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The Adventure of the Faerie Coffin: Being the First Morstan and Holmes Occult Detection

by Rebecca Buchanan

 

Dramatis Personae

Miss Mary Morstan — a governess with a secret, fiancée of Dr. John Watson

Mr. Sherlock Holmes — a consulting detective of ruthless logic

Mrs. Edith Fearghasdan — a concerned headmistress

Miss Evelyn Baxter — not a friend of Miss Morstan

Miss Susanna Couper — an opinionated teacher

Ailis, Judith, and Beatrice — students with a shared secret

Miss Maighread MacPherson — a teacher skilled at uncovering secrets

Mrs. MacPherson — her mother

Mrs. Webster — Miss Morstan’s former governess and mentor

Mrs. Forrester — Miss Morstan’s current employer, a supposedly respectable society matron

Dr. John Watson — Mr. Holmes’s flatmate and partner in criminal investigations, Miss Morstan’s fiancé

---

~ One ~

“Miss Morstan. May I join you?”

I closed my eyes, shutting out the chaos of the rail station. The sounds of whistles, shouts, and carolers were only slightly dulled by the window.

Of course he was here.

I inhaled slowly, feeling the breath fill my chest, spread through my arms and down my legs; an old habit, learned long ago at the feet of one far more skilled than me.

Calmer now, I turned and offered him a smile. “Of course, Mr. Holmes. Please, have a seat.”

He was not dressed in his usual attire. His clothes were not neat; rather, they were stained and wrinkled and slightly too large for his frame. His shoes were scuffed. The glasses that perched on his nose — pink from the cold — subtly changed its length and shape. The threadbare hat did much the same for his head, hiding his thinning hair.

Of course he had altered his appearance. No doubt he had been following me from the moment I left my rooms at Mrs. Forrester’s home. I should never have declined his dinner invitation the previous evening. There had been something in my note — a curious curve to an s, an odd slant to a t, a wrinkle, a stain — that had piqued his curiosity.

And so here he was, right where and when I least wanted him.

How John tolerated it, I failed to understand.

He settled easily into the seat opposite, legs crossed, hands folded in his lap. Silent. Still. Waiting.

We stared at one another as the whistle blew loud and piercing, and continued to stare as the train lurched forward, down the track, north, away from London. Only when we reached the outskirts of that great city did he finally speak.

“You are not breaking your engagement with Watson.” A statement, not a question.

“No.”

“You have only ever served as a governess in London, therefore you are not paying a sentimental visit to previous charges.”

“Correct.”

“This train is bound for Edinburgh. Your mother’s family hails from that country originally, Deòireach being her surname. You were born and lived with your family in India until you were eight. After your mother’s death, your father sent you to the same boarding school that she had attended. The Frazier Academy. You remained there until you were seventeen, at which point you traveled south to seek respectable employment. You made no return trips north until today. A curious change to your usual habits, Miss Morstan.”

Another calming breath. “I will not be able to persuade you to leave this be, will I?”

“No.”

Recognizing the finality of his statement, I relented. Slipping my hand inside my travel jacket, I pulled out the letter which had arrived only the previous afternoon.

He took it solemnly from my hand, carefully studied the envelope, and then slid out the letter.

The paper showed the wrinkles where I had gripped it too hard and then tried to smooth it out, where I had folded and reopened it a dozen times.

I knew that letter by heart now.

 

12 December 1888

My dearest Mary,

It is with no little reluctance and shame that I find myself writing to you in need of your assistance. Though I strictly forbade you to make use of your unusual abilities while you attended my school, I fear that I now have need of them. I hope that you will set aside the harsh words of the past, and consider my plea sincerely.

Just a fortnight ago, I and the rest of the staff were awakened in the middle of the night by a terrible weeping and wailing. The sounds seemed to emanate from the central courtyard, but, upon investigating, we found no one there. When the strange sounds awoke us again the next night, we considered that perhaps this was a prank being perpetrated by the students. All swore their innocence, however. After we were awakened a third night, we moved all of the students into the dining hall to sleep, along with the staff.

Again, the awful weeping and wailing awakened us for a fourth night.

And so it has been every night for two weeks.

In addition, we have been plagued by increasingly dangerous accidents. Or, were it not for the nightly haunting — yes, I have dared to call it a haunting! — I would consider them to be accidents. But they cannot be. A door was violently opened, striking a student and leaving her badly bruised. A gargoyle was knocked from the top of the courtyard wall, landing just inches from my feet. An entire bookcase was tipped over in the library, nearly crushing another student. And, just this morning, a hearth — in which no fire was burning! — filled with smoke, almost suffocating a student, who could not flee the room as the door would not open. On each occasion, there was no one about who could have perpetrated these incidents.

I am begging you, Mary. Please help. I fear that, if this continues much longer, someone will be killed.

Respectfully,

Edith Fearghasdan

Headmistress

 

He read the letter twice, then carefully folded it back into its envelope and returned it to me.

And then he sat silent, staring out the window.

I pulled needlework from my travel bag, careful to leave Mrs. Forrester’s tissue-wrapped package stowed away at the bottom. Needlework. An innocuous, proper activity for a woman.

It is not only Mr. Holmes who has mastered the skill of hiding in plain sight.

---

Miles upon miles of countryside passed, the trees bare and the skies gray. I left him to his silence, and enjoyed a fine meal of hearty soup and bread in the dining car. When I returned, he was still staring out the window. I pulled out my needlework again. When it grew too dark to see the stitches clearly, despite the low light outside the cabin — there can be no mistakes in my Work — I returned the cloth and thread to my bag, leaned my head back against the seat, and closed my eyes.

“What is the complement of the Frazier Academy?”

Sighing, I lifted my head and opened my eyes. “The Frazier Academy closes for the Christmas holiday. Those among the faculty and students who are able to do so, leave. As such, if the current student body is typical of previous years, I would expect there to be perhaps half-a-dozen students still on the premises. Similarly, I would expect no more than three or four staff, in addition to Mrs. Fearghasdan.”

“And did you remain at the school during the holiday?”

I paused, catching the faintest hint of a thoughtful frown cross his face. Tilting my chin, I answered, “I did not, as a matter of fact. I traveled to my mother’s ancestral home just outside Dùn Dè.”

“Alone?”

“No. With my own governess, Mrs. Webster. She was my mother’s governess first, but stayed on until I was grown.”

“Even accompanying you to school?”

It was too dark in the cabin now to see his expression, but there was a curious note of challenge to his tone. “Yes. She was as much family as my father. Perhaps more so, as I never saw him again after I left India.” My hand twitched, fingers beginning to reach for the necklace hidden beneath my blouse. I stifled the impulse and instead smoothed the collar of my jacket.

“And where is Mrs. Webster now?”

“Living in that same home outside Dùn Dè.” I paused, then found myself defending that statement with, “It only made sense to allow her to live out her remaining years there, while I sought employment in the south.”

“Indeed.”

And that was the last word he spoke all night.

---

~ Two ~

Dawn found us both in the dining car, this time for a filling breakfast of sausages, eggs, fried bread, and tea. We spoke of inanities — the weather, the food, John’s trip to Wales — and so I knew his conversation to be false. Sherlock Holmes does not engage in inanities. Only as we sat drinking our tea did he again raise the subject of the letter.

“To what abilities was Headmistress Fearghasdan referring?”

I took another long sip of tea. Then I raised my head, looked him directly in the eyes, and answered, “You are not the only person who assists others in solving unusual problems. My methods, however, are . . . different . . . from yours.”

The server came by our table at that moment to collect our plates. When he left, Holmes tilted his head, studying me. The corner of his mouth twitched. “I look forward to studying these different methods.”

---

We arrived in Edinburgh late in the afternoon of 18 December. A cold wind blew in from the North Sea, pushing thick gray clouds, and snow dusted Arthur’s Seat. I could just see that hill through the high windows of the station and across the rooftops of the city, tree branches dancing wildly.

In all the years that we had lived in Edinburgh, how many times had Mrs. Webster and I climbed the Seat? I could not possibly count them all, but a few stood out in my memory. Sewing through the night and lighting tapers on Candlemas. Washing our faces with dew on Beltane’s Day. Toasting nuts and weaving oat stalks on Hallowe’en.

A voice called out across the station and I caught sight of a woman garbed in a heavy green and blue dress, her cheeks and nose bright from the cold, a scarf loose around her throat. She raised a tentative hand, an equally uncertain smile touching her lips.

I raised a hand in return as Holmes came up beside me, my luggage in his hands. His hat was pulled down low around his ears and his back and shoulders were hunched, disguising his true height.

“For the time being, Miss Morstan, I think it best for you to refer to me as Sigerson.”

“As you wish,” I murmured, hiking my smaller travel bag onto my shoulder and setting off across the station.

Moments later, I found myself standing in front of Mrs. Fearghasdan. I clasped her hand, feeling the thrum of her heart even through the thick gloves. “Headmistress, it is good to see you again.”

“Mary, thank you. I was so grateful to receive your telegram. I . . . I am so sorry to have called you away from your . . . uh, duties in London, especially this close to Christmas.” Her eyes flicked over my shoulder. “I . . . did not anticipate that anyone would be accompanying you.”

“No apologies are necessary, Headmistress. This is an urgent matter.” I waved my free hand at Holmes. “This is Sigerson. He is also in the employ of Mrs. Forrester, who suggested that he accompany me. I hope he will prove useful.”

Holmes pulled off his hat and pressed it to his chest, muttering an almost unintelligible “Pleast ta meet ya, Mum.”

“Yes. Quite. Well, then, there is a cab waiting. This way, please.”

The wind bit into us as soon as we exited the station. I pulled up the collar of my jacket and reached into my travel bag to pull out a knitted scarf. It was my own creation, a solid dark green, but with three different alternating stitches. The result was a subtle, but powerful, pattern. I wrapped the scarf around my face and, within only a few breaths, my skin was warm again.

Mrs. Fearghasdan clutched her own scarf tightly, and Holmes tucked down his chin, turning his face away from the wind. When we reached the carriage, he passed my luggage to the driver (who seemed unconcerned by the cold; the Scotch bottle sticking out of his pocket gave me a good idea as to why), and we hastily climbed inside. The interior of the cab was frigid, but at least we were out of the wind.

Mrs. Fearghasdan tugged her scarf down. Even in the dull light, I could see the lines of worry and stress that bracketed her eyes and mouth. “I fear there has been another incident since I posted my letter to you.” She paused, gaze flicking to Holmes.

And so I found myself faced with a difficult decision, one of the most difficult of my life. I had no doubt that Holmes would eventually uncover the truth about me. The longer I kept my distance, the longer it would take. But learn the truth he would. And he was here, now, not three feet away, watching, observing, fitting the pieces together and solving the puzzle that was me. Mary Morstan.

Breathe. Feel that breath filling your body.

I offered the Headmistress a tight smile. “It’s fine, Mrs. Fearghasdan. You may speak freely in front of Sigerson.”

“Very well. There has been another accident. Miss MacPherson, the chemistry teacher, was in her classroom when . . . well . . . she said a figure came out of the wall. It was making that same awful wailing sound. Miss MacPherson was so frightened that she ran from the classroom. She tripped and fell down the stairs and —” Mrs. Fearghasdan blinked rapidly, fighting tears. “Both of her legs are broken. I fear that she will never completely recover.”

“I am so sorry,” I murmured, pressing a hand to her clenched fingers.

She grasped my hand, apparently unaware of how her grip tightened with every word she spoke. “This thing, whatever it may be, must be dealt with before the students and faculty return after the New Year. I will not risk anyone’s life. I will shut down the Frazier Academy if I must.”

“No. I will not allow that to happen. The Academy is too important. Where else can deserving young ladies, regardless of their social status or economic circumstances, receive such a thorough education? It is not only governesses that you are turning out, but linguists and scientists and philosophers. The Academy will not close. You have my word.”

At that, her hold on my hands loosened. She sank back against the seat with a sigh of relief and closed her eyes.

All the while, Holmes sat silent, watching.

---

The carriage pulled through the archway and into the central courtyard of the school. The walls all around us — four stories, most of the narrow windows dark and shuttered — blocked the wind. Three figures, young enough to be students, huddled on the far end.

Mrs. Fearghasdan paid the driver and then excused herself, explaining that she had administrative tasks to attend.

“You might have need of these,” she added, handing me a ring with a dozen keys, all old and heavy. “These will open every door in the school. Go where you must. I had a bed made up for you in the dining hall, alongside everyone else.” She coughed. “I am afraid, Mr. Sigerson, that you will have to sleep elsewhere. Perhaps in the groundskeeper’s room?”

He pulled off his hat and shuffled his feet. “‘Es, Mum. Very gud, Mum.”

“Dinner is at seven sharp. Do please join us.”

I nodded my agreement. She cast a frown towards the group of students, then disappeared through a dark wooden door.

“This place has the look of a barracks.” His voice was low, not meant to be heard by anyone else.

“Originally. The building was purchased by Lady Grizel Frazier in 1670. She had sat in on several lectures by Newton, and thought it ridiculously unfair that women were only being schooled in sewing and cooking when men were learning mathematics and philosophy. So she founded the Frazier Academy, even opening it to the daughters of merchants and tradesmen. That tradition has continued for two hundred years — and I am not going to allow some spirit  —”

“Mary Morstan? Is that you?”

I turned on my heel and spied two figures emerging from a door on the far side of the courtyard. Based on their attire and age, I took them to be teachers.

The woman on the left offered me a curiously stiff smile, her breath clouding. “Surely it has not been so long that you don’t recognize an old friend?”

I studied her for a long moment, my mouth dropping open in surprise when I finally recognized her. “Evelyn Baxter. You are an instructor here? Now?”

“I am. Botany. And this is my colleague, Susanna Couper, who oversees the history and archaeology departments. Miss Couper, may I introduce an old friend and former sister student, Mary Morstan.”

Miss Couper thrust out her hand, shaking mine vigorously. “Pleasure to make your acquaintance. Are you joining us, then? Which field? Need a new chemistry teacher, unfortunately. Bad thing, that. Liked MacPherson. You don’t look the chemistry type, though. Theology, then? Not going to try to convert us, I hope. Got no use for it myself. I’ve read enough to see all the problems religion’s caused. Why, the witch trials alone —”

“Yes! No!” I extracted my hand as gracefully as possible. “I am not joining the faculty. I am visiting friends for Christmas and thought that I would stop on my way to see Mrs. Fearghasdan. It has been far too long.”

Evelyn Baxter’s eyes narrowed, but Susanna Couper nodded emphatically. “Aye. Can see that. Well, hope to see you at dinner tonight.” With that, she turned and made her way towards the huddle of students. “Right, you three! Inside afore you catch cold! Go on!”

“Well, then.” Another stiff smile from Miss Baxter. “Enjoy your visit.” And she slipped away after Miss Couper.

He came up to my side, my luggage in his hands. “She was not your friend.”

“No. She was not my friend.”

---

~ Three ~

After stowing my luggage next to a cot in the dining hall — one wooden table and its benches had been moved out of the way to make room for a dozen of the small beds — Holmes announced that he wanted to see the scene of each accident. As I knew the location of the chemistry laboratory, and thus of Miss MacPherson’s tragic fall, we began there.

The lab was housed on the third floor of the north wing. Holmes stopped at the ground floor landing (where Miss MacPherson had come to a painful halt), dropping to his knees to study it and each step carefully.

There was no blood, but there were deep gouges and scratches: fresh, pale wood against the older, dark stain. They were visible down all three flights of stairs and across all three landings.

She must have been grabbing frantically at anything, everything, to save herself.

What force could be powerful enough to throw a grown woman down three flights of stairs?

I shuddered, and lifted a hand to trace the pearls beneath my blouse. My gaze lifted towards the chemistry laboratory. Electric sconces protruded from the walls, jarring and out of place against the centuries-old stone, but even with all the light they cast, pools of shadow clung to corners and sharp angles.

As I dropped my gaze, I found Holmes turning his head away.

Hastily dropping my hand, jaw tight, I made my way up the stairs. Let Holmes poke and sniff and lick at every odd stain and scratch on every step. I had my own methods of detection.

The creaks and groans of the wood beneath my feet were familiar, almost comforting. Despite the disapproval of Mrs. Fearghasdan, my years at this school had been happy ones: I had Mrs. Webster at my side, ready access to books on every imaginable subject, and I was surrounded by students as eager to learn as I.

The chance for other girls to know such happiness was now being threatened.

My grip firm on the banister, I topped the third floor landing and turned towards the chemistry laboratory. Second door on the left. Locked. After some juggling, I found the correct key and pushed the door open.

The room was dark and reeked of sulfur, chlorine, sodium, and a dozen other chemicals. Beneath that, the very faint scent of withered grass and rain.

Flipping on the electric lights, I moved further into the room. The long rows of tables looked the same, as did the cabinets filled with metal and ceramic and glass containers of liquid and powdered chemicals. Shutters covered the windows along the far wall. Portraits of noted chemists hung high near the ceiling, most of then drawings or sketches, but a few actual photographs; Pasteur hung prominently towards the front.

Every piece of glass in the room was shattered: the portraits of the chemists, the glass containers and canisters. Chemicals in powder and liquid form were splashed across the tables and floor, some eating holes in the wood.

If I moved the shutters aside, I wondered if I would find the windows cracked, as well —

No. Not every piece of glass.

Moving carefully around the rows of tables and pieces of glass and pools of liquid, I made my way towards the far end of the room and the tall cabinets. One stood untouched, the wood black with age, the metal which crisscrossed the glass-fronted doors nearly as dark.

I traced the iron with one finger, feeling its dullness even through my glove.

“Oh, dear,” I whispered.

I hastily pulled the pearl necklace from beneath my blouse, allowing it to settle atop my clothing. I caught a quick reflection in the glass, the pearls soft and shimmering.

They were all I had left of my father. He could not have understood what he was doing, what he was bringing into my life. But they were mine now, my power and my curse.

“Miss Morstan?”

“Yes, Mr. H — Sigerson?” I knelt even as I turned slightly. He stood in the doorway, tall and frowning, looking more like himself and less like his alter ego. I pulled my little travel bag around, reaching inside to find what I needed: a square white cloth; a charcoal disk of juniper wood, pressed inside a bronze container not much bigger than a pocket watch; a small flint; and a copper needle.

I spread the cloth over the floor. Mrs. Webster had woven complex patterns through it, and I had added more patterns with multicolored thread: black along one side, red another, green, and blue. The four colors came together as a stylized thistle in the center of the cloth.

That was where I set the charcoal, still in its container, and then reached for the flint.

“A moment, please, Miss Morstan.” Holmes firmly closed the door, then moved across the room to the shutters. He shoved one pair of wooden panels to either side, revealing the cracked window, and then opened that, too.

The temperature in the room quickly dropped, and the reek of sulfur and other chemicals dissipated. The scent of rain and withered grass remained.

“Ah, yes, thank you. I would ask you to be quiet for a few moments.” My tone was brisk, a pathetic attempt to hide the nervousness that made my heart thump and my hands quiver.

I was about to perform a Working in front of Sherlock Holmes.

Even my beloved John had dared to do so only once, and never spoken of it again.

Shaking that memory away, I struck the flint, lighting the charcoal. The fire filled the little bronze container. I settled back on my knees, the needle between two of my fingers, and whispered the Gaelic words that had been taught to me so long ago, weaving them round and round. I traced the pattern of the words in the air with the needle, my heart calming with the soothing, familiar movements. Looping, endless, thread of word and sound and movement and will.

And then I dropped the needle.

It fell flat, directly into the flame. It stopped a few inches above the burning charcoal, hovering, bright and hot. And then it began to spin, slowly at first, then faster and faster.

Then, with a metallic flash, it shot across the room and buried itself sharp-end first in the door.

For a long moment, neither of us spoke, simply staring at the needle.

I opened my mouth, but he quickly held up a hand. His eyes narrowed, he pressed a finger to his lips. I nodded in understanding.

He moved around the tables and splashes of chemicals with surprising speed and silence. Had I not seen him, I would never have known he was in the room.

When he reached the door, he clasped the handle and flung it open.

There was a squeak of surprise and a thud as someone fell to the floor.

Hastily whispering my thanks, I flicked the lid of the container shut, smothering the fire. Keeping my body between my sacred tools and whoever had been spying on us, I moved as quickly as possible towards the door.

There, I found Holmes towering over a young girl. She was perhaps thirteen years of age, her dark blond hair a tangle down her back, her eyes wide and threatening tears, her dress old but serviceable.

“I recognize you.” I crouched, offering her a tentative smile. “You were in the courtyard when we arrived.”

Her chin quivered.

“I’m Mary. And this is Sigerson. What’s your name?”

She inhaled sharply, but her breath became a rough cough.

Holmes caught the girl up in his arms and carried her quickly across the room towards the open window. Within a few moments, her coughing fit had abated and she was breathing more easily. While Holmes settled her on one of the chairs, I flipped the window shut and closed the shutters.

“Ailis,” she finally answered. “Ailis Arasgain.”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Ailis.” I crouched down in front of her, offering another reassuring smile. I kept my tone gentle and inviting. “You must be quite good at finding your way around the Academy, if you got all the way up here without Sigerson noticing you.”

The girl swallowed hard, flicked a quick glance up at Holmes, and then focused on me. She nodded unsteadily.

“Were you here when Miss MacPherson was hurt? Did you see?”

Ailis shook her head hard. “No, ma’am, but I heard it. We all did. Judith and Beatrice and me — I. We were in the kitchen, making up biscuits and jam. And we heard her, we heard her fall, and we heard her scream  . . .” Ailis panted, her face pale with fear.

“Did you hear what frightened her, what drove Miss MacPherson down the stairs?”

Another quick glance up at Holmes and then back down at me. A nod. “Yes, ma’am. It was the same. The same that’s been waking us up every night.” She pressed her hands to her ears, hunching low in the chair. “It was the faerie! The faerie! And it’s all my fault!”

Hysterical, Ailis collapsed back in the chair. Her breath caught again, her sobs turning to wracking coughs that shook her whole body. I lifted her up, slipped into the chair, and pulled her onto my lap. While I rubbed her back and whispered soothing nonsense, Holmes moved to open the shutters and window again.

When he returned to my side, I saw his eyebrows were raised in disbelief. He tilted his head at me in a silent question, and I could only nod.

After long moments, Ailis’s coughing eased and she was able to sit upright. Arms shaking, she pushed herself to her feet and stood before us, tangled hair obscuring her face. I gently pushed it aside and tilted her face up. “How could this possibly be your fault?”

The girl sniffled. “It is. Mine and Judith and Beatrice. We went up to the Seat. Everyone else had already gone for Christmas, and it was just us, and we were so bored and tired of just sitting in the library reading and so we snuck out.”

“And you went hiking on Arthur’s Seat.”

Ailis twisted her hands together. “Aye. We weren’t looking for it, but it was just there, tucked into this little cave. Like it had been hidden behind some rocks, but they had fallen down, and we just had to reach in and take it.”

Holmes was utterly still beside me.

I covered Ailis’s hands with my own. “What was it, Ailis? What did you find?”

She stuttered. “A — a — c-coffin. Tiny. Tiny little coffin. It was so beautiful. Flowers and everything. And we opened it, and — and — it was so beautiful, and we couldn’t just leave it there, and no one would believe us if we left it there and so we brought it home back to the school but then we thought to keep it secret to keep it ours and then then then the wailing started and Judith got hit by that door and Beatrice almost got crushed in the library and I — I —”

Holmes’s voice was low as he finally spoke. “You were trapped in a smoke-filled room, despite there being no fire in the hearth.”

Silent, her eyes huge, Ailis only stared at him.

I tightened my fingers around her hands, drawing her attention back to me. “Where is the coffin now, Ailis?”

Her chin quivered again, tears spilling down her cheeks. “I don’t know! I don’t know! We wanted to take it back, after that first night — we did! But we went — we went to where we had hidden it — and it was gone! It was gone!”

---

~ Four ~

Down three flights of stairs, through the kitchen, through another door, and down another flight of stairs, Ailis holding my hand the whole way. My tools safely back in my bag, I clutched my copper needle in my other hand. Holmes followed along behind, shuffling his feet, playing at the role of Sigerson again.

The stairs to the basement were much steeper and narrower than those above ground, the stone walls crowding in on either side. There were no electric lights down here, only gas lights that flickered intermittently.

At the bottom of the stairs, Ailis led us around piles of boxes, trunks, old cabinets, molding stacks of books, and jumbles of animal and human skeletons. She stopped far along the right wall, lifting one shaking hand to point at a huge old iron stove.

It was difficult to make out at first, its true girth lost to the shadows of the basement. Then there was a flick and a flash of light, and Holmes held a lantern aloft. I couldn’t even recall seeing him pick one up. A golden glow fell across the stove, and I saw that it was massive, at least a century old, and covered in dust.

Except for the grated door, which hung open, revealing the dark and empty interior.

Holmes slipped around us and crouched in front of the stove.

“Ailis, you and your friends hid the coffin in there?”

“Yes, ma’am. No one ever comes down here. We’re not supposed to. Headmistress says it’s dangerous.”

Holmes grunted.

I clasped Ailis by her shoulders and turned her towards me. “Thank you very much, Ailis. I need you to go back upstairs now. Don’t tell anyone what you told us, or what we have done. I’ll see you at dinner.”

The girl hesitated. She licked her lips, cast a glance at Holmes, then looked back at me and nodded. She turned, then stopped. “Miss MacPherson is my favorite. Always encouraging me. I never — we —” She shook her head and was quickly lost to the darkness and debris. I was only certain that she was gone when I heard the faint thump of the door at the top of the stairs.

Holmes was bent over the stove, poking and frowning. “What is the Gaelic term? As proud as you are of your Scottish heritage, I assume that you object to the English witch.”

“ . . . Is that what I am?”

“I am not mad. I am in full possession of my faculties. Therefore, I trust the evidence of my own senses — and the evidence, at this time, supports no other conclusion.”

“And what evidence does the stove provide?”

He turned on the balls of his feet, quirking an eyebrow in my direction. “Quid pro quo, Miss Morstan. What did you learn in the laboratory?”

I hesitated, squaring my shoulders. “It seems likely that another faerie is looking for this . . . coffin, though I am not certain that is what the object is. It cannot go near iron, and so only the glass which was bound in iron was left untouched in the lab. I wove a like-to-like Working, hoping to trace the faerie.” I lifted my hand, revealing the copper needle. “Instead, it led us to Ailis, indicating that she has been touched by it, retained some of its essence.”

“Contamination?”

“Of a sort. Rather like the perfume left behind after flowers have been removed from a room. The Working could not find the faerie, either because it was gone or well hidden, but it did find traces of the faerie on Ailis.” I stepped closer. “Quid pro quo.”

He bowed slightly, a hand pressed to his heart. “Footprints in the dust, and finger smudges on the grate. Three of the pairs of footprints are small.”

“The students.”

“Correct. The fourth is larger, and also female. There is a clear impression of the heel, there, and the swirl in the dust just to the left was made by a trailing hem.”

“Well, that certainly does narrow the list of suspects. It must be Miss Baxter or Miss Couper.”

He quirked an eyebrow again. The expression was beginning to annoy me. “Not Mrs. Fearghasdan? Or even someone from outside the school?”

“Mrs. Fearghasdan would never place the Academy in such danger. And I highly doubt that anyone could make their way onto the grounds, through the hallways, and down here without being seen — assuming they even knew to look for the coffin inside an iron stove in a corner of the basement.”

“Mrs. Fearghasdan has made her opinion of magic well known. If she took the coffin, it was under the assumption that it was a trifle. Only it proved not to be a trifle, and you are the only person of her acquaintance who possesses the wherewithal to deal with the matter. She could not confess what she had done without bringing blame upon herself, and the ire and derision of her staff and her students’ families.” He swung the lantern around, focusing again on the stove. “As for an outsider, are you the only person in Edinburgh with such abilities? Surely there are others who can cast Workings and who would be interested in a faerie coffin.”

My mouth fell open. For long minutes, I could only watch him in stunned silence as he examined the stove, the walls around it, the floor, and various piles of crates, trunks, bones, and books.

He broke the silence with a “Ha!” of satisfaction and pressed his hand to a brick in the wall roughly level with his shoulder. There was a low grinding sound and a section of the wall sank in, swinging just wide enough for him to slip inside.

“Come along, Miss Morstan!” he called back, his voice echoing.

My stunned confusion gave way to exasperation. Rolling my eyes, I squeezed after him, my skirts catching and tearing on the brick.

The light from his lantern filtered down from above, revealing a spiraling stone stairwell even more narrow than the one we had originally descended to the basement. There were no windows here, but plenty of cobwebs and evidence of rats and mice.

There was no way to avoid all of the cobwebs as I climbed after Holmes — I could feel them trailing over my shoulders and in my hair — but I lifted my skirts high and did my best to step around the piles of excrement and the occasional rodent corpse.

Some of the webs were already broken, and not by Holmes. And there was a second set of footprints in the dust. I set my foot down beside one. Roughly the same size, and with a heel.

“As students, we all liked to tease one another with stories about the hidden passageways inside the walls.” My voice echoed oddly, cold, mixing with our footsteps as I continued to climb after him. “Stories of students who became lost in them, never to be found again. Of malicious teachers who used them to sneak into students’ rooms to punish them in their sleep. Girls who had secreted paramours inside. Even that Grizel Frazier herself still roamed the passageways, keeping an eye on the Academy she founded.”

“Is there any truth to the tales?”

“Some, probably.” I wrinkled my nose as I stepped over a particularly large rat carcass, the bones showing through the hide. “I imagine that the Commandants of the barracks found the passageways useful, as did the soldiers, for smuggling and . . . other activities. Once it became a school, they would have served a similar purpose for both the staff and the students. Ailis and her friends obviously know of at least one passage, which leads from the library to the outside of the western wall.”

“Do you know of others?”

“Just the passageway from the kitchen to the great dining hall, but everyone knows about it. The serving staff use it as a shortcut. And there’s the secret room behind the Headmistress’s office.”

He paused, swinging the lantern around to look down at me.

“Grizel Frazier used it to hide books of which church and government authorities alike would not have approved. And, yes, we can check it for the coffin, but we will not find it there.”

“Mm.”

He turned away and, after another dozen steps, we came to a heavy wooden door banded and bolted in iron. There was no lock, but there was a latch. Handing the lantern to me, he leaned sideways, pressing his ear to the wood. Satisfied, he lifted the latch and pushed the door open. He paused on the threshold, expression a curious combination of grim and satisfied.

I pressed forward, trying to see over his shoulder.

After a moment, he spun to the side and out of the secret door, holding it open far enough for me to squeeze out of the passageway, through the side of a cabinet — and into the chemistry laboratory.