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“An amulet, a piece of jewelry, or even a coin; all these are possible. If the object in question turned out not even to be Roman, but from some other culture, the gentleman in question wouldn’t even miss it if it got misplaced.”
    Sarah and Nan exchanged a look. “If that is the case,” Nan said, taking up the thread, “It’s likely something inimical to the Celts. It was in trying to protect Sarah from it that I first manifested my persona of a Celtic warrior-woman.”
    John Watson drummed his fingers on the table. “Found in or near a Roman excavation but not necessarily Roman . . . inimical to the Celts, or at least something your—former incarnation?—would perceive immediately as an enemy . . . I think we need an expert on mythology. Or history. Or both, preferably.”
    Mary waved her hand at all the books. “We might be able to start here, in any event, now that we have a better idea of what we are looking for. After that, we might try the Reading Room of the British Museum.”
    But several hours later, they were about to admit defeat. There
was
an extensive collection of books about the Roman occupiers and the tribes of the time and their respective mythos. But there were so
many
possibilities that they had to give up. It was too hard to narrow the field.
    â€œWell, now what?” Nan asked the Watsons.
    Mary shook her head. But John Watson looked as if he’d had an idea. “I believe we ought to ask someone Lord Alderscroft doesn’t precisely approve of.” He laughed a little. “Neither does Holmes, for that matter.”
    â€œWho would that be?” asked Mary, just as curious as the girls were.
    â€œBeatrice Leek. She and her family have been in the . . . less conventional occult circles for quite some time.”
    Mary began to laugh. So did Nan and Sarah. “‘Less conventional’? Half of them are deluded, a quarter of them are outright mad, and the remainder I’m not quite sure of,” said Nan, wiping the tears from her eyes. “Still, if you think there’s a sane one, by all means. That’s a good idea.”
    â€œExcellent.” Watson pulled out his pocket watch. “As it happens, I know exactly where she will be at this hour.” He rose. “Care for tea, ladies?”
    â€œPerishing,” said Mary. “Let’s get out of this stuffy room and into the air. What there is of it. It
is
London, after all.”
    â€¢Â â€¢Â â€¢
    This was not a tearoom that Nan had ever been to before, nor likely would ever have found. It was in Chelsea, a district where she and Sarah almost never went, despite the fact that they had adopted the dress of the female artists who lived there. In fact, if it hadn’t beenfor the sign on the door that
said
it was a tearoom, she likely would not have taken it for one, because most tearooms catered to ladies and only the occasional gentleman, and this place was crowded with both sexes. And in this tearoom, the Ladies’ Rational Dress she, Sarah, and Mary Watson were wearing was absolutely unremarkable. In fact, the gowns worn here actually included bloomer suits, as well as Artistic Reform gowns, gypsy-like ensembles layered with fringed shawls and masses of bead necklaces, and even an Indian sari or two. Some of the men were almost as colorful, in paint-stained smocks, velvet coats in jewel tones, or scarlet cloaks.
    There was hardly any wall showing. It was all paintings, and it was impossible for Nan to tell if any of them were any good, because having every square inch of wall populated by paintings just made everything confused, at least for her. She couldn’t concentrate on any one of them, feeling overwhelmed by the visual cacophony.
    As John led them past crowded tables and people sitting or occasionally standing and chatting at the tops of their lungs, Nan noticed that the tea services themselves