Page 43 of A Study in Drowning

She couldn’t see his face, but she heard Preston’s now familiar huff of laughter. “It does look a bit haunted, doesn’t it?”

“I’m glad you don’t entirely lack imagination.”

Preston gave the box a gentle shake. “It’s locked.”

“No,” Effy said, her voice edging on petulant. “Let me see.”

Preston stood up, brushing off his trousers, and handed her the box. Like the rest of the room, it was covered in dust. Effy had to blow on the front to read the words stamped on it: PROPERTY OF E. MYRDDIN.

Her heart leaped. She tamped down her eagerness as she examined the rest of the box. Below his name was a little engraving of the same two saints, Eupheme and Marinell, their beards swollen like titanic waves. Effy got the same feeling she had felt while paging through those old books in the university library—like she was discovering something arcane and secret and special, something that belonged, in some small way, to her.

And to Preston, of course. She could tell from the dust that no other fingers had touched this box for a long, long time. There was a small keyhole in the front, but the metal felt very flimsy, no more substantial than the tin where Effy’s grandfather kept his neatly rolled cigars.

She heaved the box against the wall, which it hit with a deafening clatter. There was the crush of metal as the corner of the box folded in on itself like a crumpled napkin.

Preston actually yelped. “Effy! What are you doing?”

“Opening it,” she replied, which she thought was obvious.

“But Ianto,” he choked out. “He’s certainly going to notice that his father’s box has been smashed and pilfered.”

“The whole thing was covered in dust,” Effy said. “I don’t think he even knows that it’s here.”

Preston made another vague, strangled noise of protest, but Effy had already pried open the damaged lock. She flipped the lid of the box open, rusted hinges whining.

Inside was a small leather-bound notebook, wrapped up with a length of twine.

Her breath caught in her throat. Here it was, something Emrys Myrddin had actually written in. This was better than any obscure tome she’d ever found in the library. Better than any treasure a deep-sea diver could uncover.

She stole a glance at Preston, whose eyes were wide, mouth slightly ajar, and found she didn’t even mind that he was discovering it with her.

“I can’t believe it,” Preston said. “I never really thought we would find—well, I suppose we don’t know what’s inside yet. It could be a weather almanac. It could be a book of recipes.”

Effy gave him a withering look. “No one keeps their recipe book locked away in a secret box, in a secret room.”

“With Myrddin, I wouldn’t be too shocked,” Preston said dryly.

He picked up the diary and something slipped out from between its pages. Several things, in fact. Nearly a dozen photographs, washed out and worn thin with time.

Her fingers trembling, Effy took one. Through the pearlescent sheen of age, she could see it was a photo of a girl, no older than she was, with long, pale hair. She was curled on the chaise longue in Myrddin’s study wearing a satin robe, which had slipped up to reveal a white calf.

Preston frowned. “Who is this?”

Effy found she couldn’t speak. The air in the room suddenly felt very heavy, very thick.

She picked up the next photograph, which featured the same girl, on the same chaise, only she had changed position: her legs were straight now, bare feet dangling over the edge of the chaise, and her robe had rucked up farther, exposing the curve of her thigh.

Though Effy already knew what she would see, she needed to pick up the next photo. For so long the girl had been secreted away, gathering dust. That was why something might become a ghost—its life had meant so little, no one had even mourned it.

In the next photo the girl was on her back, robe cleaved open to bare her tight, round breasts. The buds of her nipples were small and pinched, as if it had been cold in the study that day. She was not looking at the camera. Her gaze was elsewhere and empty. Her arms were arced over her head but in a stiff and unnatural way, as if they had been positioned there by someone else’s hand or whim.

Her body was as flat and bare as a butcher’s drawing, all parts accounted for. Two legs and two arms, her head and her golden hair, her flat belly and perfectly symmetrical breasts. If you slit her down the middle like a fish, both sides would be identical.

Effy’s grip tightened on the photo, crumpling its edges. A hard knot rose in her throat.

Preston had taken up another photo. His face was very red, gaze darting around hurriedly, trying to look anywhere else but at the naked girl. “Who do you think she is?” he asked again.

“I don’t know.” Effy’s voice sounded slurred, like a reverberation from below water. “These could be Ianto’s . . .”