“Were you following me?” Harold asked after another long silence.

“I wasn’t. Eric was. I followed him, which was easy enough. He works for my ex-husband.” She looked at Harold, trying to gauge how much of this he already knew. His expression did not register much in the way of surprise.

“I used to be married to Sebastian Conan Doyle,” Sarah continued. “Used to be, okay? Everything I said about the divorce was true. He’s a bastard, let me just say that straight out. But I seem to have a long history with bastards. I don’t know. They find me, I guess.”

“Why do I care?” The harshness in Harold’s voice surprised even himself. As he felt calmer, and safer, he also felt angrier.

“Because none of this was my idea, okay? At least not the worst parts. You have to think I’m a terrible person, don’t you?”

“Yes.”

Sarah sighed. “I understand. But listen. I really am a reporter. Well, I really was a reporter. That was all true, too. Sebastian and I separated six months ago. We did. You can look it up. It’s a long story, and you don’t care. After we split, I wanted to write again. And I had all these Sherlockian connections, because of him. Or at least I knew a lot about Alex Cale, and about all of your organizations, because Sebastian followed them religiously. He hated you all so much, I can’t even begin to tell you. But he wanted that diary. And I’ll tell you right now, I think he would have killed Alex to get it. He didn’t, I know. But I think he would have.

“When Alex announced his discovery…I wasn’t there, but I can only imagine how furious Sebastian was. When I heard about it, I knew this would be my opportunity to write again. That’s when Sebastian called me. I honestly don’t know how he found out about the piece I was working on. He said we could combine forces. We could work together to find the diary. I could write whatever I wanted, as long as I helped him. And we were finalizing our divorce… He offered to make things easier. A lot easier. There were some complications that didn’t make me look very good, and he was offering to be very generous, and… I said yes, okay? I said yes. I accept responsibility for that. It was complicated, and I said yes. I’d play the reporter, and I’d help him get the diary.”

“Where the hell did Eric come from?”

“He works for Sebastian. He has for a while. But that’s all I know.”

“If Sebastian got you to help him find the diary,” said Harold, “and then he got me to help him find the diary, then what was Eric doing? Why did Sebastian need Eric running around with a gun if he had me and you?”

Sarah paused for a moment. This was a problem she’d thought about before.

“Because he didn’t trust you,” she said. “And God knows he didn’t trust me. It’s just like Sebastian, really. You have a problem, so you throw as much money at it as possible. Hire three different people to work on it, but don’t tell them about each other, keep everyone in the dark, and if they kill each other… well, whatever. At least one of them will find what you’re looking for. I told you, Harold. He’s really, truly, totally, and completely a bastard.”

Harold looked up at the glittering stars. They barely lit the side of the mountain. Even Sarah’s face was disappearing in the blackness. He believed her. But believing her didn’t make him feel any better.

Sarah reached behind her and took the diary, placing it on Harold’s knees.

“We can use the light from my phone,” she offered, “if you want to read it.”

Harold swallowed. “Yes,” he said. “I do.”

Sarah removed a cell phone from her pocket and opened it, using the face of the phone like a spotlight as she pointed it at the diary. Harold gently pried open the covers. The pages were fragile and yellow, but he could make out the words written in Arthur Conan Doyle’s broad hand.

Harold held the diary between them, and together they read.

CHAPTER 45 The Missing Diary of Arthur Conan Doyle

December 8,1900

Arthur wrote it all down.

That’s what he did-he wrote things down. Writing was both his occupation and his calling. He was celebrated around the globe because was so very good at it. When he wrote, when he put events into words, into clear and tidy sentences, they were understood. Things made sense when Arthur wrote them down. And so, terrible as these events were, they demanded to be chronicled. They demanded to be wrought onto paper, to be sculpted from raw feeling into refined language. That’s what writers did, wasn’t it? They named that which needed naming, they enunciated that which had previously been unspoken.

The night of the deaths of Bobby and Melinda Stegler, Arthur stayed up till dawn, describing everything that had happened in as much detail as he could recall. When a particular moment escaped his memory, he embellished upon what he knew. He wrote the story as it existed for him. He did not glorify himself. He did not make it seem as if he were blameless, as if he bore no responsibility for the evening’s tragedy. He did, and he would not deny it. But nor would he gloss over the villainy of Bobby Stegler. That the boy had deserved to die was really beyond debate, and Arthur had to be sure to be clear on that point. It did not justify the tragedy of his sister. Nothing would. But then, in these weeks, in all this time since that bomb had exploded, no tragedy had ever been justified. None of the violence that had stained Arthur’s life had ever been explained. Death, murder-perhaps in the end they were never explainable. They simply were.

Arthur and Bram did not see each other again for a few days. Neither man, it seemed, wanted to talk about what had happened. They read the reports in the newspapers, and when no culprits were found- and no bobbies came knocking on either of their doors-they knew that it was over. They would never see Tobias Stegler again, and the burden of his children’s death would live with him and him alone. For that they were quite sorry. Arthur did wonder whether Janet Fry would call on him again-she knew the name Bobby Stegler. She must have been in his shop. If she saw the notice of his death in the papers, would she make the connection to the deaths of her friends? Or would she chalk it up to odd coincidence? She had been so convinced of the guilt of Millicent Fawcett, after all…

But as the days went by and Arthur heard nothing from her, he became satisfied that he wouldn’t. And so he was free. If Inspector Miller suspected anything, which he probably did-well, what would he do about it? Inspector Miller had, at least so he thought, helped Arthur cover up one murder already. He would do the same for another two. Was Inspector Miller at work, pulling strings to keep Arthur’s name in the clear? Or was Scotland Yard really incompetent enough not to be able to trace the murders back to Arthur’s doorstep? He would never know. He was free, whether through corruption, incompetence, or dumb luck.

On December 8, 1900, Bram Stoker made his last visit to Undershaw, and to Arthur’s study. He came to talk. It was time for them to consult about what had occurred and to properly bid farewell to this period in their lives.

For two men of such intimacy, the meeting felt curiously formal. As Bram entered and Arthur put down his pen, he felt awkward for the first time in his friend’s company.

Silence followed.

“What are you writing?” asked Bram, after the strangest quiet in their friendship.

“It’s… Well, you wouldn’t believe it if I told you,” said Arthur, oddly embarrassed by the words on the page before him.