The Last of August

That impression held true, though the man standing in front of me was impeccably well dressed, given the hour. (The clock beside me read 7:15, because the world was trying to kill me.) He was wearing a blazer, and his shoes were shined up like mirrors. Below his slicked-back hair, his eyes were wrinkled with smile lines. He held out a hand to shake.

“Jamie Watson,” he said. “Do you know, you look just like your father did when I met him. Which is making all of this quite a bit stranger for me, so could you please get out of the bed you’re sharing with my niece?”

I scrambled to my feet. “We’re not—I’m not—it’s very nice to meet you.” Behind me, Holmes was snickering, and I rounded on her. “Come on, really? Some backup would be nice.”

“Do you want me to give him the details, then?”

“Do you want me to give you a shovel so you can keep on digging me this hole?”

“Please,” she shot back. “I’d rather watch. You’re doing such a nice job of it, after all.”

Something was wrong. Our usual banter sounded meaner, pettier than usual. I stopped, not sure what to say.

Leander saved me. “Children,” he said, pulling the door open. “Stop bickering, or I won’t make you breakfast.”

The kitchen was cavernous, all metal and marble and glass. The housekeeper was already hard at work, rolling out a blanket of dough on the counter. I don’t know why it surprised me. Clearly Holmes’s parents weren’t making their own meals, if last night’s formal dinner was any indication.

“Hello, Sarah,” Leander said, pressing a kiss to her cheek. “How late were you up last night, cleaning up after that soiree? I’ll take over. We’ll send breakfast to your room.” He gave her a look I recognized too well, a criminally charming smile straight out of the Charlotte Holmes Is Conning You playbook.

The housekeeper laughed, and blushed, and finally gave up her apron to his waiting hands before she left.

At the counter, Holmes propped her head on her fists. “You’re much more efficient at that than I am.”

Leander didn’t answer for a moment, selecting a saucepan from the hanging copper rack. Holmes’s eyes followed his hands. “You do know that it works best if you mean what you’re saying,” he said. “Fried eggs?”

“I’m not hungry.” She leaned forward. “You have some fascinating bruises on your wrists.”

“I do,” he said, as if she’d commented on the weather. “Jamie? Bacon? Biscuits?”

“God, yes. Is there a kettle here somewhere? I need tea.”

He pointed with his spatula, and the two of us got down to making a breakfast fit for an army. The whole time, Holmes sat with narrowed eyes, taking him apart.

“Go on then,” Leander said finally. “Let’s hear if the deductions you’re making are correct.”

Holmes didn’t waste any time. “Your shoes are hastily laced—the right’s done up in a different pattern than the left—and your blazer wrinkled at the elbows. And I know you’re aware of that; you’re as aware as I am of these things, which means that either you’re trying to send a message to someone or you are actually too worn out and tired to care that you’re pressed to something less than perfection, which means that things have been very hard for you lately. Your hair was just cut by someone in Germany. Don’t give me that look, it’s far more avant-garde than your usual, and Milo mentioned seeing you recently. Berlin, then. If you were to take the pomade out, it’d fall just like one of Jamie’s emo singers. Oh, stop glaring, both of you. I happen to know that Uncle Leander has been going to the same barber in Eastbourne since his teens.” Impatiently, she pulled at her own hair. “You’re hiding a limp, you’ve developed some terrific neck-beard, and—have you been kissing someone?”

The kettle began to whistle loudly enough that neither of them heard me laugh.

Leander made a tsking motion with his spatula. “Charlotte.” He was the only one in her family, I noticed, not to call her by her nickname. “Darling girl, I won’t tell you a single thing unless you agree to eat.”

“Fine.” A smile crept across her face. “Hateful man.”

After Leander brought a tray up to the housekeeper’s room, we settled in around the counter, and I snuck another look at Holmes’s uncle. She was right; he did look tired, the kind of tired I remembered from late last fall, where I felt like I wasn’t allowed the vulnerability of sleep. That, coupled with the trace of worry behind his showman’s smile, and I wondered just where he’d been before Sussex.

“Germany,” he said, picking the thought out of my head. “Charlotte was right on that count. Their government asked me to uncover a forgery ring that may or may not be churning out work by a German painter from the thirties. I’ve been in rather deep cover, and for a long time. It’s a delicate business. You’re winning the trust of some dangerous people, and you need to know how to talk to skittish art students ripping off Rembrandts to make a living.” Unexpectedly, he grinned. “It’s quite fun, honestly. Like playing Whac-a-Mole, only with guns and a wig.”

Holmes tugged at the cuff of his shirt, exposing the bruise beneath. “Yes. Fun.”

“Eat your bacon, or I won’t explain.” He pushed her plate toward her. “Like I said, I’ve not been involved with the most genteel crowd these past few months. And honestly I didn’t really want to take this case to begin with. As interesting as it is, it involves so much legwork, and my legs are happiest on my ottoman. I like a pretty little puzzle as much as the next man, but this . . . well, and then I had lunch with your father, Jamie, and he persuaded me to take it. Like old times, he said, when we were sleuthing together in Edinburgh. He has a family now, so he’s less mobile than I am, but I’ve been sending him daily emails, and he’s helping me put it together from afar.” ns class="adsbygoogle" style="display:block" data-ad-client="ca-pub-7451196230453695" data-ad-slot="9930101810" data-ad-format="auto" data-full-width-responsive="true">