A Study in Charlotte

Holmes stumbled into the house and over to the living room couch. Without taking off her shoes, without saying a word to either of us, she stretched out in her homecoming dress and went immediately to sleep.

“There’s a guest room,” my father said as I folded myself up into the armchair beside her.

“I know,” I said to him. “I used to live here.”

He didn’t have anything to say to that.

The truth was that, for many varied, contradictory reasons, I didn’t want Holmes out of my sight. Even as I fell into a dreamless sleep, I kept an ear open. Listening in case she ran, and left me there alone.

WHEN I WOKE, IT WAS DARK AGAIN, THAT SORT OF FALL-EVENING gloom. The clock on the wall said 6:07. I’d slept the whole day, and from the state of the couch, so had Holmes.

There was a rustling in the kitchen. Inside, it was as well lit as I remembered, and the table and chairs were the same. But the dark cabinets had been given a coat of white, the walls painted a farmhouse blue. A ceramic rooster presided over the sink. Abigail’s additions, I was sure. When my father offered, I turned down a tour of the rest of the house.

Holmes had hoisted herself up onto one of the stools at the counter, and she sat there, swinging her legs while her eyes roved around the room. I watched her put together the story of this house, of my childhood, the way a soldier assembles a gun in the dark. At least one of us knew how to behave normally—though for the record, this may have been the first time it was her, and not me.

“Hi,” I said to her.

“Hi,” she said back. “Did you sleep well?”

“I slept fine.”

We avoided each other’s eyes.

“Well,” my father said as the oven heated up. “Let’s get down to it. That Shepard fellow arrives in”—he consulted his watch—“an hour. What have you got for him? To clear yourselves?”

“Nothing,” Holmes said. “Well. The fact that we didn’t kill anyone, for starters.”

“You haven’t killed anyone,” I repeated. It was the first time she’d admitted it.

She lifted an eyebrow. “We haven’t attacked a single person at this school. We’ve never killed anyone.”

She was choosing her words carefully, I could tell.

“And that—that serial killer den wasn’t yours.”

“That serial killer den wasn’t mine.” Unexpectedly, she grinned at me. “It wasn’t yours, was it? It’s a bit rude not to share.”

I wrinkled my nose at her, and she hit me in the arm. God help me. I couldn’t stay mad at her, even if she did turn out to be a cold-blooded killer. I was in way, way too deep.

“Right,” my father said, confused. “I had sort of thought all of that was a given. Do you have any actual proof that clears you?”

“Enough witnesses to prove that we weren’t the people who attacked Elizabeth. Elizabeth herself, when she wakes up. But that’s moot, anyway. In about an hour and fifteen minutes, I’ll have the leverage we need to clear our names and get Shepard to involve us in his investigation.”

I didn’t know anything about this. “What?”

She tucked a lock of hair behind her ear, and said nothing. Across from us, I swear my father’s eyes were sparkling.

I stared at him. “Shouldn’t you be, you know, worried?”

But he was already pulling a bottle of champagne from the refrigerator. “A toast is in order, I think. A little glass couldn’t hurt at this point.”

The cork popped, and steam fizzed out. Holmes and I exchanged a startled glance. She hadn’t expected him to believe her. Very few people had the ability to surprise her, but apparently my father was one of them. I didn’t care. I had a glass of champagne, possibly my last as a free man. I slurped the foam off the top of my glass.

Holmes, being Holmes, looked at my father and decided to investigate. “Oh, this is lovely, thanks much. But tell us why we’re celebrating! You can’t trust me that much. There has to be something more to it.” She leaned on one hand, drawing on the vast reserves of charm she kept hidden away for just this purpose. “That pie smells tremendous,” she added. “Can’t think of the last time I had good comfort food.”

If my father noticed the show—and really, how couldn’t he?—he didn’t mind it. “It’s Jamie’s grandmother’s recipe. I haven’t had a chance to make it in a long time.” He beamed. “I’m happy this worked out for you two. I’d worried it wouldn’t.”

“What worked out?” Wherever this was headed, I was sure it was a bad, bad place. “If you’re about to tell me you killed off Dobson to get me some detective practice, I swear to God—”

With a wave, he cut me off. “Jamie, don’t be so melodramatic. Of course not.”

“Of course not,” Holmes said, under her breath. The machinery in her head was whirring to life. “It began before that.”

“Yes,” my father said, delighted. “Go on.”

She looked me over the way you might do a horse. I shifted uncomfortably in my seat. “And sport. It has to do with rugby.”

“Excellent.” He lifted his glass to her. “I’m sorry, Jamie, but I still can’t believe you bought it. A rugby scholarship? Yes, you’re a perfectly adequate player, no doubt, and certainly good enough for their team, but you have to admit that the idea was a bit far-fetched.” He took a meditative sip. “No, it was all something that we plotted up in our cups, last summer.”