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Holmes could hear Poe and Marple following them out of the basement and up the metal staircase. His mind was spinning. Who was waiting for him? The only person they’d called was Margaret.

Upstairs, the four of them turned into a hallway past the reception desk and proceeded down a short corridor with just two small offices on either side, both empty at this late hour. At the end of the hall was a closed door with a numeral 1 on it. Gregson pushed it open.

Holmes stepped in first.

It was a small but standard-issue interrogation room. No windows. Harsh overhead lights. A stainless-steel table bolted to the floor, with metal chairs on opposite sides.

Behind the table stood a slim, elegantly dressed man in wire-framed glasses. His hands were delicate and well manicured. He looked urbane and sophisticated. For Holmes, his scent was just as revealing.

Holmes was hyperosmic—in simple terms, a super-smeller. He had become desensitized to familiar odors, but new settings and strangers brought his heightened sense to life. In an instant, his overactive olfactory bulbs detected the essence of bergamot soap and expensive cologne. Notes of orchid, truffle, plum. This was no small-town lawyer. This was a man of means and refined tastes. And Holmes had never seen him before in his life.

The stranger looked at Gregson. “Uncuff Mr. Holmes, please.”

Holmes felt a tug behind his back. A moment later, his hands were loose.

“Now leave us alone,” the man said.

Gregson turned. Poe and Marple were hovering in the doorway. The sheriff made an impatient pushing motion with his hands. “You heard the man. Go!”

Holmes watched the three shuffle out into the hallway, then Gregson pulled the door shut behind them. When Holmes turned back toward the table, the man had his right hand extended.

“Mr. Holmes, I’m Charles Milver, attorney at law.”

Holmes let the stranger’s hand hang awkwardly in midair as he did a quick mental review of his professional contacts. He came up blank. “I’ve never heard of you.”

“No reason you would have,” said Milver. He graciously dropped his hand and motioned for Holmes to sit as he seated himself. He stared at Holmes silently for a few moments, then leaned forward. “Mr. Holmes, you’re under suspicion in a murder case. Do you wish to engage my services?”

Holmes raised an eyebrow. “Hire you? I don’t know anything about you. I don’t even know how you came to be here.”

Milver continued, seemingly unruffled. “I’m asking because we would need to formalize our relationship, and there is a time element involved.” He glanced at a clock on the wall. “In one hour or less, an assistant district attorney from Ithaca will walk into this room. He’s a young man, eager to make a name for himself. Works all hours. You would be an exciting fish in his very dull pond. You need to be gone before he arrives. Right now, I’m your only way out of this building. Unless, of course, you plan to escape.”

“You can get me out?”

“Only if you engage me.”

“Fine. You’re hired.”

“Wise choice.”

Holmes leaned across the table and lowered his voice. “Where did you come from? How did you even hear about this?”

“My office is in Manhattan,” said Milver. “I am the sole principal in my practice. I have only one other client. He’s the one who directed me to you.” Milver folded his delicate hands on top of the steel table. “His name is Oliver Paul.”

CHAPTER 9

BACK AT THE snow-covered lodge, Virginia was settling in for the night. Her bedroom was a converted pantry behind the kitchen—a small but cozy nest, with a single window that looked out on the surrounding woods. Baskerville lowered himself onto a rug in front of the dresser as Virginia changed out of her sweater and jeans and pulled on a T-shirt and gym shorts to sleep in. She kept on the wool socks she had borrowed from Margaret Marple.

Virginia was in a good mood. Unlike Marple, she loved being at the lodge. She’d never imagined living in a place this grand or quite this isolated.

Back on that September night when Marple had called to tell her about the firm’s urgent escape from Brooklyn, Virginia hadn’t thought twice about coming along. In truth, city life had begun to wear on her—the noise, the smells, the sweaty crowds on the subway. Up here in the woods, Virginia was back in her element, surrounded by nature, breathing fresh air, and free to roam, just like in her childhood days on the farm.

Virginia’s housemates tended to hunker indoors during the brutal cold, but the weather didn’t bother her or Baskerville. She went out to explore every chance she got. Some days she and the enormous dog logged five or six miles through the snow, often getting home after dark.

On their very first day at the lodge, Virginia had asked Poe if she could borrow the old rifle they’d discovered in the lodge attic for hunting. He’d declined, not least due to noise. “The last thing we need is attention,” he’d said.

Soon after, Virginia found an old air gun in the cellar. After obtaining her hunting license, she’d set out with Baskerville regularly, bringing home her catch for dinner. Mostly rabbits, for stew. Once she brought home a gray squirrel, but she couldn’t sell it to the others as a menu item. “It looks like a rat!” said Marple, who had a primal aversion to rodents. And that was that. Virginia had tossed the carcass back into the woods. By the next morning, ravens had picked it to the bone.

The lodge was unusually still tonight. Holmes and Poe had been out all evening, and Marple had rushed out the door an hour ago without explanation. By now, Virginia was accustomed to her employers’ comings and goings at all hours. Like their namesakes, they were all a bit mysterious. She liked that about them. It made life interesting.