“Thank you, Dr. Doyle,” was the only thing he said when Arthur had concluded. Edward Henry then turned to Inspector Miller. “Were you aware of all this?” he asked his fellow detective.

“Indeed I was. I’ve been in communication with Dr. Doyle as to these investigations from the start.”

“I see,” said Henry pensively. “Dr. Doyle, I’m sure that this Stoker fellow you’ve mentioned will be able to corroborate your story?”

Arthur was unsure of why his “story” required any corroborating. “Certainly,” he said. “If you need, I can provide you with his address.”

Edward Henry exhaled through his nose and climbed wearily to his feet. He folded his hands behind his back and began to pace. He seemed greatly vexed over some inner dilemma.

“ It’s a fantastic story,” he said after pacing in silence for a few moments. “Rather like something from one of your books, isn’t it? But I wonder if the casual reader would even find it credible.”

“Sir,” said Arthur as he stood to join the detective, “I should like to know what you mean by that.”

“I mean,” said Henry, “that you would have me believe that you deduced, through only a lengthy chain of logical reasoning and a brief evening in a skirt, the identity and location of the woman who tried to murder you. That you then went to her lodgings to confront her, but, finding the door locked, you-or this friend of yours-drew a pistol and shot through the lock. When you then came face-to-face with your attempted murderer, you argued with her briefly, sat down to a bit of tea, explained to her the error of her ways, and left. That you then went home, got a good night’s rest, and called upon our dear Inspector Miller the next morning to explain the whole affair. And that someone else snuck into this flat soon after you’d left and beat this poor, unfortunate girl into the floor like she was wet laundry? It’s a good story you’ve concocted, Dr. Doyle, and it explains every bit of your involvement in this matter that we were sure to discover otherwise. It seems to have thrown Inspector Miller off the hunt, hasn’t it?”

Arthur was aghast. It had never occurred to him that the Yard would suspect him, of all people, in Emily’s murder. It was hideous that anyone could believe him capable of such a thing.

Inspector Miller abandoned his perch by the window. Arthur couldn’t help but think that the inspector had a slight smile on his face.

“You cannot possibly be accusing Arthur Conan Doyle of murder!” said Inspector Miller. “They say he’ll be knighted soon enough. If you accuse him falsely, it will be rot on your promising career.”

“I don’t accuse anyone,” said Henry. “I merely suggest that we will have to follow up on his story. And that we may have to submit Dr. Doyle to a more thorough interrogation.”

“How dare you!” said Arthur. He was suddenly quite angry. His blood had not boiled slowly, like water in a kettle, but rather it had gone hot all at once. In just an instant, he found himself shouting at A.C. Henry. “Do you see her face? Could I have done this? Could I have done that with these hands?”

What happened next Arthur would always regard as the strangest of accidents. He raised his knuckles to Edward Henry’s face, understandably trying to show how soft and gentle they were. These were the hands of a writer, not a butcher, and Arthur had simply wanted to show the detective that. But at the sight of Arthur’s knuckles just inches from his face, Edward Henry batted Arthur’s arms down with a sweep of his hand. Feeling himself attacked, Arthur then did what any warm-blooded man would do. He swung back, clocking the detective square in the jaw.

Henry stepped back, holding his sore face. All eyes in the room turned to Arthur. It was only then, a few seconds later, that Arthur became aware that he had just assaulted a police officer.

“Men,” said Edward Henry quietly, “place the darbies on Dr. Doyle, if you will.” Two detectives approached Arthur from behind. They were considerate of Arthur’s comfort, as they placed his hands inside a pair of metal cuffs and clamped them around his wrists. As they stood to Arthur’s sides, each with a hand on one of his shoulders, they stared down at their own boots, as if frightened of making eye contact.

Arthur was too stunned to speak. What had he done? He looked to Inspector Miller for support.

“Don’t you worry, now, Arthur,” said Inspector Miller, “we’ll straighten this all out.”Arthur did not say another word as the two bobbies led him down the stairs and out into a waiting carriage, bound for Newgate Prison.

CHAPTER 32 The Library

January 11, 2010, cont.

The outside of the British Library, at St. Pancras, was the color of terracotta. Architecturally, it resembled a set of misshapen rectangles that had been laid on top of one another without quite fitting together. Harold was reminded of a broken Lego kit.

Harold and Sarah passed through the public gate, under the tall portico on which the words “British Library” descended in pudgy letters from the ceiling. Harold quickly glanced at the mammoth statue of Isaac Newton as they made their way inside; he didn’t have much of an eye for sculpture, but he did think that the bronze figure’s meaty calf muscles were surprisingly large for a mathematician’s.

They filled out their paperwork in the cramped registration office. They claimed to be bird scholars and presented their driver’s licenses. Harold had thought that getting access to the stacks of the British Library would be difficult, time consuming, and horrifically bureaucratic, but within twelve minutes he and Sarah had made it through security and into the first of the private reading rooms.

A quick search of the electronic card catalog revealed that the nature section, on Shelf 7852, was located on the fourth floor. They went up the elevator and through the stacks, finally making their way to a low shelf on which sat dozens upon dozens of bird-watching guides.

The idea of coming to the British Library had been Harold’s. He was certain that the missing copy of British Birds from Alex Cale’s writing office could not be an accident. So where would it be?

“Remember what Jennifer Peters told us about Cale’s research?” Harold had said. “He did most of it in the British Library. It sounded like he spent much of his final weeks there. And if I had to pick one place in London to hide a book where it wouldn’t be accidentally disturbed…”

As soon as Harold saw the birding section on the fourth floor, he felt more confident in his suspicion that some clue might be waiting for him there. The whole natural-sciences area was devoid of visitors. Dust covered every book on the shelf. It looked as if no one had been there in months, at best. If Cale had left something here to be found after his death, there was every indication that Harold would still be able to find it. He dropped to his knees, yanking the books off the shelves with excitement.

“Is there a specific book we’re looking for?” said Sarah as she joined Harold on the floor.

“Not really,” replied Harold. “Anything with ‘British’ and ‘birds’ in the title. In the story the book is just called British Birds, but nothing with that exact name exists. But there are a bunch of similar options. Here.” Harold pulled out a book called Bird Song: A Field Manual for Naturalists on the Songs of British Birds “Hmm,” he continued as he flipped to the book’s copyright page. “From 1925. Too recent. He would have used a book that had been in print when Conan Doyle was alive. Something Sherlock Holmes could have read. Something printed in the 1880s or 1890s.”