A Question of Holmes (Charlotte Holmes #4)(14)

“Dr. Larkin stepped away from the precollege program at the end of the summer,” I told Watson. “Of her own volition, supposedly, but the way she talked about it made it sound as though she’d been forced out. And took a pay cut, based on her new shoes—cheap—and her jacket, handbag, and scarf, which were very much not. I think she wants her job back.”

“This is all, like . . . really awful,” Watson said. “I can’t believe they’re letting the program continue.”

“It’s quite an old program, and a popular one, and really, I think people are just indescribably stupid sometimes about their own safety.” I retrieved the cigarette from my pocket and lit it. Watson winced, but said nothing. It was my last remaining vice, and not one I intended to keep for much longer, and still his disapproval stung a bit.

“Was she sent an orchid, too? Matilda?” Watson asked, his eyes on the thing between my lips. I frowned, then stubbed it out on my armchair, and Watson winced at that too.

Mouse emerged from under the bed and wound her way over to me, and with a sigh, I gathered her up in my arms. “She was. Not that she was there to collect it. It didn’t go to the theater—at this point, the culprit must’ve known they would be closely watched—but to her rooms. The suite she shared with Theo and Rupert.”

“And?”

“Not to be melodramatic,” I said, “and do know that I’m just quoting Dr. Larkin here—”

“Oh, come on, just tell me—”

I cleared my throat. “The orchid was a bright, bloody red.”





Six

“RED? LIKE, THEY DYED IT?”

I shrugged. “I didn’t see it. And unfortunately, orchids don’t fall into my areas of expertise. Though from what I can tell, it is a fascinatingly complex field—”

With that, Watson flopped backward onto the bed as though he’d been shot.

“I refuse to apologize for having an interest in botany,” I said, trying not to laugh. I was always trying very hard not to laugh.

It’s possible he could tell. I never knew with him. Either way, he sat up on his elbows, smiling at me a bit lopsidedly. “Red orchids, white orchids—I’m sure you’ll dig in soon enough. Either way, they’re creepy. We’re headed back into creepy territory, here. And this is a cold case, a year old. Matilda could be anywhere.”

“The last case we had was hot enough for a lifetime,” I said. “And I don’t think we’re looking for Matilda. Not exactly. What Larkin wants is preventative work. Protecting the students who come this year. I’d prefer to do that than to clean up a Moriarty’s mess.”

He grew serious at that. “Do you have a plan?”

“I do,” I allowed. “But it’s getting quite late. Unless—unless you wanted to stay. It would be fine. With me, I mean, if you stayed.”

Caution was my watchword. Watson and I were rebuilding something, and I wasn’t quite sure what it would end up being, and in the meantime I didn’t want to push things unnecessarily, and also he still made me incredibly nervous.

Watson was watching me. “I want to know what you’ve deduced that made you take this insane leap,” he said finally. “But—won’t it foil whatever dastardly plan you have, if I’m not in the room with Rupert tonight to hear his reaction?”

“A bit,” I said.

Watson shrugged. “Then I’ll see what I can do.”

“Tell me what he says in the morning. And I’ll tell you what I’ve surmised.”

“An intelligence swap, Detective?”

I felt my lips twitch. “Indeed, Doctor.”

“Tomorrow, then,” he said. “Breakfast before your first lecture?”

“Come by at eight. We’ll have scones. I’ll walk you to class.”

He smiled to himself, his eyes gone soft. Off somewhere in a memory, or another life. Back at Sherringford, perhaps. “’Night,” he said, and before he left he pulled me in and kissed me on the forehead, and this once, my body let me accept it without flinching away.

It was becoming abundantly clear that, contrary to appearances and negotiated terms, I had no idea at all what I was doing.

I WAS AWAKE AT SIX THIRTY, AS I HAD BEEN SINCE I’D BEEN back on a proper sleep schedule. (It had been some time since I’d been up smoking til dawn in a nest of my own research.) Leander was still in bed when I got up—he’d come in quite late the night before, past midnight—and so I made myself a quiet cup of tea, poured it into a takeaway mug, and set out for a wander so that my footsteps wouldn’t wake him. It was a pacing sort of morning.

There had been some truth to what I’d said last night at dinner, that I was anxious at the thought of entering a new social sphere with Watson at my side. It wasn’t that I didn’t want him there. I wanted him there desperately. But I was worried about the weight of expectation—well. I was worried about my expectations for myself. I had been presented with a pretty little puzzle box of a mystery, here, and already I was showboating for his benefit rather than considering the case.

As in: Did I really need to run my foot up Rupert’s pant leg? There were many paths up the mountain, after all. And yet here we were.

Here, right now, was the little café down the street from our flat. It was called Blackmarket, though there was no whiff of any illegal activity on the premises. They sold coffee, and muffins, and a “cheeky snowman” latte that I only ordered when alone, so that as few people as possible would hear me say the words.