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Inquisitive and observant, Dora dreams of escaping her aristocratic country life to solve mysteries alongside Sherlock Holmes. So when she learns that the legendary detective might be her biological father, Dora jumps on the opportunity to travel to London and enlist his help in solving the mystery of her cousin's ransomed love letters. But Dora arrives in London to devastating news: Sherlock Holmes is dead. Her dreams dashed, Dora is left to rely on her wits-and the assistance of an attractive yet enigmatic young detective-to save her cousin's reputation and help rescue a kidnapped heiress along the way.
Steeped in Victorian atmosphere and intrigue, this gripping novel, now in paperback, heralds the arrival of a fresh new voice in young adult literature.
when I saw him freeze and stare pointedly at the writing desk. In my haste, I had left my half-finished note on his table when I fled and tossed the inky pen beside my purse. With grim determination he strode over to it, picked up the handbag, and turned slowly toward his bedroom door. He was glaring at the keyhole now, his eyes narrowed, furious, as if he meant to burn a passage through the wood and expose me to the world. I held my breath, waiting for him to call me out, dreading the moment
would come together and forever change my life. I thought back over that day again, and once more felt the heat from the roaring fireplace in my aunt’s parlor, saw the stacks of gleaming presents in the corner (my cousin had overbought that year in an attempt to cheer me up), and felt the pinch of my black crape mourning dress. Adelaide had placed a journal, the Beeton’s Christmas Annual, on my lap. I’d glanced at it with little interest. The journal had never impressed me before, and there was
what to make of what I saw, and I just couldn’t hold it in no longer. But maybe we shouldn’t talk of it anymore.” “I’m all right, you just gave me a turn, that’s all.” My heart had slowed a little now and I was breathing normally. My theory did not make sense, I realized. Agatha had said that James had only been gone an hour. But why had his pants been covered in dirt? He couldn’t have murdered Rose and then buried her on the Hartfield grounds as I had first imagined; he wouldn’t have gotten
discovered something, that they had both “unearthed a secret,” as she had put it. Flora had mentioned seeing mud on Lady Rose’s fingers; perhaps the girl had literally unearthed it. Had Lady Rose taken something from James and hidden it away for her own purpose? But what had she had taken from him, and, more importantly, where had she concealed it? And then it came to me. I had noticed something no one else had. Even Cartwright had missed it, for he had searched Lady Rose’s room in the beginning
yet somehow he had, for as I watched him, he stepped closer to me, put his hand gently over my own, and together we set the rock back in its place, beneath the shrubs and out of sight. “There now,” he murmured simply. “Do you feel better?” I nodded mutely. That silly gesture had helped me somehow, had made me breathe a little easier, though how he could have known, I still did not understand. And why was he here at all? Highgate Cemetery was nowhere near his home. “Why did you come?” I asked