A game most foul, p.22
A Game Most Foul, page 22
Percy was really laying it on thick here, working his way up to what had to be his big reveal, and I wasn’t sure if I found it amusing or frustrating.
“But,” he went on, and there was definitely excitement in his voice now. “We know the royal family were major celebrities of their day just like they are now. Which means, provided you look in the right places, you may just find—”
“Young man, I must insist you get on with it,” Holmes said impatiently. “There is little point withholding information simply for the purpose of suspense.”
Percy brushed Holmes’s words aside and continued speaking with the same trembling excitement in his voice. “You may just find photographic evidence.”
I wasn’t sure what I was looking at once Percy stepped away from the board, gesturing toward it with a flourish. It took a second look to see that he’d just pinned up an old black-and-white photograph right in the middle of Adelaide Shaw’s biography.
There was a sudden, mad dash from the rest of us to get a closer look at the photograph, and thanks to Holmes’s bony elbows, he came out on top.
From what I could see standing on my tiptoes, the photo was a blurry shot of a group of people seated around a table in a parlor room. Queen Victoria was the easiest to spot, given that I’d seen her likeness in just about every World History class I’d ever taken. Seated beside her were probably a few other members of the royal family; everything about their clothing and jewelry screamed opulence.
The last figure seated at the table was a young woman in a plain black dress, standing out in stark contrast to the rich attire around her. Her dark hair was styled simply and pinned back from her face. She would’ve looked like any other Victorian-era woman posing for a photo that took way too long to take—if it hadn’t been for the way the corners of her mouth were turned up in a small, knowing little smile.
A smile I’d seen before.
Suruthi noticed it right when I did with a gasp.
“Holy—is that Ashley? That’s Ashley sitting right there next to Queen Victoria, isn’t it?”
“Has to be,” Percy said eagerly, rocked back on his heels. “That woman has to be Ashley, right? She looks exactly like her twin!”
Percy was practically vibrating on the spot and Suruthi had broken into a grin, but I’d been hit with a sudden uptick of doubt.
“Then what would your explanation be for Edith?” I pointed out. “If Ashley has been alive since the nineteenth century, how do you explain the fact that she has a grandmother?”
“If that was her grandmother,” Suruthi said after a beat of uncomfortable silence. “Who’s to say that Edith isn’t actually one of Ashley’s descendants or something and they’ve just been keeping this big family secret all this time. Honestly, Jules, Ashley’s grandmother isn’t high up on my list of what’s strange about this whole case.”
Before stumbling across Watson and Holmes and somehow getting caught up in their century’s old mystery, I wouldn’t even have considered the thought that the woman in the photo was Ashley.
But now? Somewhere the line between reality and fiction had become blurred these past several weeks. After all we’d seen thus far, who was to say that wasn’t Ashley seated next to Queen Victoria?
“Think about it, Jules,” Percy said. “Here we’ve got Holmes and Watson, two men who should’ve died over a century ago, up and roaming about London, and then we have photographic evidence that this medium who may or may not be responsible for their fate looks exactly like our missing classmate? No way can this be a coincidence.”
I looked over at Holmes, wondering if he had any statistics floating around his brain about the chances of coincidences being legitimate, but Holmes hadn’t once looked away from the photograph of the medium with the royal family. I wasn’t even sure he was blinking.
I finally recognized the feeling unfurling in the pit of my stomach as hope.
Percy had obviously done his research here and it looked pretty darn convincing at this point. What were the chances of this not being a coincidence?
“So, what? We think that Ashley made a run for it once she realized our writing professor was actually Watson?” Suruthi said.
“I don’t know about that,” I said after a moment of thought. “Wouldn’t she have left that first day of the seminar, once she’d seen Watson?”
Suruthi’s expression went a little flat. “Well, déjà vu can be very creepy. Maybe she just—”
I let out a yelp when Holmes suddenly lunged forward, jostling me aside as he snatched the photograph off the board.
“What, Holmes?” Percy said in alarm. “Do you remember anything about this woman? What is she—”
“It’s her.”
Holmes’s matter-of-fact statement had that sense of burgeoning hope increasing tenfold.
“Are you sure, Holmes?” Suruthi demanded. “You’re sure this woman was—”
“I am certain of it,” Holmes insisted. “Look at the lady’s wrist, here.”
We all gathered around Holmes as he pointed to Adelaide Shaw’s left wrist in the photograph. It was a little difficult to make out at first, but the silver piece she wore like a bracelet was large enough, round in shape, and etched with an unusual symbol made up of what looked like three rings.
I couldn’t be certain of how long it took for me to connect the pieces, but once I did, it was hard to keep the excitement from creeping into my voice.
“That’s what you’ve been looking for this entire time, haven’t you? You’ve been searching for that silver piece she’s wearing.”
Holmes gave a short nod. “This piece of silver . . . whatever it is. I am loathe to admit that I don’t know its exact purpose, but it . . . this has been the one thing I remember most clearly about that night. Obviously it had to be of import given the way the woman wore it, but why, I . . . I don’t know. I don’t know!”
Holmes’s shout had me jumping, and then I felt nothing but a surge of sympathy. I hadn’t known it was possible for three words to be filled with such agony.
“Here, why don’t you sit down, sir?” Percy said when Holmes began to sway on his feet. “Let’s rest for a moment.”
Holmes did not protest as Percy and I helped him to the chair at his desk, still clutching the photograph in his hand.
“Do we . . . do something?” Suruthi whispered when several moments had passed, with Holmes sitting in silence, unblinking again as he stared at the photograph.
“I’m not sure,” I admitted. “Maybe we should just—”
It was like Holmes had just received some electric shock when he was suddenly thrown into action, shouting, “Pen! Someone get me a blasted PEN!”
Percy managed to find a pen in one of the drawers and Suruthi snatched a piece of paper off the corkboard, turning it blank side up.
Holmes’s grip on the pen was unsteady as he put it to paper, but it became clear a moment later what he was doing.
“What’s he drawing?” I asked, trying to peer over his shoulder. “I can’t tell.”
“I think it’s . . .” Suruthi leaned in a little closer. “It looks like a . . . giant, black blob, actually.”
“Well done,” Percy said with an eye roll. “Really on to something there, Suruthi.”
“Silence!” Holmes’s loud bark had all three of us jumping this time. “I must have silence.”
Rather than apologize, we shut up.
It was awkward simply standing around, watching Holmes draw, but the awkwardness was quickly becoming replaced by fascination.
Holmes was far from a master artist, but he worked with long, thin strokes of the pen, taking up almost the entire piece of paper. A few minutes in and the object began to take shape.
The page was taken up by what truly did look like a giant black blob at first glance, but then I recognized the shape of a small series of keys.
“It’s a typewriter,” I said in surprise, forgetting that we were supposed to be keeping silent.
“Certainly looks like a typewriter,” Percy agreed.
“Like this one, perhaps?” Suruthi held out the laminated photo of the medium with the royal family. “Look, right there in the corner on that posh little desk. It’s a typewriter.”
I had to bring the photo almost up to my nose to really make out what Suruthi was pointing to, but it was definitely a typewriter.
“I can’t tell if that’s the same typewriter Holmes is drawing,” I said, passing the photo to Percy next.
“Neither can I,” Percy admitted after he took a look. “But—”
“Aha!” Holmes was suddenly out of his seat with a triumphant shout. “I knew it. I knew it!”
“Now would be a good time to fill us in, please, Holmes,” Suruthi said, definitely struggling to sound patient now. “What’s going on?”
“The typewriter!” Holmes grabbed Suruthi by the shoulders and gave her a shake. “The typewriter, dear girl!”
“Yes, yes, we’ve seen it,” Percy said, reaching over to stop Holmes from shaking Suruthi any further. “What about the typewriter?”
“The typewriter has been the missing piece all along!” Holmes was quickly dissolving into mad rambling territory, and it was a struggle to keep up with the rapid flow of conversation. “Oh, I must have subconsciously known it for some time. Of course I must have. Why else would I have been drawn to that delightfully kitschy shop?”
“You’re not talking about my aunt’s shop, are you?” I said, wondering if I should be offended on Adele’s behalf.
“Obviously,” Holmes said, not sparing me a second glance.
“At least he called it delightful,” Suruthi pointed out.
“Call it a hunch,” Percy said cautiously, “but I’m going to hazard a guess that the silver piece the medium is wearing is somehow connected to the typewriter.”
“Precisely!” Holmes said gleefully.
“So what now?” Suruthi said. “We go traipsing across London looking for a typewriter? Do you know how long that will—”
“Perhaps you misunderstood me, dear child,” Holmes said, speaking over Suruthi. “Are we not all aware of where we might find a typewriter?”
Once Holmes’s statement had sunk in, it was impossible not to laugh.
“Holmes, the chances of the typewriter you’re looking for being the same one in my aunt’s shop are—”
“Astronomical?” Percy said. “I’m pretty sure we’re well past that now, Jules. I think we can all safely agree that everything up to this point has all been connected somehow, and it’s not as if we have a better place to start.”
An interesting expression crossed Holmes’s face as he considered Percy’s words. I was worried he was going to start shouting again, but he was rather calm when he finally said, “As a matter of fact, I believe there is another resource we can tap into.”
“Such as?” Suruthi hinted.
“Watson was a very meticulous chronicler of the cases we solved together, before he developed a flair for romanticizing everything he wrote from then onward,” Holmes said. “And I do recall . . . rather, I am sure I remember now how often I used to sit amongst his journals and pour over the pages in the hopes that he had documented something about that night we . . .”
“And how did that work out for you?” I asked when Holmes had lapsed back into silence.
“The whole ordeal was terribly frustrating,” Holmes answered, and then his expression became somewhat sheepish. “It is my belief Watson finally hid his journals in an attempt to save our rooms any further destruction, and regrettably before I had the chance to read them all.”
Holmes’s confession brought my conversation with Watson from that morning back to mind, where Watson had said that Holmes wasn’t used to not knowing, that he didn’t handle it well. Apparently Holmes had handled it with violent outbursts.
“If I’m understanding correctly, and I know you’ll correct me if I’m wrong, Holmes,” I said, “but you’re wanting to go dig up Watson’s old journals to see if he wrote something about the case you worked on with the medium. If we’re lucky, he’ll know something about the typewriter too.”
“Indeed,” Holmes confirmed with a nod.
“If that’s the case,” Percy said, raising his voice, “then why hasn’t Watson mentioned any of this before?”
That I believed I had somewhat of an answer for.
“Watson hasn’t made it a secret that he’s been trying to protect Holmes and keep him from doing anything dangerous. If Holmes started going on a rampage—sorry, Holmes—any time he couldn’t find what he was looking for about this case in Watson’s journals, then why would Watson voluntarily bring up the subject with him?”
“Also, you just said Watson hid his journals from you, Holmes,” Suruthi added, looking at Holmes. “Do you know where they are now?”
Holmes’s previously eager expression turned into something a lot more unhappy. “Frankly, I do not.”
After all the excitement and hope that had been building since I’d first got a good look at the photograph Percy had uncovered, that it was looking an awful lot like Ashley was in the same boat as Holmes and Watson, and maybe there was a good reason she’d had to leave, I was beginning to feel the first pangs of discouragement.
This couldn’t be where we hit another brick wall, could it?
“However,” Holmes said, sanding his hands together. “I am not without ideas.”
Chapter 25
Now the Game is Afoot
Let’s run through this one more time.”
Suruthi and I groaned.
“I think we’ve got it by now, Perce,” Suruthi complained. “We know what we’re doing, so why can’t we just go?”
“It never hurts to be overprepared,” Percy declared, herding us under the awning of a nearby shop on the street outside his flat.
It felt like we were a bunch of football players huddling together to plan their Hail Mary pass. It seemed like a pretty apt description, seeing as we had absolutely no idea where Watson did in fact hide his journals. Luck was still somewhat on our side, though; Holmes had gleefully shared that Watson had been called in for some faculty emergency with the college, so the chances of him catching us in the act of searching his room would be minimal.
“Alright, Jules, Suruthi,” Percy said, looking at each of us in turn. “You’re both off to the antique shop for that typewriter. Do you think you can get it over to Holmes’s without any trouble?”
“Of course,” I said. “Probably. I’ll just tell Adele that replacement piece you ordered finally arrived and we’re going to do some repairs or something.”
“That won’t be necessary,” Holmes said abruptly, then thrust a rolled-up wad of pounds at me. “I’d prefer you purchase the typewriter instead, as we will not be returning it.”
“Uh, okay.” I quickly sorted through the pound notes and tried not to gape. “You know, I think my aunt was selling it for seventy-five pounds, not . . . however much this is.”
“Consider it a donation,” Holmes said, unconcerned. “Watson is a rather smart investor,” he added at our dumbfounded looks. “Over a century of perfecting the art of being frugal will, unsurprisingly, leave you with a small fortune.”
“That’ll do it,” Suruthi said as I carefully tucked the money away in my bag.
“Right then,” Percy said. “Jules and Suruthi, you’ll go purchase the typewriter and meet us over at Holmes and Watson’s. I’ll make sure Holmes messages you the address. Hopefully we’ll have found at least one of Watson’s journals by then.”
“And then what?” Suruthi said.
We all stared at her.
“Elaborate, please,” Holmes demanded.
“After we go fetch the typewriter and we hopefully scrounge up a journal or two, then what? It’s not like we can go to the police and tell them we think our missing classmate is actually a medium from the nineteenth century.”
“Why don’t we cross that bridge when we come to it?” Percy said after some uncomfortable silence.
I was going to agree with him on this one.
Obviously I knew Suruthi had a point and we needed to address this figurative elephant in the room, but getting our hands on Watson’s journals and figuring out the connection between the typewriter and the silver piece Holmes had been fixated on for over a century seemed like bigger hurdles at this point.
All signs seemed to be pointing toward Ashley actually having been a medium by the name of Adelaide Shaw from the nineteenth century, and somehow she’d been involved with the very last case Holmes and Watson had worked before they became . . . whatever they were now.
So I had to believe that Ashley could look after herself after all this time. How else would she have made it this far? Was an extra day going to make that much of a difference in the long run?
“Well, then, what if this doesn’t work?” Suruthi said. “Has anyone considered that?”
“It may not,” Holmes said, and I was surprised at how calm he appeared. “Failure is oftentimes inevitable. But that doesn’t mean one should not make every attempt possible to achieve their goal.”
There was an awkward stretch of silence as we considered Holmes’s unexpected words of advice. Maybe we were about to walk into failure. I had the feeling it was more likely we had no idea what we were about to walk into. That had to be better than not trying, right?
“D’you know,” Suruthi finally said to Holmes. “If this doesn’t pan out well, you might make a good motivational speaker, Sherlock.”
“I think not.”
“Listen, you lot,” Percy said, snapping his fingers for our attention. “We don’t know how long Watson will be tied up with this faculty emergency of his, and I don’t reckon he’ll be too pleased if he catches us in the act of going through his things.”
“Turnabout is fair play,” Holmes said dismissively. “Let us be on our way then.”
Looking back on this moment sometime in the future, I’ll know it was going to be one of those inevitable things. It would’ve happened at one point or another, and I decided I wasn’t above giving fate a little push.
