A Question of Holmes (Charlotte Holmes #4)(39)

“You can’t make art from my secrets,” Anwen said, in an attempt to match Matilda’s tone.

“Oh?” Matilda, off-screen. “Mine aren’t my secrets, you know. I keep everyone’s secrets. Rupert’s. Theo’s. My parents’.”

“Your parents have secrets?” Theo asked. “Mine just go to work and go home. Like machines.”

“My mother didn’t, but now she’s dead,” Matilda said in a singsong voice. “My father spins his art from secrets. And my stepmother has none.” She started laughing, a low, throaty sound, and Theo tugged her to him.

“You’ve been drinking, lady,” he said, but her laughter was contagious, and he joined in.

“I’ve been drinking so much,” she gasped out. “Am I just talking nonsense?”

“Yes,” Anwen said, with a laugh that sounded forced, and she reached up a hand for Rupert’s camera. “Give me that,” she said, “and get a beer. We need to catch up.”

The video ended.

I was starting to get a better idea now.

“She had a way of rearranging a room,” Anwen was saying, “just by sitting there, making some people nervous, making some people . . . excited, and it was because she was so watchful.” She looked over at me. “You have a little of the same quality.”

Theo’s eyes opened.

Matilda, Anwen had said yesterday. It’s all her fault. It would do me no good to repeat it now; the three of them would clamp down, the scene would devolve into chaos.

“It’s not that I mind you guys being here,” Watson said carefully, “but . . . why? Why come to our flat?”

“I’m not an idiot,” Theo said suddenly. “You’re James Watson. She’s Charlotte Holmes. I’ve read the news articles. I get it—”

There it was.

“Oh, come on,” Watson said, leaning forward. “There isn’t anything to get.”

But he barreled on. “You wouldn’t be here unless there was a mystery to solve. That’s what you do. I read the Daily Mail article, Jamie, after I met you—I thought your name had sounded familiar.” He glanced over at me. “I’m keeping my ears away from her, for starters.”

“Thanks,” I said. “I do get tempted.”

“We’re here because we want to go to university,” Watson said, standing. He was steady, sober. I wondered how much he’d actually drunk, how much he’d stealthily poured into the planter in the corner. “Charlotte’s been here since the winter, living with her uncle. This is his flat. And I’m here because I want to be with her. Full stop. I’m sorry to tell you this, and I’m sorry all this shit has been happening, but we are just trying to live our lives.”

He said it so firmly I nearly believed it. It might be worthwhile to get Watson some acting lessons; who knew what he could accomplish then?

“But that’s—” Anwen struggled for words. “We need your help!”

“I thought you came here because Rupert was somehow cast in a lead role,” Watson said flatly.

Her lip wobbled, and she buried her face into Rupert’s cardigan. “Real nice, Watson,” he said. “We don’t know what to do next. This is the second time in two years that we’ve been in the wrong place at the wrong time. It doesn’t look like coincidence anymore.”

“We were in with the police all night.” Theo took a swig of his drink. “And when I got home, I had an email with the cast list. They’re going to put on the fucking show. And—and Rupert—”

Rupert sighed, his hand on the back of Anwen’s head as she hiccupped. “And Dr. Quigley, bless his stupid heart, insisted that everyone in the theater audition because there was a ‘paucity of male actors,’ and when he hauled me up there, I reminded him that I didn’t have anything memorized, so I just read one of Hamlet’s monologues from a book.”

“Straight-up ‘To be or not to be,’” Theo said, “and you killed it.” And despite everything, there it was—that thread of appreciation for even his competition’s talent.

“I just channeled you,” Rupert protested.

“Really, Rup,” Anwen said. “I know it was a lark to do it, but—”

“But what?” he asked, his shoulders beginning to rise.

“But you don’t want to be an actor,” she protested. “Is it really fair to take the role, when Theo didn’t even get to perform this spring? You heard him talk about his part in Boston!”

“I’m sorry about that,” Rupert said quietly. “But what does it have to do with me?”

“Stop it, Anwen.” Theo pushed himself off the sofa. “I’m Polonius. It’s a good role, though not exactly what I wanted, and—and, well.”

“What?”

He shrugged, shuffling off to the bathroom. “And Charlotte, you’re understudying Ophelia. Not sure how that one happened.”

At least I had an answer prepared. “I ran my monologue for Dr. Larkin yesterday,” I said. “I wrote her this afternoon and told her I wasn’t well, so she must have counted that as my audition.”

“There weren’t a lot of female roles this go-round,” Rupert said. “Good work.” Anwen had stilled against his chest.