Free Who Killed Sherlock Holmes? by Paul Cornell Page A

quarters, on both levels. At times she held up the key, hoping it would oblige her with a inclination in one direction or the other, but got no reaction. A part of
her had hoped this building might provide the solution to another mystery: was there a lock somewhere her mysterious key fitted? Perhaps in one of these doors? It didn’t seem likely, given
their relatively modern design. The key looked ancient, rounded by so many fingers, though its teeth were miraculously sharp.
    She returned to the gatehouse, frustrated. Now there was a caretaker inside, reading the paper. She knocked on his window, showing him a forced smile and her warrant card. He looked alarmed as
he came to the door, but she quickly calmed him. ‘Just background on a case – nothing to worry about. Could I see a list of your tenants, please?’ The proffered list didn’t
include any of the names she was after; of course it didn’t: the records of them had been erased from the world, James had said. But . . . hold on.
    ‘There are eight corner apartments and four apartments along each side of each floor, right? So why are there only thirty-five flats on this list?’
    The caretaker shrugged. ‘That’s all we have. I should know.’ He looked complacent about it when, in any normal situation, that would have been the cue for an interesting fact,
a demonstration of his familiarity with the building.
    Lofthouse was seized with sudden hope. She went back into the courtyard. She would walk each corridor again, counting doors this time. She headed for a stairwell, again passing the rows of
wheelie bins. A thought struck her. A caretaker wouldn’t take it upon himself to spare any apartment its junk mail. What had James told her about this process of forgetting? That it seemed to
leap from mind to mind across everyone who knew about the thing that was being forced out of the public consciousness. So, an automated process, once it had started up . . .
    She went to the pile of letters and took the brick away. They were all from apartment 23. She ran back to the gatehouse, grabbed that list off the caretaker again, looked up and down it. No
apartment 23. She returned the paper to him, but was suddenly sure there
must
have been one, so she took it back and examined it again. She found the names and addresses sliding away from
her gaze in a way that made her eyes hurt. She couldn’t see what was being concealed, but she could just about perceive the concealment itself, now she was deliberately seeking it. She handed
the list back again to a now thoroughly bemused caretaker and jogged over to the appropriate stairwell.
    Lofthouse walked the corridor past apartments 22 to 25 without noticing anything strange, then swore out loud and walked back, this time making herself stand in front of each flat in turn. It
was as if this power sent her brain into the mode where one is doing something one does every day, and so finds oneself thinking consciously of something else and can’t remember the familiar
action in the gap. Now she purposefully walked past apartment 22 and made herself stop before she got to 24, and yes, she could feel . . . something, as she turned to look in what must be the right
direction. The feeling was very powerful, now she focused on it, but it was very localized. It was like finding an enormous wind blowing through a tiny crevice, like something one read about on the
science pages, a force inside the smallest spaces of the universe. She still couldn’t sense anything between these two apartments, but she was just about aware now of something buffeting her
mind aside, getting between the light in her eyes and her knowledge of it. She made herself step forwards and reach out. Her hand stretched further and further into nothingness. She didn’t
know what she was hoping for. It was impossible, she knew, for her to be aware of encountering a door.
    The key on her charm bracelet jerked urgently. She didn’t know if that was in