The Devil's Chord

Chapter Seven

“Why on earth do you think the killer is now after Miss Walker?” the butler asked, shoving his handkerchief into his pocket.

The sloppy action in lieu of the man’s usual tidiness indicated genuine distress.

Sherlock frowned. How odd. Miss Walker had only been around for a few days, yet already the old man was concerned for her welfare. Strange how people were so quick to form attachments to one another. It made them far too easy to manipulate.

He raised a brow. “I can provide you with a lengthy explanation, but I expect it would reflect poorly on you if your second employer was kidnapped, injured, or violently murdered in the meantime.”

The butler paled. “Should I call the police?”

He waved away the suggestion. “They wouldn’t be any help.”

“How are we supposed to track her down with no mobile number or any idea of where she’s gone?” John asked.

“Both of you shut up,” Sherlock said, earning a reproachful glare from his friend.

He didn’t care. The constant data flowing into his brain overwhelmed him at times and impeded his ability to process pertinent information.

His gaze caught on the butler’s fingernails. They were pitted with tiny holes, a classic sign of psoriasis.

The dark circles beneath John’s eyes indicated little sleep the previous night, but his relaxed posture told Sherlock his friend had thoroughly enjoyed himself.

Utterly useless. The information was irrelevant to the problem at hand, yet every minute observation logged itself into his brain, whether he wanted it or not. It was incredibly irritating.

He shut his eyes to block out the visual stimuli, but the sounds of squeaking rubber soles and loud exhalations distracted him. “For god’s sake. Stop moving. Stop breathing. I’m trying to think.”

Two seconds of quiet reigned and the answer coalesced in his mind.

Sherlock opened his eyes and focused on Mr. Giles. “People utilize nicknames when they’ve formed some sort of absurd attachment to an object or person. Was the Maxima Ms. Frost’s favorite vehicle?”

“Yes, she used it often and made certain it received detailed care.”

“Did she have a security system installed?”

“Yes, it was updated last year.”

“Is it equipped with a GPS system?”

Mr. Giles winced. “It is. I’m daft for not thinking of it sooner. I have the paperwork in a cabinet in my office.”

“Excellent. Meet us at the gatehouse. An Internet connection is required to pinpoint her location. Also, we’ll need to borrow a car, a fast one. Put mine, John’s, and Miss Walker’s luggage inside.”

John shot him a questioning glance.

“It may not be safe for her to come back to Aria,” Sherlock said. “Ms. Frost already lost her life here.”

“I’ll do whatever you think is best, Mr. Holmes,” Giles said, then hurried up the stairs.

Sherlock disconnected the microscope from his laptop and slid his computer into its protective case. He and John left the cellar and headed out the front door. A driver already waited to take them to the gatehouse.

Before Sherlock opened the car door, a servant ran down the front steps with a folder in her hand. “Mr. Holmes. Mr. Giles told me to give this to you.”