They could hear the old woman from downstairs coming out into the hall, drawn from her flat by the noises from upstairs.

“What’s going on there?” she shouted up the staircase. Bram and Arthur exchanged a look. What should they say?

“Almost done!” shouted Arthur in response. “We’ll be through in a minute!” This did not remotely address the woman’s question, but it seemed to provide them with a little bit of time. The old woman seemed not to know what next to say.

Arthur shrugged and then wound himself up for another kick. This one was no more effective than the others.

“You’re quite sure there’s no problem?” the woman called.

“No, ma’am!” yelled Arthur. As he prepared himself for another kick-his knees were growing sore-Bram stuck out his hand.

“Wait,” whispered Bram. “If you really intend to break in to Emily’s lodgings by force, then we might as well just see it done.” Bram reached a hand into his coat pocket and removed a pearl-handled revolver. He drew back the pin, pointed it at the door, and pulled the trigger.

The whole building seemed to echo from the gunshot. As Arthur’s hearing returned, he began to make out reverberations from every corner of the four-story. But it wasn’t until the ringing in his ears began to subside that he became fully aware of what had just occurred.

“Sorry about that, ma’am!” Bram yelled down the staircase. “That’ll be all for now!”

Arthur looked at the door. The knob hung loose from the door’s face, and the lock inside appeared permanently disfigured. Bram easily pushed the door open with one gentle stroke of his hand.

The old woman did not respond, but seemed instead to return to her flat. Or so Arthur could deduce from the sounds he heard burbling up the staircase.

“That was a good bit louder, and rather more sudden, than I might have expected,” Arthur said. “Don’t think I’ve ever heard a shot go off indoors before. Frightfully loud.”

“If your plan is to search through Emily’s lodgings,” said Bram, “then I suggest we do it quickly. We’ll have inquiries about the noise soon enough.” He entered the flat, and Arthur followed.

Inside, they found a mess that had little to do with their break-in. A tea set lay out beside a couch, cups and saucers scattered over every flat surface. Murky liquid, which might once have been called tea, pooled inside the cups. It gave off a gentle whiff of spoiled milk.

Off to one side of the room was an open doorway leading to a cramped bedroom. Arthur could see from the main sitting room that the bed was unmade and that articles of ladies’ clothing were strewn about the floor alongside the bedsheets. Though the windows had seemed large from across the street, as they were Arthur’s only portals into Emily’s world, now that he was inside, they seemed rather small. They mustn’t let in much light, even in the daytime. Outside, it was dark, and as Arthur approached the window, he looked down at the lonely streetlamp under which he’d stood. He could barely make it out, given all the fog.

Across from the bedroom door sat a worktable, on which all manner of objects seemed to coexist. There were chemical beakers and test tubes, sacks of colored powders and wide Corning vials, balls of twine and a stack of cheap brown wrapping paper. The work done upon this table was scientific, Arthur could tell at least that much. In the center of the table, a white box lay opened. Arthur peered inside and found himself face-to-face with a tube of dynamite.

It looked identical to the tube he’d found wrapped in a very similar package, in his letter box. Fortunately, in this case the dynamite did not appear to be attached to anything. There was no triggering mechanism in sight. Arthur reached down and turned the package over. On the bottom a label had already been fixed. “Dr. Arthur Conan Doyle,” it read. “Undershaw. Hindhead.”

Bram joined Arthur at the desk. He merely nodded as he observed the letter bomb, and the name printed on its address label.

“My God,” said Arthur. “It was this Emily girl. She was the one who tried to kill me.” But before Bram could respond, they heard footsteps at the door to the flat. Both men turned.

Emily stood in the doorway in her colorful coat. Under the crook of one arm, she held a stack of letters. In the other arm, she held a revolver, which she aimed straight at Arthur.

Arthur’s mind turned, strangely, not to his family, or his loves, but to Bram. Underpinning Arthur’s fear was the thought that he should never have involved a friend so good as Bram in all this. Bram deserved more, Arthur realized as he stared into the steel face of Emily’s pistol and watched her pull back the pin.

CHAPTER 26 Ron Rosenberg Theorizes

January 10, 2010, cont.

With great effort Ron Rosenberg heaved himself onto his feet. He still clutched his knee, his hands rubbing at the spot where Sarah had kicked it. While Ron took a deep breath, Sarah stepped back, giving him space. She continued to hold the knife in her hand, however, its blade outstretched and at the ready.

“Why are you following us?” said Harold.

“And more importantly,” said Sarah, “what the hell are you wearing?”

As if suddenly remembering his disguise, Ron reached up to his face and pulled off the costume nose. He removed a pair of fake gray eyebrows and a very convincing gray wig. Bits of leathery fake skin had been dislodged from his cheeks and forehead. They hung off him, making it look as if his face were melting.

“Maybe I should be the one asking questions of the two of you!” he said. “What have you done with the diary?”

“Jesus, Ron, we don’t have the diary. Stop.” Harold turned to Sarah, addressing her. “The costume, the old man bit… It’s a Sherlock Holmes thing. When he was trailing suspects, Holmes would go out in disguise a lot. He often dressed as an old man, or even an old woman. It’s in a bunch of stories.” He turned back to Ron. “Which doesn’t explain what you’re doing here.”

“I had hoped not to reveal my hand this early, Harold, but you leave me no choice. I think you killed Alex Cale and stole the diary. I think you’re in league with Sebastian Conan Doyle and that the two of you planned it together.”

Sarah smiled.

Harold rubbed his temples with his hands, more irritated than angry. “Why would I kill Cale?”

“Because you wanted to be number one, Harold. Don’t pretend you’re not ambitious. You’ve been an Irregular for, what, a week now? You’ve already published an article in the Baker Street Journal. You’ve befriended all of the group’s luminaries, including me. You made sure to meet Alex Cale the night before his death. Jeffrey Engels sponsored your investiture, you must know that. But did you think he was going to help you cover up the murder, too? Don’t be stupid, Harold.”

Harold didn’t even know where to begin his response. Ron was embarrassing, not just to himself but to Harold. Detective work was serious and difficult and not something to be dabbled in. Ron wasn’t cut out for this. This wasn’t a time for amateurs.

“I didn’t kill anybody,” Harold said wearily. “If I was the murderer, then why was I the first person to discover his body? Why am I out here trying to find the murderer? Why not go home and enjoy my new tenmillion-dollar diary, the one that I just stole?”

“To draw suspicion away from yourself, of course!” replied Ron. He spoke with equal parts professorial condescension and rueful acknowledgment of a skilled adversary. “No one ever suspects that the detective himself is the murderer. It’s a brilliant device, but an old one. Agatha Christie used it first, not Conan Doyle. The Murder of Roger Ackroyd. Remember, I’ve read all the same stories that you have, Harold. I know what you’re up to.”