And one week ago, meeting Sloane at the lecture, both of us leaning forward in our seats at the name Bernard Allerton.
I grabbed Sloane’s hand and stood slowly. Peter and the guards were making loud, wild sounds behind their tape. Behind the secret door was a narrow, shadowy hallway.
I held out my palm to Henry and Delilah, who were primed for immediate action. I mouthed wait.
Sloane and I slipped between the gap and into the hallway. It was wall-papered, and on the wall hung old black-and-white photos I couldn’t make out. We reached a warm light, an open door, a large living room.
There was a fireplace. An expensive-looking sofa. Built-in shelves filled with novels. An open bottle of expensive whiskey.
And sitting in a high-backed chair, book open on his knee, was Bernard.
I blinked, sure it was a mirage. But Bernard remained in focus, staring at Sloane and me like we were minor annoyances.
He was that fucking confident.
Sloane and I stood, silent and shocked.
“Well, don’t just stand there,” he said, in his dignified British accent. “Sit, sit. I can’t have the great Abraham Royal in my home away from home and not offer him the finest whiskey on the market.”
If Henry and Delilah had called the police, we’d need only a few minutes to keep him in place. So Sloane and I sat down for whiskey. With a famous con man.
“And you are, my dear?” he asked. His back was ramrod straight, no cane.
“Sloane Argento,” she said. “Private detective.”
“Two private detectives in my midst?” Bernard smiled. “How charming. I’ve got a soft spot for detectives, given my devotion to Holmes. Although my guess is you specialize in cheating spouses? Naughty college students?”
“Book theft, actually,” Sloane said coolly. Bernard’s nostrils flared, but he remained calm.
“I’m sure you’ve already heard that Julian King and Birdie Barnes successfully won their bid tonight at the Kensley auction,” I said.
He cocked his head. “I’m afraid I’m clueless as to what you’re talking about, Mr. Royal.”
I crossed my ankles. “I don’t think you’ve ever been clueless a day in your life, Bernard. I think being publicly humiliated over the loss of Doyle’s private papers was hook enough to cause you to make a greedy mistake.”
“Oh, do go on,” Bernard said. “I love a good story.”
I wanted to smash that whiskey glass in his fucking face.
“It’s probably easy, holed up in this fancy safehouse, to keep pulling the strings on your criminal empire,” I said. “But you shouldn’t have orchestrated a deal so close to home. What was James Patrick going to do for you anyway? If Julian and Birdie didn’t win, would he have feigned ignorance of the theft? Did he make it so that they could win?”
“JP is a yes,” Sloane drawled. A violent shiver worked through Bernard’s body. “It’s amazing all the people who will be implicated when you’re arrested. How quickly this flimsy house of cards is going to fall. All because of Arthur Conan Doyle.”
Bernard’s laugh was extravagant. “If you think I’ve worked my entire life to build something with the fragility of a house of cards, Ms. Argento, you’re a damned fool.”
A protectiveness surged in me, causing my hands to form into fists. At this point, I should have known better. Sloane could protect herself.
“If you think you’re going to escape the law again,” she said slowly, as if speaking to a child. “Then you’re fucking irrational. Humphrey misses you, by the way.”
The first sign of emotion—however distant—flashed across his face. “Humphrey is the human version of a bloody golden retriever. He misses everyone when out of sight for more than two minutes.”
“Funny that you never told him,” she said. “Never told him who you really are.”
Bernard took a long sip of whiskey but kept his eyes trained on us. “A man can’t have one friend who sees the best in him?”
“Ah,” I said. “It makes more sense now. I’m sorry to discover your friendship with Humphrey was always about placating your delicate ego, Bernard.”
He laughed again, but it was bitter and violent sounding.
“Victoria misses you too,” I added. “She narrowly avoided prison time because of you.”
I was swinging for the fences, trying every vulnerability we knew about the man. The look on his face told me he’d kept tabs on his lady love.
“Victoria is not a woman who can be caged.”
“You don’t even care that she protected you?” I said.
His jaw tightened. He swirled the liquid in his glass. “Sacrifices, Mr. Royal. We all make them in this life. Besides, I’ve heard Victoria is doing fine for herself now. A little house arrest won’t keep her down.”
“Is this your house arrest?” I said, an edge to my voice.
“If you think I’m giving away any actual secrets to you,” he said. “You’re an even bigger fool than she is.”
I chuckled softly, brow raised. “My contacts at the FBI have assured me the members of The Empty House are feeling less loyal towards their leader since you left them to rot in jail. So keep your secrets, Bernard. They should be coming to light any day now.”
Tension stretched between us. I wasn’t sure how much longer the man was going to play along.
“I’ve been on sabbatical for eleven months.” Bernard shrugged, lazy. “You can ask Eudora. You can ask Louisa, my boss at the McMaster’s Library.”
“Oh, Louisa,” Sloane said. “She hired me.”
The glass paused at Bernard’s lips. “What an intriguing development. This space I’m living in has always been made available for members of the Sherlock Society. We’ve had many covert meetings here. I’m not doing anything wrong or illegal by living here.”
I glanced furtively around the room. It was a small space but stylish—it was shaped like a one or two-bedroom apartment. Except no windows, and the only entrance appeared to be through the secret bookshelf.
“Sound-proofed?” I guessed.
“For privacy,” he said, smiling like a shark.
I gave him the same dangerous-looking smile. “The man formerly known as Jim Dahl is also tied up out there,” I said. “In case you were wondering where he was.”
There. That shocked him—or whatever Bernard’s version of shock was. His face blazed with true anger, only momentarily. He hadn’t liked that. His shark-smile deepened, grew sharper at the edges.
“Thank you for the information,” he said. “I had been wondering. Which, if that’s the case, means I’d love to bring the two of you into my, what did you call it, flimsy house of cards? I offered something similar to my former colleague,” Bernard said. He looked right at me. “You know him, don’t you?”
I gave him a curt nod.
“And he didn’t take the bait?” Sloane asked.
“Oh, it wasn’t bait, Ms. Argento,” Bernard said. “It was five million dollars. My colleague, Henry, is one of those silly men that believe scruples, morals, ethics are real. When they are only figments of our collective imagination. The only real thing is money.”
“How much would you deal us in for?” she asked. And there was a hardness in her tone that sped my pulse. The charming former con artist had come out to play.
“For you two? Ten million dollars.” The man said this with such outrageous confidence I saw how easily he had managed this criminal empire and remained hidden. For most people, money did outweigh morals.
“That’s a lot of fucking money,” she said, chuckling softly. “Can you believe it, Abe?” She kept her expression neutral when she peered my way. But flicked her eyes once to the left—her tell. Her tell on purpose. We just needed to keep Bernard talking and distracted for a few minutes more.
“I cannot believe it. And what would this ten million do for you?” I asked, playing into Sloane’s game. Whatever it was. Trusting she was right.
“Keep this secret,” Bernard said
sharply. “Give me time to… move to an even more secluded location for my sabbatical. Gather my things, gather my guards. It shouldn’t be too arduous of a task for the two of you. Besides, don’t you get profit from my alleged misdeeds?”
This son of a bitch.
“We do actually,” I said. “Doesn’t Holmes need an adversary? Isn’t Moriarty just as vital?”
“Yes, Mr. Royal. Life is boring without a villain,” he said. “Although money makes villains of all of us. Once you embrace that human weakness, you can turn it into strength.”
Sloane’s fingers tightened on her glass almost imperceptibly. I knew she understood that weakness intimately.
“Besides, if it’s only the three of us,” he said. “This secret could stay safe for years and years to come. Who else would possibly know?”
The sweetest sound in the world hit my ears. Sirens. With my own confident smile, I raised my hand and beckoned behind me. “Henry?”
I would never, ever forget watching Henry step into this room with Delilah close behind.
“Good evening, Bernard,” he said.
The glass of whiskey shattered on the floor.
Bernard was effectively speechless; anger turning his face red, then purple. He made a move to rise from the chair, but Henry held up a finger.
“I wouldn’t,” Henry said. “This time I did call the authorities.”
There was a loud banging on the door as police sirens invaded the small space.
Henry slid his hands into his pockets. “Ah,” he said. “That would be them just now.”
46
Abe
We had two minutes, maybe less. Bernard stood, hands shooting out for something—probably a weapon—and Delilah snapped, “Don’t.”
Bernard paused, eyes scanning the room.
I leaned forward in my chair—made sure I captured Bernard’s frantic gaze. “I’m sorry to be the bearer of bad news,” I said. “But the four people standing in front of you are not villains. And I intend to personally guarantee that you spend the rest of your life in prison.”
He visibly paled, shaking. Henry strode right up to him, confidently. Still calm. “Thank you for making me complicit in your crimes, Bernard. If you hadn’t done that, I wouldn’t have met Abe. Wouldn’t have become a private detective. Wouldn’t have met my fiancée.” Henry lowered his tone. “And if you hadn’t made me complicit, I wouldn’t have fucking found you. What did you say to me that night? It’s only a crime if you get caught?”
Police officers shoved their way in—all of us stepped back, hands in the air. Except for Bernard, who suddenly looked as small and cowardly as he truly was.
“Looks like you got caught,” Henry said.
“That man is Bernard Allerton,” I said loudly to the first police officers storming in. “He is a known international suspect for theft and forgery, among many other things.” Bernard’s hands were wrenched behind his back as he was cuffed. His confidence had been drained away, replaced by a sputtering, nonsensical babble. He was afraid—possibly for the first time ever.
The four of us were shoved backward by officers, through that narrow hallway and out into the bookstore. The scene had transformed into pure pandemonium; sirens wailed, and London police filled the room, with paramedics tending to Peter and the guards. Like sleepwalkers with concrete around our ankles, we slipped out the door and onto a street rapidly filling with people.
“Henry,” I started, turning toward him, seeing his determined expression as he watched authorities fill the store. When he finally gave me a wide, joyous smile, I could only grip his shoulder and hope he understood how deeply I felt in that moment.
“I’m glad you were there,” I finally said.
“I’m glad we were all there,” he replied. The squealing of car tires had us spinning around—a slightly disheveled Freya and Sam stumbled from a taxicab just as Bernard was walked out of Adler’s Bookshop in handcuffs, surrounded by police officers. The look on his face as he saw us was cold, righteous fury.
“Oh… my… god,” Freya said.
“Sir?” Sam said, staring.
“Please meet Bernard Allerton,” I said wryly.
“I can’t believe this is happening,” Freya wheezed.
Next to me, Sloane entwined our fingers, squeezed tightly. Peter and the guards were next, also in handcuffs. “I’m guessing you called your father?” I asked.
“He got in touch with Interpol when I told him about Julian and Birdie and whatever might be happening here,” Sam said, still staring in wonder. “He knows we think that man is Jim Dahl.”
“I can’t believe this is happening,” Freya repeated. Delilah hugged her from behind, the two of them watching the scene with wide-eyed wonder.
“Are you going to make the next call?” I asked.
“Do you want to?” Sam asked, taking out his phone.
I shook my head, looped my arm around Sloane, and pulled her hard into my body. “I’m good, actually.”
The five of us watched as former Special Agent Samuel Byrne dialed the Deputy Director. The second the man answered, Sam said, “We got him, sir.”
I couldn’t read the expression on Sam’s face once he hung up. “Well?”
Sam grinned, crookedly. “He said he was extremely pleased at the outcome.”
“Which is basically your father’s version of awarding you a medal of honor,” Freya said. On tiptoe, she grabbed Sam’s face and gave him a smacking kiss on the cheek.
“We all have a role to play in ensuring justice is being served,” I said. “It just so happens that Codex is better at that than most.” The answering smiles of my team collided against my chest, melted the remaining ice around my heart.
“And Julian and Birdie were taken into custody with the help of whoever Sam’s dad called,” Freya said. “Once we give our statements, we can name James Patrick and Eudora as well.”
“Word is traveling fast,” Henry murmured. As Bernard stood, hands cuffed, amidst the red-and-blue lights, a large crowd of people were gathering, which was a form of punishment for Bernard in and of itself.
“It’s Society members,” Sloane said. “Someone must have alerted them. And is that—”
But Sloane didn’t finish, too busy striding off toward a sweet-looking older lady wearing a conservative sweater set.
Eudora Green.
Although the look on her face as she took in the tableau in front of her was one for the record books—shock, terror, confusion. The second she saw Sloane, she turned and tried to run.
Sloane caught her immediately, dragging her by the arm to the police officer standing in front of us.
“Eudora, how lovely to see you again,” I said, giving a small bow.
“You?” she snarled.
“It’s important to cultivate true friends in this world,” Sloane told her. “Just don’t make friends with two private detectives sent here to put people like you in prison.” She turned to the police officer. “This woman was protecting and hiding the wanted criminal right over there.”
Eudora shrieked as the officers took her away for further questioning.
Sloane winked at me as she rejoined us. I pressed my lips to her temple. “Daniel and Devon’s final act of rebellion,” I said against her skin.
I clapped my hands together. “We need to go give statements. Call who we need to call. And then I’ll be buying the most expensive bottle of champagne I can buy for the team of detectives that caught Bernard Allerton.”
In the sea of swarming officers and yelling criminals and flashing lights, I watched my team’s final reactions in slow, beautiful motion. Freya turned to Sam, jumped into his arms. He spun her around as she laughed.
Delilah held her palm to Henry’s face; he stared at her with deep, unending devotion, holding her close. Every single one of them had played a role in getting us here—from the day I’d met Henry until now.
Fingers curled against my own. Sloane’s. Her beautiful face was a shimmering mi
x of peaceful and ecstatic—her smile was sensational, body vibrating with happiness. I dipped my mouth to hers and kissed her. My mind spun, erupted with brightness. I pulled back but kept our lips close.
“Nice work back there,” I said.
“Thanks for trusting me,” she replied. “We did it, together. And while you were on vacation at that.”
My mouth curved into a smile. “I wouldn’t have had it any other way, believe me.” I tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “Maybe this chaos between us isn’t reckless at all. Because if it’s not coincidence, I’m fairly certain we could call this fate.”
The look that came over her face stopped my heart with its all-encompassing hope, trust—and a deeper emotion I wasn’t sure was possible so soon.
Love.
I was pretty damn sure Sloane Argento was staring at me with love. Codex had a world of work still ahead of us and a long list of questions. Capturing these five people tonight didn’t mean everything was automatically closed up and tied off. I sure as hell didn’t know what would happen next between Sloane and me when we returned home to our respective cities, hours apart. But when she kissed me breathless, all of the unanswered questions vanished.
A familiar bellow roared through the busy scene. Instead of its usual cheer, this time the voice was filled with despair.
“Humphrey,” Sloane gasped, stepping back. We turned toward the source of the pain. There was giant Humphrey, in his Sherlock Holmes best, standing at the edge of the crowd with his equally distraught husband.
“Bernie?” he asked, arms outstretched toward his best friend in handcuffs. The police officers placed him in the back of the car. Bernard didn’t acknowledge him once. Startled, Humphrey turned, spotted us.
“Devon? Daniel? Wait… is that Henry?” Humphrey’s hands flew to his head. “What in the bloody hell is going on?”
In the Clear (Codex Book 3) Page 30