I attempted to refocus him away from his amusement. “The artist, Sherlock.”
“Yes, well, it’s possible she was the one who told the story to our artist, yes? The drawing showed a woman in ornate costume, whispering something into a man’s ear. Perhaps he’s the artist, and she was the whispering witness. Though she apparently told an embellished version.”
“So we’ve learned nothing.”
“Not nothing!” Lock protested. “We know where the magazines come from, and who has access to them. We know the witness and that she’s seen our artist. We have found our key . . . or sword, as it were.” Lock pressed his lips together to stifle his laugh, but it didn’t work. He was laughing unchecked before we’d even reached the bus stop. He started to speak again once we got there, but I held up a hand.
“Don’t say it.”
“It’s just so perfect!”
“Do not,” I warned, but Lock could not be stopped.
“Nimue! She’s named you as the Lady of the Lake! It’s brilliant. I suppose that makes you Merlin’s betrayer, as well. Should I be afraid, then?”
I invited him to stop talking with my glare, and this time it seemed to work for a while. That is, until we actually boarded the bus and he leaned closer to me and said, “Nimue’s not all bad. She did give Excalibur to Arthur.” Just the tone of his voice told me he wasn’t anywhere near done.
“Truly, Lock, if you say it, I will be forced to injure you.”
He never did take my threats seriously.
“The sword that later killed him, if we’re being technical.”
I reached through my crossed arms to pinch his side as hard as I could, but he only laughed through the pain. So I scooted closer to the window and turned as much of my back to Lock as I could—partly to hide my grin, of course. And when he finally stopped laughing, I looked over my shoulder and said, “It wasn’t Excalibur that killed Arthur. It was the sword Clarent.”
Chapter 12
I went to school early the next day, but never did make it to any of my morning classes. I hadn’t intended to hide away in Lock’s lab, but not even the loud bell ringing through the small space could entice me from my hiding space and into the halls. I did wander into drama class just in time to get counted for attendance, but when it was clear Miss Francis was only going to run scenes for those students taking summer theater courses, I hid up in the back rows of the auditorium where no one could see me in the dark.
Lock joined me about ten minutes into class, flopping back into the seat next to mine with a sigh. I thought for sure he’d come to share all his insights into my case, but instead he just watched the movements of the class, saying nothing.
It wasn’t as though we’d learned anything earth shattering, really. One of the magazines had come from that clinic, but it could just as easily have come from the trash in the building’s alley, or from any of the hundreds of patients who came in and out of there on a weekly basis. It didn’t have to be from Lady Constance of the Park. Or Mrs. Patel. Or even my Sally Alexander, who we now knew was actually called Mrs. Greeves. That name fit her nicely. It also sounded familiar to me, in that way that random names sometimes do.
“What are you thinking?” I asked, after we watched a snubbed John Watson wander over to sit with a few of the set decorators, who were sitting in a circle onstage batting a Hacky Sack around using only the backs of their hands.
Lock shrugged at first, but he leaned forward to rest his arms on the seat back in front of him. “I was wondering how much Lily Patel hates you.”
“Why do you ask about Lily?”
“Have you spoken to her at school?”
“Not much.” I realized I hadn’t told him about my accidental bonding time with Lily at her father’s memorial spot in the park. But I wasn’t sure anything said there was particularly relevant. It was obvious that her mother working at the clinic meant she had access to the magazines by proxy, but I couldn’t imagine her hunching over them with scissors clutched in one hand and model glue in the other—not when she could just unleash her hyenas to rip me to shreds at school on a daily basis. “Why are you thinking about people who hate me?”
“In looking at the magazines left out in the clinic, it would appear they subscribe to six publications and change out the magazines every three months.”
“And?”
“Even if we assume that one or two get taken home with a patient, or our sticky-fingered Lady Constance perhaps, that would still leave twelve magazines for Nurse Patel to hand off to Constance.”
“Maybe. Maybe not. You can’t know how many were stolen or damaged or didn’t arrive in the post.”
“True. But we do know how many were used to make your letter. Five. The letters used came from five distinct magazines.”
He was being slow on purpose, which he knew I hated.
“And?” I said again.