A Study in Charlotte

“Yes, and sometimes a pair of fists is much more useful,” I said, “if less dramatic. I’ll keep an eye out, Detective. Will you clear us publicly?”

“Terrible idea,” Holmes put in. “It might lead to escalation on the murderer’s part if they think they need to reconvince the police of our guilt. No, tell the school privately, but don’t let anyone release a statement.”

“Fine.” More crackling. “I’ll send over what we have so far on the snake.”

“And a copy of The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes,” I said.

“Fine. You should know that we found the ski mask the intruder used in a garbage can outside Stevenson Hall, but we weren’t able to lift any prints off it.”

“These people are too good for that,” Holmes said. I coughed. “But yes, send over the bit about the snake. And I want access to the personnel files of all of Sherringford’s students and employees, including any EU immigration information.”

“I’d lose my job.”

“You’d lose your job anyway when they find out you’re letting us help.”

Static.

“Done,” he said finally. “Charlotte, Jamie—just keep your mouths shut.”

“Yes, yes,” Holmes said, “thank you,” and hung up on him.

It was Monday at lunch. I’d hidden away in Holmes’s lab in an attempt to finish writing my poem for Mr. Wheatley’s class that afternoon. It was already going badly, but then I watched Holmes finish her calculus problem set in the ten minutes between concluding some frothy, smelly experiment and picking up her violin for a spin through Beethoven’s Kreutzer Sonata as if it were “Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star.”

She threw her bow down. “I have to wait until the school day is over to investigate. Two hours!” she said. “Do you think, if I set fire to the maths building—”

“No.”

“But—”

“Still no. Why don’t you help me with this poem?” I asked, an attempt to derail her. “It needs to be one that’s ‘difficult for me to write,’ whatever that means.”

“What do you have so far?” she asked.

“‘The.’ Or maybe ‘A,’ I’m not sure.”

“I’m bad with words.” She sat down next to me. “Too imprecise. Too many shades of meaning. And people use them to lie. Have you ever heard someone lie to you on the violin? Well. I suppose it can be done, but it would take far more skill.”

“Speaking of lying,” I said. “Who played your masked man, the other night?”

“One of Lena’s on-and-off hookups. I knew I needed a failsafe, and Lena was willing to play along. We’d laid the groundwork up a week ago. All she needed was the go-ahead. She’d been telling him she loved scary movies, and being afraid sort of turned her on, and asking him if he had a ski mask—that sort of thing. All she had to do was mention that I’d be away on Sunday night. He didn’t question it at all when she screamed and chased him out, and after, I had her put a fresh mask I’d taken from the athletics shed into the bin outside. Really, it’s a good thing she’s so completely insane. It means she can get away with anything.”

“And how is she holding up, after her ‘scare’?”

“Oh, fine,” she said airily. “I think she’s counting the days until her new handbag comes in the post.”

I put my pen down. “I thought you might pay her off. With what money?”

She bit her lip. “She wouldn’t take any. Which, to be honest, makes me nervous.”

“The fact that she likes you enough to help you for free? That makes you nervous?”

“I’d rather deal in quantifiable transactions,” she said. “But she said she’d made a killing at poker and reminded me that her allowance is staggering. After that, she sat me down in front of her laptop and made me help her pick out something called a minaudière. It looks like a bejeweled toad.”

“Oh,” I said, wondering what it meant that Holmes had never once offered to pay me.

“I have a rainy-day fund, you know,” she said, not quite looking at me. “Until recently, it was raining . . . rather a lot. But I . . . I’ve been trying to use an umbrella.”

“See, and you say you’re bad with words. I’m stealing that.” I scrawled it down.

She drifted over to her bookshelf and lit a cigarette. With the toe of her shoe, she tapped her copy of The Casebook of Sherlock Holmes before she leaned down to pick it up. I could tell I’d lost her to her thoughts.

It seemed as good a time as any to do the thing I’d been avoiding.

The hospital corridors were empty when I arrived, carrying a bunch of flowers. It wasn’t hard to find the right ward. They had it guarded like Fort Knox. Thankfully, Detective Shepard had had the wherewithal to put my name on the visitor list, and after showing my ID to two separate policemen, I was allowed into her room.

I’d been told that she was awake, but her eyes were closed when I came in. She looked terrible. Her blond hair was matted to her head with sweat, her arms wound in tubes and tape. Strangely enough, she was clutching a whiteboard to her chest in the way you would a teddy bear. As quietly as I could, I put the flowers on the table beside her bed and debated writing her a note. Was that what the board was for?

While I stood there, Elizabeth opened one eye, then the other.