A Beautiful and Terrible Murder

Book 1: Irene Adler

by Claire Andrews

Genres: YA Historical Fiction; YA Romance

Synopsis

Perfect for fans of Stalking Jack the Ripper, this historical murder mystery follows the cunning Irene Adler as she teams up with the mysterious Sherlock Holmes to discover who is murdering Oxford's elite students in the All Souls class.

Irene Adler is no ordinary young lady. She's at the top of the ranks in the All Souls cohort, a competitive preparatory class reserved for Oxford's brightest minds. But her peers and professors don't know she's a lady at all. To them, she is Isaac Holland.

Keeping up her disguise gets trickier when All Souls students start dying, one by one. Determined to find out who's responsible for the deaths, Irene—as Isaac—teams up with fellow classmate and roommate Sherlock Holmes to track down clues. Their mission grows more dangerous by the day as someone tries to frame Isaac for the murders, and Irene's own father, Dean Moriarty, begins to threaten her seat in school.

Readers will love following these classic and beloved characters through the twists and turns in the dark halls of Oxford, and discovering what secret lies behind the glitz and glamor of the elite.

 

Release date: August 5, 2025

Publisher: Little, Brown Books for Young Readers

Print pages: 432

Sample

Alone, I make my way to the Bodleian before I have to revert back to Isaac’s clothes; I have enough time to do some reading before my next class and would rather not fight with an itchy mustache and heavy hat while I do so.

I prefer the Bodleian to anywhere else on campus. The lighting in the library is perfect, the shelves welcoming, and it’s so blessedly quiet. Before I was accepted to the school, I used to hide in the seldom-used upper levels as a young girl.

I can now go over some alchemical experiments in its abandoned corners without drawing suspicion. Though my mentor had the foresight to book me a second dormitory room in the male wing—easier to sneak in and out of, away from ladies prone to snoop and meddle—I can’t practice my experiments there while my roommate stews in the corner. Any discovery could give me the needed leg up against the lords that already have the money and prestige necessary to catch the queen’s eye. I also have neither the money nor prestige to garner my own laboratory, like many of my All Souls classmates. Rich bastards.

Many of said classmates are perusing the Selden End’s shelves, balancing piles of books to their tables. Some men look up and glare when I enter. Women are only recently allowed to study in the Bodleian, a point of much resentment among the students.

Moriarty, all sharp angles and hateful looks, sneers as I pass his table, leaving no uncertainty to his feelings about me using the sacred study space. He’s surrounded by a handful of our All Souls peers, each ogling for his favor much like the ladies do with Ermyntrude.

Smiling to myself, I continue past his table to the stairs. Above, on the first floor, hidden near the

theology section, is a small reading room in which I have hidden my experiments.

A mercury heart.

I climb the black, spiraling metal staircase. A shadow jerks backward, and I nearly collide with the firm chest of Sherlock Holmes.

He recoils, pressing as far away as possible, against the black iron handrail. Exactly the opposite of how men usually behave around me.

“Milady,” he says, sputtering slightly. So unlike the assured, confident, arrogant Sherlock Holmes in class.

I cock my head, smile widening, catlike. “I don’t think anyone has ever called me that before.”

“Would you prefer Irene?” His dark voice lingers over my name. 

He knows who I am, and without proper introduction. Whether he says my name to intimidate or impress me, I haven’t the slightest. The corner of his mouth curls upward. His behavior dances between curiosity and trepidation in my presence.

I like it.

“Pardon me, but I don’t think we’ve been properly introduced before.” I dare a step closer, suddenly glad I wore my favorite dark red lipstick, the same color as my hair. He smells of horses and an underlying hint of smoke, and on his thumb is a large pewter ring. “Would you prefer to be called Sherlock, or simply Lord Holmes?”

A myriad of emotions spread across his face. His eyes widen in surprise, eyebrows rising. His mouth pops open a fraction— to say what? I don’t think even he knows. His nostrils flare, undoubtedly taking in the scent of lemon-​and-​honey soap that I use to wash my clothes, so far removed from the oak-​and-​moss soap I’ve squirreled away from my family butler for Isaac’s jackets and the floral scents that are fashionable among the ladies my age. Silence stretches between us for a few heartbeats.

“I do so enjoy our chats,” I joke with an airy laugh. This isn’t the first time we’ve come face‑to‑face, but it is the first time that I’ve ever spoken to him as Irene. I reach up to pat his cheek gently with my gloved hand. But not before I catch the heat rising in his tan cheeks, and the pair of icy eyes staring daggers at us both over his shoulder.

Moriarty tries to pin me with his gaze. He clenches a quill hard enough to snap the thin wood. His

friends, curious about what has drawn his attention, have all turned to stare as well.

Ignoring him and all the others, I continue up the stairwell. When I reach my hidden reading nook, my heart trips. The doorway, a single panel of wood without handle or keyhole, is ajar. Perhaps not quite so hidden after all. ...