I hoped he was referring to dealing art and not to drugs. Though, watching the eyes of the artists around me, the lines between those worlds seemed blurred. Some were sharp as tacks, tour-guiding their work, teasing August in German about something that made him blush. And some sat in the corner, smiling, smiling, smiling, their hands clasped in their laps like it was the only thing that could keep them from flying apart.
Another studio. It felt like an hour had passed, but since I was staring at my phone, I knew it’d only been ten minutes. It was taking everything in me not to chuck it at this painter’s head and start scaling the walls, calling Holmes’s name. There’s a really good chance that she’s fine, I told myself. She’s almost always fine. But the painter was monologuing at August, using his hands to explain something, and so I settled into a plastic chair to read the rest of Leander’s email.
I hear Hadrian’s name everywhere. I can’t stress to you how much of a fortune he’s made, and while I don’t think he’s involved in this particular Langenberg fiasco, I do know he has connections I could use to push the case along at a more reasonable clip. Milo’s been keeping me informed, but only so I can keep myself out of Hadrian’s way. Honestly, I wish my niece could time her meltdowns more appropriately. We’ve had a détente with the Moriartys for almost a century. Of course you manage to talk me into an art crime case just after we’ve burned the white flag. I always thought the whole thing would be worth it if Charlotte and August had really gone whole hog on the Montague-Capulet romance. Imagine that story! Still, he wound up dead and my poor girl wound up banished, so I suppose it has shades of Romeo & Juliet after all.
If I sound flip, it’s because I feel flip. I don’t know how much longer I can live as David Langenberg; he has horrible taste in ties, and his studio flat is freezing. Not to mention that my sister-in-law is once again ill (fibromyalgia, wretched disease) and without her income—honestly, I’m a bit concerned that Alistair won’t be able to hold on to the family home, not with the way he’s been spending. I’m due for a visit anyway, so I’ll see what I can do. He’s always been a good help in my cases. And I’d like to finally meet your son!
I just wish we were smoking those ridiculous French cigarettes in our Edinburgh garret again, setting off the smoke alarm. And your cooking was awful, but God knows I can’t do it for myself. I miss you, James. Take care of yourself.
I’d been expecting something much more clinical. The kind of step-by-step analytical exercise that Sherlock Holmes was always telling Dr. Watson he should write instead of his “stories.” But these—they weren’t case updates so much as letters, the kind you wrote to someone you knew so well you could imagine them beside you, even when they were across an ocean, living out another life.
My father had cut out his own replies. I tried to imagine them. Of course he’d been worried when Leander had stopped writing to him—it sounded like he was Leander’s only lifeline in a difficult, months-long case. He’d been living as David Langenberg. As someone related to the artist? Someone with a financial stake in what happened to Langenberg’s new work? That email had been near the bottom of the set. There were only two more after that.
Dear James, I had an interesting encounter this evening. On the way out of my flat, when I had hardly put on my Langenberg persona, I was almost run down by our Professor Ziegler. We’d plans to meet for dinner, so it wasn’t a surprise to see him there.
I know I haven’t really spoken to you about the particulars of my relationship with Nathaniel. “My” relationship. David’s, more like, and you’ll forgive me my modesty. His modesty? Suffice it to say that a certain amount of romantic promise had to be made to ensure his continued interest in our little project. But we’ve never been in a position where I ran my hands through his hair.
Nathaniel is a handsome fellow. He kissed me on my front step. He’d surprised me with flowers, and I decided to play it up. I put my arms around his neck. I—
I can’t write to you about this. You know my feelings on this, and every, subject, Jamie.
I still dream about you sometimes, you know. But I suppose I can’t write to you about that, either.
(I pulled a hand over my eyes, and then I kept reading.)
He was wearing a wig. I hid my surprise, but while I’m too good at this game to show it on my face, I think he could feel the shift in mood. But we went out for currywurst down the road, as we’ve done a few times before, and discussed the fortune we were making, from his students, from his own work. Do you know I’ve come to love Langenberg’s paintings, even when they’re done by Nathaniel’s hands? There’s an ache in them, a loneliness. An isolation. Is it pathetic to say that I have art in the blood? I do. I am an artist. My medium is unseen, but I am one all the same.
I want to see him paint a “Langenberg.” Not just because I don’t think he’s the one who’s been painting them, this blue-eyed Nathaniel, with his twice-broken nose. I don’t think Nathaniel is Nathaniel at all. He looks like a blurred version of his photo on the school website. Him, and not him.
I’ve spent the night watching these odious interviews online. Did you know that Hadrian Moriarty has that same nose? And yet they look nothing alike. I’ve felt that face. I’ve had my hands in his hair.
I think I might just be going mad.
Maybe it’s all this isolation, making me paranoid. I’m not sure. But I can’t face the indignity of asking my nephew for his assistance. I’m going to the family home tomorrow. I need to see my brother.