Jeffrey’s phone went off. The sound was somewhere between a squeak and a beep. He looked at the screen and, motioning an apology to Harold, answered his phone.

“Yes?” was all Jeffrey said, and then, after a moment, “Thank you.” Harold looked at him quizzically.

“So you think there’s a secret in that diary?” said Jeffrey. “Well then, kid, why don’t we find out?”

Harold was still just as confused.

“That was the concierge,” continued Jeffrey. “I told him to contact me as soon as Alex Cale checked in.” He smiled again, pleased with himself. “Cale is in the lobby. Want to go solve a mystery?”

Harold narrowly avoided knocking his drink over as he jumped up from his stool.

He bounded out of the wide double doors like Holmes on the trail of Professor Moriarty. Jeffrey, still smiling, followed into the radiant lobby.

Alex-Jeffrey was right, that was actually Alex Cale signing his name for the desk clerk-wore a thick trench coat, buttoned to the top, and held a heavy-looking briefcase in his right hand. He transferred the case to his left hand while he finished with the hotel forms. Effete but friendly, Alex was the kind of man who hosted as many parties as he attended and who had a knack for making sure that everyone was satisfied with a drink at even the parties for which he wasn’t responsible. Harold had met Alex at previous Sherlockian events, and of course he’d known Alex’s name almost as long as he’d known the name Sherlock Holmes, but he did not know him well.

“Alex, my old friend, you’re here!” bellowed Jeffrey. Alex turned but didn’t seem entirely happy to see the two men heading toward him.

“Gentlemen,” said Alex quietly. His accent-English-was rare among the Irregulars, most of whom were American. Alex neither set down the case nor moved to embrace his two colleagues in any way. He stood there like a wet paper towel, damp and used. A storm must have kicked up outside. Harold hadn’t noticed. Alex’s pupils were wide, as if from lack of sleep. He seemed to gaze right past them.

“Where have you been all week, you old dog? We’ve missed you. Yesterday we had the most marvelous talk from Laurie King about the Woman-her role in the Great Hiatus, all that. Fascinating.”

“Sorry I missed it,” said Alex with obvious insincerity. He must know, thought Harold, that they did not want to talk to him about any of this. They wanted to talk to Alex about what everyone wanted to talk to Alex about: The diary. Tomorrow’s lecture. The solution to a hundred-year puzzle.

“Who are you?” asked Alex. He didn’t even bother to look Harold in the eye as he said it.

“Harold. I’m Harold White. I was just invested in the Irregulars tonight.” Harold reached out for a shake, but Alex made no move to take his hand. “We actually met once before. In California. You were at UCLA, giving a talk?”

“Right, yes,” said Alex. “I remember. Pleasure to see you again.” Alex clearly did not remember, nor did he seem particularly pleased.

“They get younger every year, don’t they?” said Jeffrey warmly.

Harold tried not to take offense.

“I’m not really that young,” countered Harold. “I’ve already-”

“Do not turn around,” said Alex abruptly.

Harold was confused. “I’m sorry?”

“ Do not turn around,” repeated Alex. Both Harold and Jeffrey were facing away from the hotel’s front doors, though both instinctively started to cheat their heads to the side. “There’s someone outside. Through the window. Do not turn, what’s-your-name-Harry?-what did I just say to you? Now, I’m going to shift slightly to my right. Yes. Now you two do the same. Yes. Again. Can you see anyone? There at the window?”

Harold tried to move his eyes without moving his head, which gave him a slight headache. He saw thick waves of rain batter the tall windows. He saw dull streaks of white light on the glass from the streetlights across Forty-fourth Street. He did not see anything like a face in the window, peering sinisterly into the lobby.

Harold was confused, and he was becoming concerned as well- though for Alex’s sanity rather than for his safety. Jeffrey did not appear to see anything untoward outside the hotel either, and he seemed equally uncertain about how to respond.

“C’mon now,” said Jeffrey. “Quit putting us on. Come and let’s have a drink. You can tell us about your adventures.”

Alex either ignored or didn’t hear him, searching the rest of the lobby in quick, sharp glances.

“Tell us what’s in the diary,” Jeffrey continued. “Please. Give us a sneak peek, before tomorrow.”

Alex stared at Jeffrey for a silent moment. He appeared genuinely confused.

“You really want to know what’s in this diary?” said Alex.

The question was so simple, and the answer so obvious, that it took them a few moments to respond.

“Yes,” said the two men, in approximate unison. For the first time, Alex made eye contact with Harold. The effect was unnerving.

”I wonder if you do,” said Alex. “When you’re presented with a problem, it’s only natural to want to know the answer. But if you think you can manage to sleep tonight, then sleep on this: Is the mystery sometimes more pleasurable than the solution? Are you sure that finding out what’s in this diary will be as satisfying as forever wondering about what’s in this diary?” He stepped back, away from them, switching his briefcase from one hand to the other. He pulled it to his chest, tapping it lightly with his free hand. “I suppose you’ll see tomorrow, then.”

As Alex walked quickly away across the hardwood floor, Harold noticed the line of wet footprints he left in his path. The shoe-shaped puddles quickly streaked and pooled, their original shape lost into a thin watery sheen.

From around the lobby, Harold could hear murmuring. Sherlockian heads were turning. Wait, was that just Alex Cale, standing there? The man with the briefcase? But before anyone else could approach him, Alex disappeared into an elevator.

“Jesus,” said Harold. “What do you think he meant by that?”

“That by this time tomorrow,” answered Jeffrey, “we’ll have solved the last great mystery of Arthur Conan Doyle.”

CHAPTER 5 Mourning

December 18,1893

Arthur emerged from the orange glow of the Charing Cross Station into the dry Christmastime cold. Despite being well into winter, London had experienced little snowfall. Thus everyone expected a huge storm any day now. The cold bashed against Arthur’s long coat, wheedling its way into the sleeves, slipping between the laces of his leather shoes, poking at his earlobes, and, after a few moments, painting the tops of his ears blush red.

In the second week of this snowless December, Arthur’s murder- and he thought of it as such in no uncertain terms-of Sherlock Holmes had become public. “FAMED DETECTIVE PERISHES,” blared the headline in the Times. Arthur was embarrassed by this supreme foolishness. The dolts even printed an obituary for the man. An obituary for a fictional character. In a newspaper, no less. It was sign enough, thought Arthur, that things had indeed gotten out of hand with the fellow. Ending it was clearly the right thing to do. He was a nuisance, and the good people of London would be better served by some higher fiction. At least, at last, the madness would die down. Some new adventurer would pop up from the pages of the Strand and onto the national stage; perhaps it would be that Raffles character, the one Willie Hornung had been writing about. Sherlock Holmes would be forgotten in a year’s time. Arthur was sure of it.