Page 61

CHAPTER 61

HOLMES STARED AT his mother from across her sparsely furnished living room. Now that the initial shock was over, he was trying to sort out his feelings. So far, she hadn’t said anything beyond inviting him in. Her voice was exactly as he remembered it—just deepened a bit by age.

“So you call yourself Holmes now,” she said, assessing him from head to toe. “It suits you.”

They sat in opposite armchairs, both frayed and faded. Holmes glanced around the room, finding it difficult to meet her gaze. The coffee table between them was marred by whitish cup rings. The pictures on the walls looked as if they had been lifted from a motel room. A faint whiff of mold emanated from behind the paneling.

“And you’re calling yourself Charlotte Drummond?”

Nina’s eyebrows went up.

“It’s on the title to the house,” Holmes said.

“Well, I suppose I needed to become somebody else. Cut ties to the past. You can understand that.”

“Are you clean?” Holmes asked.

“Twenty years this week,” said Nina. She gave him an appraising look. “You?”

“Work in progress.”

“I had a suspicion. I’m sorry. I’m afraid you got that gene from me.”

“Yes. Along with the one for disappearing without a trace.”

Holmes was doing his best to tamp down his anger at the deception, the years lost. He loved his mother. Yet now he felt entirely betrayed by her.

She seemed to read his thoughts.

“It wasn’t my choice,” she said. “It was your father’s. But I didn’t disagree. We both thought you’d be better off without… me. After Edmond passed, it seemed best not to interfere with your life. I was still using. There was no point in my going back. For a long time, I didn’t even know where you were.”

Holmes still had the letter in his hand. He held it up again. “Tell me. Is this real?”

Nina took the page and unfolded it. Her eyes brightened slightly. “I haven’t read this in decades.”

“It’s authentic?” Holmes said, pressing harder. “Not a forgery?”

Of course, he had long ago run his own detailed analysis on the penmanship, the ink, and the chemical composition of the paper. He knew the letter’s origin story by heart. But he needed to hear it again. Directly from his mother.

“Sir Arthur Conan Doyle was quite the letter writer,” she said, holding the letter in her lap. “He wrote thousands over his lifetime, mostly to his mother. As I’m sure you know, they were very close. But he wrote to a lot of other people too—friends, publishers, colleagues. One of those colleagues was my great-grandfather.”

Holmes leaned forward, listening intently, watching for any tells of duplicity.

There were none.

“Lewis was a detective at Scotland Yard at the turn of the last century. A good one, apparently. Very clever. He gave Sir Arthur a lot of insights into the criminal mind. This letter has been in the family for generations. It was passed down to me by my father, who got it straight from his grandfather Lewis. When I saw how obsessed you were with mysteries, I gave it to you. On your tenth birthday, I think.”

“Eleventh,” said Holmes pointedly. “The last one you were at. Before you left.”

His mother looked down at the letter again, then held it up a few inches from her face. She started reading it aloud. Holmes found himself mouthing the words as she spoke, like a memorized prayer.

My dear Inspector,

I cannot thank you enough for your help with the two novels. You have helped me bring Mr Holmes to life. He is beginning to find an audience here at home and even across the Pond. With all that you know about the evil men do, it’s a wonder you’re not a criminal yourself. I will owe you forever, and so will Sherlock. In many ways, he is your creation as much as mine.

Very cordially yours,

A. Conan Doyle

She handed him back the letter. “See? It’s all there on the page. This is where it all started. I’m not surprised that you became a detective, Brendan. I’m not even surprised that you finally tracked me down. It’s in your blood—that drive to run down every clue, wrap up every loose end. Even a loose end like me. You have every right to call yourself Holmes if you want. I think it’s your reason for living.”

Holmes reached for the letter. He folded it and put it back into his pocket.

“Actually,” he said, “I’m quitting before it kills me.”