Abe let out a startled sound, glancing sideways at me before catching himself. “Well… certainly. Although I can’t say I know Bernard that well. More of a colleague, an admirer if you will.”
“Bernie’s got that skill, I’m afraid,” Humphrey said. “He’s a charmer.”
Bernie? And also—friends? Abe caught my eye from behind Humphrey’s giant form, and I arched a brow in silent reproach. There was confirmation that this man was definitely sniffing around the criminal I was being paid to capture.
“And who is this gorgeous creature?” Humphrey gripped his chest like he was having some kind of attack. “Please tell me you’re a fan of our venerable detective.”
“Devon Atwood,” I said, receiving the same vigorous handshake as Abe. “And I’ve read The Hound of the Baskervilles ten times.” Unlike my name, that was not a lie.
“Praise be,” Humphrey cheered. “Truly, I’ve heard much of you Ms. Atwood. You’ve taken all of these gents in this room to tea, and yet you haven’t called me?”
“Well, I haven’t met you,” I mused, giving him a flirtatious wink.
Abe cleared his throat and stared at the ground.
“I’ve been traveling. My mistake,” Humphrey said. “I’m home this week and available to be enchanted by you.”
My answering smile was absolutely genuine. “We’ll be in touch.”
“Sorry, Daniel, I’ve completely forgotten you were standing there,” Humphrey said to Abe.
“Understood,” Abe said dryly. “Were you traveling with Bernard? How long have you known each other?”
Humphrey stepped close. “I’ve known him since we were ten years old. Went to school together, university, joined the Society together. As we’ve gotten older, we’ve stayed in touch through these events. And I drag him to the pub about once a month when he’s not too busy changing the world and bringing books to people who need them.”
In all of my research, I’d had no idea Bernard had a close friend. It seemed far too pedestrian—and precious—for a man so slyly deceitful.
“How charming,” Abe said softly.
“Do you know where Bernard is?” Humphrey asked, swiftly changing the subject. His worried voice carried in the hushed room. Eudora’s head snapped up at the words.
“Um… no,” Abe stuttered. Clearly as surprised as I was. “I do not know where he is.”
“It’s not like him,” Humphrey said, looking agitated. “We always talk. He sent me one email, months ago, letting me know he’d be on sabbatical and off the grid. Eudora assures me he’s fine but…”
I almost went to catch Abe’s eye before I remembered we were absolutely not working together. The urge was there—to tug on my earlobe or flash him a secret code. To get his sense of the situation. Strange, because I’d never, ever worked with a partner before and didn’t need one now.
“I’m sorry to hear you’re so worried,” Abe said.
Humphrey nodded, shrugging it off before checking a giant wristwatch. “Bollocks. Sorry to vent and run, but off I go. Hope I don’t bore this enchantress to tears.”
With a rather saucy wink, Humphrey left Abe and me fairly surprised.
“So… you read Hound of the Baskervilles ten times?” Abe asked, facing me.
“Not a lie actually,” I said. “I am a fan.”
“When I was in high school, I read A Study in Scarlett every night for a week,” he said. He was being honest, I could tell.
“You would look handsome holding a pipe,” I said.
“So what are you doing taking these gents to tea, Ms. Atwood?” he asked, voice light.
“Jealous?”
“Hardly.”
“Shall I take you to tea?”
“Now that,” he said, “would make Humphrey jealous.”
I cracked a big smile before I could help it.
“Truly enchanting,” Abe said, so softly I almost missed it. The lights dimmed, and Humphrey took the stage, practically by force. He gripped the podium to hoots and cheers and slightly rowdy clapping.
“Keep it friendly now,” Humphrey mock chided. He towered on the stage. It was impossible to picture him being friends with Bernie. Especially since Bernard’s characteristics—from what I could tell—so successfully mimicked my parents. ‘Friends’ were steppingstones, marks to be used to gain entry to whatever dodgy world they were attempting to gain access to. Humphrey didn’t have the look of a steppingstone. He was solid, happy, and he cared for Bernard. And seemed as confused as Abe at Bernard’s whereabouts.
“Like many of us in this room,” Humphrey began, “I despise modern technology, and proudly. And nowhere is that more evident than when I am entrenched in Victorian London, following Holmes and Watson to St. Bart’s Hospital or the Café Royal. Deduction was the key, listening was the key. Paying bloody attention. Our universe is much too clever, much too complicated, for our connections to each other to be arbitrary.”
Next to me, Abe shifted an inch closer until our arms brushed. Bathed in darkness, it was harder to resist the primal pull the man evoked in me. He was temptation personified.
“Don’t place too much faith in the strange coincidences, the déjà vu, the dreams that bear a startling likeness to our reality. Doyle wanted us to know these things are never, ever random. They are vital, they are connectors, they are the truth.” With a rather wolfish grin, Humphrey stared right at Abe and me, drifting against each other in the sea of Holmes fanatics. “The people we meet are all part of the universe’s plan.”
Abe Royal dropped his mouth against my ear. I swallowed a gasp. The feeling was too seductive—the hint of breath, the suggestion of teeth, his raspy voice. “You must be part of the universe’s plan, Ms. Atwood.”
“Because I happen to be staying in the hotel room right next to yours?” I replied, voice shaky.
“No.” He growled softly. “Because, like Doyle, I don’t believe in bloody coincidences, either. If the queen of lies is going to pick my pockets and follow me around London, there’s a reason for it. And I aim to find out why.”
I turned my head to gaze up at him. With a slight smirk and a tilt to his brow, his face said Gotcha.
Mouse, meet cat.
10
Abe
Humphrey Hatcher, Bernard’s oldest friend, gave a powerful speech at the podium in front of us. Bernie’s friend. Was it possible there was someone in Bernard’s life that loved him like a friend…and had no idea he was a criminal mastermind? Although I shouldn’t have been shocked. Henry had been his colleague and confidant, and the man had concealed his true nature easily.
Next to me, the woman who had been charming the members of the Sherlock Society scooped her long, jet-black hair over her left shoulder, exposing the elegant line of her throat, the arch of her high cheekbones. These things are never, ever random.
Her dramatic appearance in my life was definitely not random. She was a lying, clever pickpocket who had tailed me from The Langham Hotel to the Sherlock Society building with the skill of a federal agent.