A Study in Charlotte (Charlotte Holmes, #1)(23)

“I didn’t learn anything. Anything at all. I must’ve spoken to at least fifteen first-year male students—statistically, murderers are more often men, and anyway Hailey is useless with girls, they generally want to drown her in the nearest river—and none of them showed the slightest sign of being responsible.” She said it all in a rush, like she wanted to expel it from her system. “And I’m starving. I’m never starving. I ate yesterday.”

“You had to have learned something,” I said, choosing to ignore that last part. In my short experience with her, Holmes had treated her body like an inconvenience, at best, and at the worst of times like an appendage she was actively trying to destroy.

“No,” she said petulantly. “It was an utter waste of my time, and I used the last of my Forever Ever Cotton Candy perfume to do it. Which means I have to order more, and they only sell it on the Japanese eBay, and it’s not cheap for something that smells that foul. And God, the humiliation of getting those boxes in the post.” She stuck a hand under her pillow, producing a trio of wallets. “I was mad enough to pick three of their pockets, which should at least cover the cost, if not the emotional damage.”

“Holmes,” I said slowly, taking one from her. The wallet itself was worth more than my mother’s flat, and it was stuffed with cash. “You can’t do that. We have to give these back.”

She cocked an eyebrow at me. “These were the ones who tried to get me drunk so they could have their sordid way with me.”

“Well then.” I pulled out five twenty-dollar bills and tossed them on the bed. “That’s more than enough for your perfume. Do you know what we’re going to do with the rest?”

“Give it all back to appease your sudden fit of conscience?”

“No,” I said. “There’s a car key on Lena’s ring. We’re going out for midnight breakfast. And then giving the rest to, like, charity.”

“I’LL HAVE TOAST,” HOLMES TOLD THE WAITER, HANDING HIM her menu. “Two pieces, whole wheat. No butter, no jam.”

“No, she’ll have the silver dollar special, with her eggs sunny-side up and . . . bacon, instead of sausage.” I fixed her with a scathing look. “Unless there’s something else on the menu she’d rather have. That isn’t under ‘side orders.’”

She snorted. “Right, then. He’ll be having the same thing, except he wants sausage, not bacon, and please do keep on giving him decaf instead of regular. It’s a mistake on your part, but it works to my advantage. He’s quite cranky when he doesn’t sleep.”

The waiter scribbled down our orders. “Happy fiftieth anniversary,” he muttered, and moved on to the next table.

“Ignore him. He hasn’t had a girlfriend in three years,” Holmes said. “Did you see his shoes? White laces. That alone should tell you.”

I couldn’t help it; I started snickering. Holmes graced me with one of her quicksilver smiles. She’d wiped most of the mascara from under her eyes and taken off her wig, but she was still done up like a Christmas tree. It was disconcerting, being able to see the thin gauze of persona laid over the real thing.

“There are at least fifty people in this restaurant eating breakfast at two in the morning,” she said, sipping at her water. “All under the age of twenty. And forty-eight of them didn’t have it this morning, including Will Tillman, the freshman across the room who is never at breakfast and who is, in fact, most likely here to buy drugs. Why on earth is this place so popular? I don’t understand.”

“That’s because you’re a bit of a robot,” I said fondly, and she rolled her eyes. “So, are you the only one who can go incognito, or do I get to wear the disguise next time?”

“Do you have one in mind?” she asked, clearly struggling to take me seriously.

“I don’t get to pull a Hailey on the new girl students?”

She snorted. “Even if I wasn’t done pursuing innocent fourteen-year-olds, you really are just not pretty enough for knee socks.”

“Well, I do a really good impression of a mindless rugger.”

“No, you don’t,” she said. “Thank God. You should tell your therapist that rugby does nothing whatsoever to alleviate your very real anger issues.”

“Not my therapist. My school counselor.”

She hid a smile. “All the same. You really should take up boxing, or fencing—”

“Fencing? What century are you from?”

“—or solving crimes.”

“Are you prescribing me your company, Doctor?”

“Detective, you can read me like a book.” She lifted her glass, and I clinked mine against it.

I was suffused with a sense of well-being. The restaurant was warm, and warmly lit. Someone in the kitchen was making us pancakes. And I was sitting across from Charlotte Holmes.

I felt at home enough to ask her something that had been nagging at me for a while. “Right, so I have a question. Tell me if I’m out of line.”

She tipped her head.

“My parents . . .” It took me a minute to find the right words. “Well, my grandfather very notoriously sold his inherited rights to the Sherlock Holmes stories to pay off his gambling debts. We’re just not important anymore. At least, we’re not in the public eye. We might be trotted out for the occasional press op, but my father does transatlantic sales—which is a lot lamer than it sounds—and my mum works in a bank. The Holmes family, though . . . I mean, you guys have been Yard consultants for generations. So why aren’t they helping us? Where are they?”