The Initiation (17 page)

“I
HEARD ABOUT YOUR FATHER.
I
'M TERRIBLY
sorry.” Sherlock sat at his desk, a stack of open library books before him. He closed the top three books the moment he saw James.

“Thanks,” James said.

“If you need the room to yourself . . . ?”

“No, I'm okay. I don't think I have any more tears left in me.” He tried to laugh; it sounded more like a wet cough.

“They're in there,” Sherlock said, “and you must trust to let them out whenever they want.”

“An expert on grief too?” He lashed out at his
roommate, eyes squinting, his voice strident.

“Sorry to say, yes. Me mum and da, both gone. It's just my older brother, Mycroft, and me. We are like you and Moria, except he's seven years my senior.”

“I need you to stay away from her for a while.”

“Sorry?”

“Just for a while. No more you and Moria.”

“But she needs friends now more than ever. You as well, James.”

“Not you, she doesn't. Not me, either.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Bad things happen to Moriarty women,” James said, quoting Father. “Father's death. They're calling it an accident.”

“And?”

“Moria can't be involved.”

“You don't believe it was an accident,” Sherlock said.

“I didn't say that. Forget it, please. Promise me you'll give Moria some space.”

“The clues? The Bible?”

“You see? There you go again!”

“James, I can help.” Sherlock was thinking about the image of the key in the floor that he intentionally hid in the chapel.

“No.”

“You're sure this is how you want it?”

“Yes.”

“Can we talk about some of this? Not later, but now?”

“I suppose.”

“We know a family Bible typically contains birth and death records, James. But is there any reason to believe that's why it was taken?”

“Meaning?”

“Moria and I think it may have been copied.”

“Copied?”

“Scanned. In the computer lab. No proof. Just a hunch.”

“For what? How can that make any sense? A Bible's a Bible.”

“It doesn't make sense. Not unless your family Bible is different somehow.”

“A swearing in,” James said. Clearly feeling uncomfortable about his doing so, he shared the conversation he'd had with Moria. With the death of Father, he was more desperate than ever to figure things out.

“Interesting,” Sherlock mumbled.

“How so?”

“Your father will have left you instructions.”

“So say you.”

“So say I. In the will, or the trust, or whatever
arrangements he has made for you and Moria. A Moriarty tradition or ritual.”

“The
initiation
,” James whispered.

“How's that?”

“Something my father sa—” He caught himself.

“You spoke to your father? Recently?”

“Never mind that.”

“James. If you—”

“He knew about the clues. I think he'd done them as well back whenever. He said that word, ‘initiation,' but it was like he regretted it. Never mind!
Leave it alone!
”

“You're absolutely right. How unkind of me. You need time to grieve and not worry about such things.” Sherlock's mind was whirring.

“Promise me.”

“Promises are made to be broken, James. I don't make them. I do, however, give you my word in this: I respect your concerns, and I want nothing whatsoever to do with any harm that may come to you or Moria. Nothing could be further from the case. And I will point out the obvious: the headmaster is not to be trusted. I believe you've made the connection we've been seeking, and clearly the headmaster is culpable in some manner or other.”

“You're not listening.”

“I am not your enemy, James. You may indeed
have enemies, but I am not one of them and it's time you figure that out.”

“What connection?” James asked, too curious to allow it to pass.

“Your presence here at Baskerville, the tradition of the clues.”

“Mr. Know-It-All.”

“I observe. I analyze. And yes, I render opinion as a result of both. But please—”

“Just . . . stop!”

“Very well.” Sherlock returned his attention to the pile of books on his desk. “But I think you might consider a visit to your home where . . . it happened . . . before the police muck it all up.”

“You're impossible!” James said.

“I try,” answered Sherlock.

F
OUR DAYS PASSED EXPEDITIOUSLY AND
J
AMES
and I found ourselves back in our Beacon Hill home in anticipation of a hastily arranged memorial service scheduled for the following morning. Ralph delivered us curbside, where we were greeted by Lois, our prim and proper former nanny. For a while now, Lois had been about as close as we got to a mother. We hugged and wept in the drizzle outside our sturdy brick home, the ground feeling as if it were shifting beneath our feet.

“We will get through this together,” she said. Just the kindness in her voice helped. For one brief
moment since I'd heard the news, I felt a glimmer of hope. James disconnected from our group hug and pretended he felt nothing. He'd been so quiet on the long drive from the academy. I'd tried but failed several times to engage him in conversation—and let's face it, I can be engaging. Father's death had crippled James. He was keeping everything inside, a recipe for disaster.

I had an important mission: get a few guarded minutes alone inside Father's office. Find the key in the fireplace. Unlock the drawer. Read whatever was there. The existence of the mission helped curtail my grief, made small talk frustrating and even more boring than usual.

There were familiar faces inside, something James and I hadn't planned on. All men, they were engaged around our dining table in what looked like a meeting—papers and pens, cell phones and coffee cups strewn about. A long meeting, by the look of it. They rose, closing journals and calendars, and greeted us lovingly.

A few we knew as our “uncles”—close friends of Father's since James and I had been toddlers. Each was familiar. These were the men who showed up, most often in pairs, to the house at all hours. Two of the men we'd met before—from Father's university? His club downtown? I couldn't remember
exactly who they were. Businessmen. Investors. Attorneys. I imagined them trying to sort out our family affairs for us.

They each offered their condolences. They gave me hugs and shook James's hand. One of them, Mr. Lowry, a man with white hair but an athletic build, led James off into Father's study. I tried to follow but was diverted by Lois, who led me into the kitchen.

All I could think about was the ashes in the fireplace and what they hid.

I didn't know what went on in that meeting; James rebuffed my attempts to find out. I assumed it was money stuff, something to do with Father's will or insurance. I think James felt more important because of it, and neither of us needed that. After a while, the men collected their belongings and left, once again taking time with both James and me.

Being back in the house reminded me so much of Father that I could hardly keep my balance, much less worry about such things. I'd never felt such emptiness. It stole my breath, my voice. It cluttered and complicated my thoughts. I cried and I shook. I didn't forget about Father's office, but grief overcame even curiosity.

I'd always found being the only girl in our family to be tricky. Father and I had something special
between us that only I shared with him. It had died in this house along with him, and I felt that absence with every painting of my old relatives I passed, every piece of furniture and photograph. I didn't want to be here. I resented being here. I wanted to get into Father's office and then have Ralph take me back to Baskerville. It felt odd, so very odd, that I should consider the school home when I was standing in the place I'd grown up—but Father's death had turned everything upside down. Absolutely everything. Especially me.

Baskerville would now be home for years to come. No more Beacon Hill; too many memories here. The thought made me almost sick to my stomach. My situation was tricky in another way as well. I hadn't told James what Father had told me about the key in the ashes, nor about my assignment from Sherlock to photograph everything I could.

My effort to accomplish both these tasks meant more secrecy. On this night I would be taking another step away from being the perfect sister. And while it added to my already considerably broken heart, it also filled me with a kind of thrill and excitement that I found intoxicating. I suddenly enjoyed the thought of breaking the rules. Maybe I was more like James than I knew.

I set my phone's alarm to wake me at 1 a.m.
and placed the phone beneath my pillow so as not to wake others. I must have fallen to sleep quickly, for I jolted awake from a blank nothingness, maybe the deepest sleep I'd ever had.

My mobile phone in hand, I tiptoed down the stairs barefoot in my athletic shorts and camisole top.

First, I headed to Father's office, by far my most important mission. I passed the oil paintings of former Moriarty men and women looking out at me. The existence of a Moriarty family Bible, the files in Crudgeon's office suggesting James was tied to the school—I had a newfound confusion about these old people in their funny clothes. Their hardened faces, as dry and cracked as the paint that formed them, projected a severity and solemnity that made me actually consider their roles in my life. Father had been an only child; his father, a military man. The Moriarty women were not talked about; I hoped to change that in James's and my generation.

I turned away from the sitting room into and through the library and reached the door to Father's study.

Locked.

Father's study was never locked. I tried it again. The first pulse of energy rising through me was frustration and anger; the second, curiosity.
I wondered why, and on whose authority our father's office door had been locked. No doubt one of the men who'd been clustered around our family's dining room table the night before. Mr. Lowry, Father's attorney, came to mind. But why? And what right did he have? This was followed by my asking myself who might have the key to Father's study, the answer immediate: Lois, who had served Father as a home office secretary since her nannying skills had proved less necessary.

Lois was sleeping over to serve as guardian, as she had done on and off for years when Father traveled without us. I considered trying to snatch her purse and search that cluster of keys I'd seen her handle all these years. But being caught might prevent me from accomplishing Sherlock's assignment, so I hurried through that first.

I was diligent and thorough in making a photographic record of every aspect of the house, and Father's “crime scene,” as Sherlock had called it. It was an expression I abhorred. But I had to live with it, as I had let slip what James had not: there was no way my father had been up a ladder winding our wall-mounted clock.

Father was afraid of heights.

James awakened in a foul mood on a foul Boston day of wind, rain, and an Indian summer heat wave. It was as if the heavens had opened up crying over the loss of Father.

He showered and prepared for the memorial just as I did in my room down the hall from him. While I felt guilty over going against my brother's wishes and emailing all the photos I'd taken the night before to Sherlock, James was the one deeply troubled. He shouted for Lois and bossed her around. He demanded breakfast be delayed. He was acting like a brat.

I was still angling for a way to get into Father's office, having chickened out of trying to steal Lois's purse from her room in the middle of the night. Things weren't going well for anyone. It felt as if Father had cast a curse over us all.

It wasn't until much later in the morning, as I was standing by the partially open door to James's room, ready to confess my sins to him, that I saw him pull his suit jacket from the dry cleaning cellophane and start to put it on. I jumped back so he wouldn't see me as he turned to fish an arm into a sleeve. I faced facts: I was too scared to admit to James I was in cahoots with Sherlock, too sensitive to tell him about the assignment I'd been given by Father concerning the key in the ashes. I
didn't know how James might react. I wasn't sure I knew my brother any longer. It made me sick to my stomach. In only a matter of a few weeks he had changed considerably. That realization triggered an added sadness to a day already draped in it.

I was about to abandon his doorway when I saw him pat his coat pocket. He tucked his fingers inside and withdrew a thick white card the size of a thank-you note. He flipped it over. I saw some kind of pencil or tower, an arrow or rocket. There was something printed at the bottom—numbers, maybe. James patted and searched the rest of his pockets. As he did, I slowly and quietly stepped back from his door.

I turned my head sharply. Lois stood at the end of the hall, staring at me spying on my brother. As my eyes landed on her, she lowered her head and made for the stairs, wishing to be invisible. We both knew it was too late for that.

Running through my head was, no doubt, what was also running through my brother's: How did a card end up in the pocket of a suit freshly back from the dry cleaners?

The answer was as clear as the question: someone had put it there the night before for my brother to find.