Page 57 of Holmes Is Missing

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.”

CHAPTER62

AUGUSTE POE WAStossed back and forth in the back of an NYPD patrol car as it sped through Brooklyn, lights flashing, siren wailing. The two cops in the front seat had pulled him out of Holmes, Marple & Poe headquarters with just three words: “Duff wants you.”

“Did they locate the person I called about?” asked Poe, banging on the partition between the back and front seats. He’d contacted Duff’s office earlier to relay the information Marple had given him, but all he’d gotten in response was a brusque brush-off. Until the knock on his door.

“Where are we going?” asked Poe. The cop behind the wheel turned around as they passed through Greenpoint, heading north.

“Silvercup Studios,” he said. “Incident in progress.”

A kidnapping!Poe thought.Marple was right!

As the car sped through traffic, Poe pulled out his phone and tapped the deerstalker hat icon on his favorites menu for the dozenth time. When the line clicked, he didn’t even wait for Holmes to speak.

“Where the hell are you? Why was your phone off? I’ve been trying to reach you!”

“I’m on the train,” Holmes replied. His voice was garbled by a weak connection. “Almost back to New York.”

“Margaret got a lead on another abduction!” shouted Poe. “I think it’s happening right now! I’m texting you the location.” Poe looked up to seeSILVERCUPin giant red letters looming over a pale brick edifice a few blocks away. “Get here fast!” he said, then clicked off.

The police car pulled up to the studio entrance, and a cop with an M4 carbine waved them through into a narrow parking area behind the studio complex. The driver pulled them to an abrupt stop in a cluster of other official vehicles—patrol cars, SWAT units, comms vans, ambulances. The lot was glowing with red, blue, and amber lights. A police helicopter hovered overhead. Poe spotted Captain Graham Duff barking orders to a couple of cops in tactical gear. The captain looked up and flicked his hand in a beckoning motion. The two cops grabbed Poe by the arms and hustled him over.

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