CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
Rachel stepped out of the lounge bar entrance of the Sherlock Holmes with two gin and tonics. Aubrey had scored a table on the sidewalk while she was inside, directly under the etching of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle on the pub’s front window. The table was lit from above by old fashioned gas lanterns, the light spilling across the brick Northumberland Street. It had been cordoned off from road traffic. A good idea, Rachel thought. The midnight crowd had been reveling for several hours.
“How long have you known Jess?” she asked after taking a sip.
Aubrey was slow to answer, his brow knitting. “A long time,” he finally said. “We’ve been through a lot together. They are an old soul; one I came to love and respect many years ago.”
Rachel nodded, still adjusting to the pronoun
