I would be lying if I said I didn’t love these moments—him looking at me like I had in my hands a curtain pull, that I could reveal the underbelly of the world. “Theo said, and I quote: ‘You need to call me as soon as you get this.’ A period at the end of the sentence, which hadn’t been his style before. Anwen responded instantly: ‘can’t get away what’s going on.’ then three question marks. An hour later Theo responded, ‘Anwen. Call me now.’”
“And?” Watson said. “And?”
“I don’t have the call logs,” I reminded him. “It’s also possible they used a video chat app, as Theo lives in America. Whatever it was—whatever was said—it effectively ended communication between the two of them.”
He sat back, thinking. The breeze ruffled his hair.
“You need a cut,” I said, sitting on my hands to keep from reaching out to push a curl off his forehead. And then I remembered that I could, and that he wouldn’t mind—that he might in fact like me to—and so, slowly, I did.
“Hi,” he said softly.
“Hi,” I responded. I still wasn’t sure of the point of this ritual, but I appreciated it for its simplicity.
“That was it for them?” he asked. “Nothing after that?”
“Not until the first week of May,” I said, “when Anwen asked, ‘are you coming back?’ Theo responded ‘yes.’ With the uncharacteristic punctuation once again. And though I can’t be sure, I think that was it until they sat down for orientation.”
“Things to dig up.”
“Indeed.” I stood, and he followed. Walking a city that I was still learning was how I preferred to think—there was the surface data (the city map), which provided enough stimulation for me to make more subconscious connections below it. (I also thought quite well while brushing out and organizing my wigs.)
“We’re not headed to the theater,” Watson said, though he didn’t sound bothered. “Weren’t auditions today?”
“At two this afternoon. Callbacks are directly after, at five. The cast list will be posted immediately after dinner, and then the new director will bring in Dr. Larkin at seven tonight to lecture on Hamlet and the history of the Dramatics Soc.”
“That’s a weird choice,” he said, “seeing as they fired her.”
We’d reached the part of the High Street with two drugstores, a Sainsbury’s, and several shops in a row that sold readily consumable fashion for girls. Here the crowd grew thicker, though it was before noon on a Thursday, and I had to pause as I cataloged the information coming at me as I walked. Two German girls who worked in a pub in this neighborhood—one still wore her work shirt, and the other her no-slip shoes, and even without those markers they were still talking about the git who stiffed one on her tab. An administrator with a briefcase full of files and a pair of expensive patterned socks that he showed off with pants tailored a quarter inch too high. Dogs on too-long leads. A small child buckled into her pram, old enough to walk but worn out from the morning’s jaunt. Her mother had a bit of cereal milk on her jumper.
I filed it away, to dump out later if I needed, and pulled Watson through the throng. We had a schedule to keep. “It is a bit brutal, but Dr. Larkin did technically step down before they could sack her. Still, she’s teaching the seminar on Shakespearean tragedy this summer for the precollege. It would be strange for them not to bring her in. Either way it works for us; I’m looking forward to seeing how the students react to her being there. Are you coming to auditions? Do you have class?”
“Not Tuesdays and Thursdays,” he said, “so yeah, I’ll be there. Maybe I can audition to carry a spear.”
I frowned. “I don’t think there are spears in Hamlet.”
“It’s an expression.” I had tugged him over to the curb, and he looked down at me plaintively. “Are we going to lunch?”
We were at a bus stop, which he would know if he looked up. Bus stops did not sell lunch. “How are you possibly hungry again?”
“Holmes,” he said, “people generally eat more than once a day.”
“Watson. You ate an hour ago.”
“Don’t tell me you’re going to march me home to eat more toasts.”
“There are plenty of anchovy ones left.”
“They were so good,” he said solemnly, “that I wanted to make them last.”
I checked the timetable again. Our bus was running two minutes late, and I found myself slightly put out. I had wanted to spirit him right onto it and on our way. “You’re a terrible liar,” I told him.
“We’ve established that. Where are we headed?”
“You want to know now?”
“I always want to know,” he said, putting his hands into his pockets, “but I’d rather follow you to find out.”
“Follow me, then,” I told him, and there it was, the bright red bus trundling up the road as though it had been listening, as though it wasn’t late at all.
Eleven
WATSON INSISTED ON SITTING ON THE SECOND STORY OF the bus, I imagine for the view. None of the seats were clean—they never were—and I amused myself by imagining what exactly had been responsible for the stickiness of the vinyl we sat on. I had come up with a number of explanations and had wound around to suggesting “cat vomit” before Watson turned green. He took a stray newspaper—the arts section—off the seat beside him and sat on it, as though that would mitigate any cat-related damage.
The city ambled by us, as slow as if we were behind a horse in a hansom cab, and when we were still a stop away I hammered down the steps and jumped off, Watson at my heels, the newspaper section (sticky) in my bag.
“The police station,” Watson said, sounding a bit disappointed.
“Did you want me to bring you to the circus?” I asked, holding the door. He rolled his eyes and walked in.
There was a policeman, a constable by the insignia on his arm, stealing a pen from the cup at the front desk. He was in his fluorescent high-vis vest and still looked fairly alert. His shift in traffic must’ve just been beginning.
“I have an appointment with DI Sadiq,” I said. Watson cleared his throat. “We do, rather.”
He scanned the list at the desk. “You’ll want the criminal investigation department, then. Let me see . . . ah, here we go.” The PC squinted at me, then grinned toothily. “Charlotte Holmes, huh? Got any ears for me, Charlie?”
“No. And you can call me Ms. Holmes,” I said, crossing my arms.
I could always tell when someone had read that Daily Mail story on us that had come out the year before, after Lucien Moriarty was put away. The Mail provided a list of bullet points called “Key Facts” before the article, and one of them had read “Charlotte Honoria Holmes and James Watson Jr: a modern-day Bonnie and Clyde, with ANGER ISSUES? Their Sherringford classmate tells all!” Yes, we had taken down a criminal mastermind; yes, I had lost people I loved as we had done so; yes, I did in fact have that wretched middle name, but despite what Cassidy from Watson’s French class told the Mail, I had never once bitten off someone’s ear because they wouldn’t give me a cigarette.