“Did he toss it away?” Harold asked, worried that she might say yes. If Stoker had been able to stuff the diary in the wide base of the gasogene and then Conan Doyle had carelessly tossed it in the trash a year later…

“I don’t think so,” said Ms. Higgins, doing her best to recall. She sighed. “If I must, I can check my books. We have lists, you see, of all of Conan Doyle’s possessions and where they’ve gotten off to.”

“Please,” said Harold. “Please.”

“I think I’ve one in my car. The thing is dreadfully heavy. Hold on.” With an irritated sigh, she left him alone while she went outside. Harold sat, tapping his fingers, waiting for her to return.

He flipped through the photograph book listlessly. He was so close now. So miserably close… He skimmed through the end of the book, where he saw portraits of the Conan Doyle family. Harold looked over the faces of Conan Doyle and his wife, his second wife, his children. Generations of Conan Doyles had been in this house and had never known the secret that Harold was about to uncover.

He stopped at the very last photo in the book. It was bright and colorful, modern-clearly taken only a few years past. It must be of the great-grandchildren of the Conan Doyle family. It was unlabeled, but Harold recognized a few of the faces. He even saw Sebastian, grinning out at him from the photograph. If only Sebastian knew where Harold was now. Harold grinned back at the photograph. He felt as if he’d beaten them all.

His eye caught on a young woman standing next to Sebastian in the photograph. She was a solid foot shorter than Sebastian, with curly brown hair and a bright yellow scarf wrapped around her neck.

As Harold’s eyes went wide and every muscle in his body tensed in shock, Ms. Higgins came back in holding a folder full of papers.

“Lucerne,” she said. “It looks like Conan Doyle’s first gasogene, miraculously, made its way to the collection in Lucerne.”

Harold didn’t look at her. He couldn’t take his eyes off the photograph. He mumbled something about Switzerland.

“Yes,” said Ms. Higgins, not expecting this level of indifference from Harold. “It’s at the Sherlock Holmes museum in Lucerne, in Switzerland. You know it?”

“Yes,” muttered Harold. “It’s at the base of the Reichenbach Falls, where Holmes died. They have a complete re-creation of Sherlock Holmes’s study. It’s made up with all items from the period, including a number from Conan Doyle himself. I’m sorry, who is this?”

Ms. Higgins stepped toward him. “What?” she asked. “Who?”

“This woman. In the photograph.” Harold pointed, his hand shaking in the air. He felt as if he were pointing straight at a ghost.

Ms. Higgins approached the photograph. She followed his outstretched fingertip to the beautiful face of the young woman.

“Oh,” she said. “That’s Sarah.”

“Yes,” said Harold. “I know that. What the hell is Sarah doing in a Conan Doyle family photograph? Why is she standing next to Sebastian?”

Ms. Higgins laughed. “Well, I think she’s done a bit more than stand next to him,” she said. “That’s Sebastian Conan Doyle’s wife, Sarah.” She paused, regarding Harold curiously. “Sarah Conan Doyle.”

Harold felt the bitter bile well up in his throat, and he did everything in his power not to collapse.

CHAPTER 41 Whatever That Cost Might Be

December 4,1900

Arthur threw the rock as hard as he could against the gray stones of Scotland Yard. With a sharp clack, the rock bounced off the new Yard building and landed ineffectually at the feet of a nearby constable. Seeing the stone below him, the constable looked up to find its source. He saw Arthur backing away along Victoria Street, and as the constable opened his mouth to shout at the strange rock thrower, Arthur turned his back to the Yard and sped off. The brisk walk was a good outlet for his anger, and so he kept trotting west until, just before Westminster, he slowed and began to pant.

No one had believed him. No one had listened. Arthur’s name was more synonymous with the art of detection than any other in London, save that of Sherlock Holmes, and yet still they had not had the slightest interest in a word he’d said. Inspector Miller, in particular, had been the worst offender, given his recent dealings with Arthur. When Arthur had marched into Miller’s office and announced that he’d found the murderer of Emily Davison, Sally Needling, and their friend Anna, the man had calmly set down the report he’d been reading, awkwardly adjusted the pens on his desk, and then launched into a series of polite platitudes which overwhelmed Arthur in their obsequious banality.“We do so appreciate your help,” Inspector Miller had said, before thanking Arthur for all the time he’d devoted to the cause of justice. The Yard knew that Arthur must be terribly busy, what with all of his novelistic work. His generosity in taking so much time away from his writing had been noticed and appreciated. If he wished, a formal letter from Commissioner Bradford himself could be written, signed, and even framed for placement in Arthur’s home. “We value your assistance more than any other man of the realm,” continued Miller’s flattery. Arthur tried to hush him, tried to concern Inspector Miller with the case at hand rather than this disgraceful sycophancy. His ego did not need burnishing, he explained, but his findings deserved a public hearing. And one Mr. Bobby Stegler, of Stegler & Sons Printing House along the Strand, deserved to be clapped in the inspector’s most uncomfortable darbies and led forthwith to the gallows.

Inspector Miller had sighed. He’d told Arthur that after his recent trip to Newgate, it was best for Arthur to abstain from further involvement in this matter. No one wanted another mistake, after all. Why, careers that had taken a lifetime to build might be rubbed out with a single compromising word! If Arthur ended up in Newgate again, Inspector Miller’s own position of influence within the Yard might be shaken. Wasn’t it better for everyone if Arthur simply let the matter slide?

Arthur insisted that he did not know what would be best for himself or for the inspector or for the imbecilic muffs who ran this ragtag institution, but surely the world would be better off with a murderer placed properly behind bars! The man had killed three women. He would doubtless kill more.

Yes, very well, Arthur had been forced to admit that he had precious little in the way of actual evidence. In fact, he had none at all, save the man’s indirect confession, which only Arthur had heard. Moreover, Arthur did grant that the boy had not actually admitted to having killed those girls-but he certainly alluded to having done so. And that must count for something, mustn’t it? Arthur would stake his own life on this boy’s having been the murderer they’d been hunting for.

Inspector Miller had not been convinced. He had not believed. And, so Arthur realized with a growing anger, Inspector Miller seemed to be harboring suspicions elsewhere as to the identity of the killer.

“You went to the home of Sally Needling’s family?” Miller had asked. “You’ve made contact with this other girl-what was her name? Janet Fry? How do you know these young women so well?”

“I don’t,” Arthur had insisted. He’d tried to explain again. But the inspector’s questions revealed something dark and unspoken about the man’s thoughts-he thought he already knew who had killed Emily Davison. And, Arthur realized to his own horror, the inspector thought it was Arthur.

“What are you insinuating?” Arthur had finally asked him.

“Nothing, Dr. Doyle. As I said, it was my pleasure and my privilege to free you from the chains of Newgate the once. But I think no good would be served by my having to do it again.” The sympathetic nod which Inspector Miller had then given Arthur was the most aggravating part. As if Arthur were a co-conspirator in this corruption.