwen on the rug, tucking one thin arm around her shoulders. “She didn’t deserve that.”

Theo stared at them, then viciously bit his lip. “Fine,” he said.

“Do better than that,” Rupert said, with an edge I hadn’t seen before.