A Question of Holmes (Charlotte Holmes #4)(56)

As we waited for the dessert cart, I saw that Watson’s eyes had fallen half-shut, whether from the wine or the food or the long day, I couldn’t tell, and he settled back in his chair to look out over the grounds. Couples were playing lawn games, sipping cocktails. Tail flagged high, a spaniel ran loose through the croquet wickets, and a girl gave chase, laughing, a leash in her hands.

The shadows began to lengthen across our table. Araminta talked about her bees, the new young queen. As the evening cooled, Watson took my hand between our chairs and let them slowly swing back and forth, a pendulum, and I was happy.

I was happy.

But it had been some time since we’d seen our waiter, and Araminta was toying with her wineglass. “Lottie,” she said at length. “Would you pop into the bar and order me a decaf coffee? Here, take my card. Jamie, would you like anything?”

“No,” he said with a yawn. “I’m fading out. But thank you so much for dinner, Araminta. Aunt Araminta . . . ?”

She grinned. “Cheeky monkey. You can call me aunt.”

“Aunt. You didn’t have to do all this. I think it’s wasted on me.”

“Experience is never wasted,” Araminta said. “And you’re welcome.”

It took me a few moments to pick my way through the tables to the door back into the hotel, and as I reached out for the handle, I found myself turning back to our table. I didn’t know why. Watson was telling a story with his hands.

Araminta was staring at me.

Go on, she mouthed.

Ignoring the disquieting prickle at the back of my neck, I let myself inside the hotel. There were a number of dining rooms I passed through, some with stained-glass windows, some with paneled ceilings, pink-veined marble floors. It was like something from an old movie, or one of Watson’s favorite novels. Brideshead Revisited, everyone in evening wear, in pincurls and ten-thousand-dollar watches, everyone polished bright with white, white teeth. They were lovely, and they were threatening, and though I’d thought our dinner to be extravagant, there was clearly more extravagance to be had. I found myself holding my breath as I stepped through the final set of doors into the lobby.

At last. The bar. It was more crowded than I’d expected, perhaps because of the late hour, and it took me a moment to get my bearings. The bar was a looming thing, dramatically lit, and the bartender was rushing about in a crisp white shirt, a cloth tied into his apron strings. He had a polished cocktail shaker in his hands, and the girls sitting before him propped their chins on their fists and watched him work, giggling to each other.

I took a step forward, my aunt’s card in my hand, and then I stopped.

I knew those hands.

I knew that waist, those shoulders. I knew the chin, with its proud upward tilt, and the gentle mouth that balanced it. I knew the Roman nose, the cheekbones, the sweep of the eyebrows. I knew that thick blond hair and how it fell over his forehead, and I knew his eyes, too, and before they could look at me I had ducked behind a column, gasping like a fool, telling myself I was wrong.

It wasn’t hard to mistake one Moriarty for another. My brother Milo had done it on our lawn in Sussex when he had shot August Moriarty dead.

I had seen him do it.

Slowly, infinitesimally slowly, I leaned out from behind the column. I had to be sure. I had to know, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that I was right, that I had seen who I thought I’d seen, against all odds, against all logic, behind a bar in this manor house in Oxfordshire.

The shaker. The hands. The dazzling smile. I saw it in pieces, not as a whole, and I wouldn’t stay any longer to look. I turned and ran back blindly through the dining rooms, one after another—tripping over tablecloths, dodging waiters, not caring about the scene I was making.

He hadn’t seen me.

August Moriarty hadn’t seen me at all.





Nineteen


THE MOMENT WE CLIMBED BACK INTO THE FIAT, I arranged my head against the window and shut my eyes, feigning sleep. I didn’t trust myself to speak, to my aunt or to Watson or even to myself, in my own head.

Had one looked closely, the pulse point at my throat would have given me away. My heart was a hummingbird’s.

We rode back in silence to the city. On our street, Araminta pulled up to the curb, and I pretended to rouse myself. “Watson,” I said, “do you mind going up alone? I want to have a word with my aunt.”

He had the decency not to look surprised. “Sure,” he said, climbing out of the car. I followed, to move into the front, and he grabbed my wrist. “Are you okay?” he asked me quietly.

“No,” I said, and shook my hand free, not caring, just then, for anyone else’s feelings. He stepped back, wounded—why was he always so wounded? Was I such a monster, to always be hurting him this way?

I couldn’t bear it.

I climbed back into the car and I slammed the door in his face.

“Lottie,” Araminta said, not looking at me. “Was that necessary? He has nothing to do with this.”

“You are not allowed to tell me what’s necessary.” I pointed to the road. “I suggest you get us out of here, if you’re so concerned about Watson’s feelings.”

We left Jamie there on the street, hands at his sides, staring uselessly after us. I realized, too late, that I hadn’t given him the keys. He’d be left there until we returned.