Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

1938

London was not a place I ever dreamed about. I’d never thought about even visiting—though with Europe spiraling into war, chances were my confidential new job would take me there sooner rather than later. But lately, the nightmares I’d been having about that city had gotten so disturbing, I was sweat-drenched and gasping when I woke up. My arrival there to save my sister was worse.

The fog was chokingly thick, as bad as any anecdote or legend would have it. From Sophie's occasional photographs and drawings, this part of Marylebone was normally bright and bustling, with people coming home from work and children hurrying in to supper. But there were few sounds to be heard from the mostly-empty streets as seemingly everyone had locked themselves in. Block after block of apartments presented dimly lit or darkened windows and sullen doors shut tight. The only movement to be seen was the flicker of traffic signals; a car or two trying to navigate the murk--and construction tarps rippling over the windows of a newly-rennovated building. The heavy black fabric moved in and out slightly, as if the building was breathing in the fog. A sign in front read: "The British Broadcasting Corporation Television Service--Marylebone Studios."

The cold pressed down on me, doubling my exhaustion, and my every step had gone past hurting into numbness. I'd left my suitcase in a train station locker near the port where my ship had docked. My identification and money was in a bag slung on my shoulder, but my most vital papers and extra funds were hidden inside my shirt’s double pocket.  I was planning on getting Sophie home as fast as possible, not stick around to sight-see.

But as I came on Sophie's street, the bright light spilling out onto the street halfway down brought me up sharply. I felt my heart drop. The entrance to her apartment building was crowded with people. A police car pulled to a stop in front of the building with a screech of tires. The muffled wail of an ambulance pierced the fog as it neared. I made my way through the crowd into the foyer, catching every other sentence from a welter of Cockney, Bahamian, and Jamaican voices.

“‘Nother one?

“Worse.”

“The police saw fit to stop by this time?”

“Well, they ‘ave to, now, don’t they? High-muckety-muck toff shredded like a cabbage and all.”

Squeezing past spectators, I climbed the staircase, trying to avoid being pressed against the shaky bannister.

“‘Ere, all of you—step back.” The voice came from inside Sophie’s apartment.

At the top of the stairs, I made one last bruising push through the crowd, landing on the doorway floor. The apartment windows were blown out, furniture overturned, some in splinters. Bits of paper floated in the air, and I saw the remains of my sister’s books and sheet music. On the piano was the last photograph we’d taken together, on the Atlantic City beach back in New Jersey, before she’d come to England for university. Her face beamed with a smile as she plunked a silly straw hat on my head.

Shredded paper covered the floor, and in the center was what looked like a flower bed of ripped skin and blood-red fabric. I only had time to register the cuff of a Hawkes & Co. shirt, a LeCoultre Reverso watch, and a gold signet ring adorning the corpse’s arm before the crowd surged forward again. Police whistles echoed from the downstairs and the street outside.

I quickly got back on my feet, but I had no time to grab the photo. As officers pounded up the stairs, I darted into one of the next apartments. Several children were looking out the window. One was running his little toy police car up along the window frame. But it was what was happening outside down the street that caught my attention.

Two men were helping my sister into a car. The fog was strangely thinner around them. One was tall and gangly, moving with a rangy casualness. The other was a figure wearing what looked like a long black dress, but as a car passed, I saw a white clerical collar around his neck. Sophie’s face was washed-out in the headlights, her normally-glowing brown skin drained of life, her eyes dull with shock, and she was as limp as a broken doll. In the light of another passing car, I saw a look of distress on the priest’s face. In a moment he gently folded her into the car, and got in beside her. The younger man darted around to the driver's seat, and glanced up at the window. Another car went by, catching him in the headlights. The tallest child, a girl, glanced out to the hallway at the police and gave him a frantic wave. With a grin, he returned it, and climbed quickly into the car.

I hadn't moved or made any sign, but suddenly, Sophie looked up at me. She appeared just as she had in my dreams, and my throat closed with fear. Her stare was fixed, cold; and the smile creeping across her face was even more unnatural. As the car sped off, Sophie held my gaze until she and the car were swallowed by the regathering fog.

“Here, you children get to bed now!” A stocky lady with red hair stood in the doorway, spearing me with a look. “And who the 'ell are you?”

“I'm sorry...I...” I stammered.

“We're keeping watch for Sid,” one of the children, a little girl, piped up. The tall girl promptly shushed her.

“Yeah, he and Father Brown took Miss Sophie away,” added the boy with the police car.

The lady's expression soured even more. “And that's business you shouldn't be concerning yourselves with. Bed, all of you!” She turned on me. “And you—out!!”

The children scattered. The hallway was filling with policemen, so that was definitely a route I didn't want to risk taking. I put a finger to my lips, and indicated the corner window, which had a fire-escape outside.

“Excuse me, miss. I--,” A man in a suit stepped in front of the doorway. As he removed his hat, I caught sight of cool blue-grey eyes and precisely-combed dark hair.

“No one here saw nothin'.” The lady promptly shut the door in his face, and locked it, but not before his eyes widened as he glimpsed me. With luck, that was a trick of the light, but I wasn’t taking any chances. The lady's reaction was reason enough for the police to insist on grilling her, and this guy had police detective written all over him. I opened the window and climbed out onto the fire escape. Fortunately for me, it was on the side of the building and a quick look down confirmed the police weren’t yet in the alley below. In this murk, I needed to pick my way carefully, but I didn't have the time. I scrambled down, expecting any minute to slip on the wet, rackety metal steps and pitch several stories to the sidewalk.

Grabbing the unfolded ladder at the bottom, I dangled from its rungs, managing to let go and land on what smelled like a pile of dirty laundry—at least, I hoped it was. With a wince, I rubbed my scraped calf and re-secured my bag on my shoulder. About a block and a half away, I could see the imposing steeples of a church standing sentinel in the fog. Making sure no one in the chaos out front noticed me, I walked quickly towards the church in the same direction the car carrying my sister had gone, breaking into a run once I was halfway there. Given that there were at least seven or more Catholic churches in Marylebone, I hoped this was the right one.

A black fence surrounded the back of the church. Its entrance gate creaked as I stealthily opened the latch, and stepped into a sea of headstones, pale marble angels, and tall granite crosses that stretched the width of the block to the next street. Apparently Mass had just let out, for several parishioners were coming down the street, drawn by the sirens and commotion back at the apartment. As they passed, I darted into the shadows of the church wall, sliding along it, My hands ran across a flat stone set deep in the wall. From the dim light of a street lamp, I saw the stone lay atop an outdoor baptismal font. Breathing heavily, I waited. When no pursuer showed after several long minutes, I made my way towards the back door, doing my best to avoid stepping on any graves.

“Excuse me,” a quiet voice said. “What is it you want?”

I froze. And by now I was too exhausted to be startled. Outside the fence, a few feet away from the gate, another priest stood out on the sidewalk under a lamplight. Taller than the first, his head brushed the outstretched branches of a cypress tree. His face was slightly craggy, albeit good-humored.

“I’m sorry,” I faltered. “I didn’t mean to disturb you.”

He strode to the gate. From the litheness of his movements—and the width of his shoulders—I would have made a very wild guess he had put in some serious rugby or cricket time. No . . . football. His diction was American, though, oddly, he had had no accent at first.

“Oh, I wasn’t doing anything particularly meaningful.” He raised his hand and smiled. “Father Derry Conway. No need for explanations. Whatever your business here, you are welcome.” He indicated the sidewalk. “You should come this way, to the side entrance.”

As I started towards him, a hand gripped my wrist. Another snapped a handcuff on it. “I’m sorry, Father. I’m afraid Miss Dennison will have to do some confessing down at the station first.”

The detective from Sophie's apartment assessed me dispassionately, with an irritating hint of satisfaction, as he locked the other handcuff on his wrist. He was as composed and unflustered as if he had just walked around the corner. He must have run pretty fast to go up the block and sneak through the cemetery to cut me off.

“And you are arresting me for what, exactly?” I said icily. Damn, he must have seen the picture on the piano and made the connection between me and Sophie.

“Just taking you into protective custody as a material witness. Your sister is in serious trouble. I would think you’d want to help.”

Since he didn’t know Sophie was inside, I wasn’t about to enlighten him. A quick glance at the handcuffs revealed they were basic London bobby issue—a hairpin could pick them open. And if I could shake him on the way to the station, it would at least keep him distracted. No point in making it easy for him, though. “A witness to what?”

“Murder.”

Father Conway raised his voice a little, fortunately catching the detective’s full attention. “You are aware this is a sanctuary church, Police
Constable—“

“Detective Inspector Sullivan,” he corrected, straightening his tie. “And I’m sure you know, Father, that sanctuary has no legal standing. Not since the Middle Ages.”

I brushed my free hand past my hair, pulling a hairpin out.

“If I recall correctly, several high-ranking members of your constabulary worship here. And they take sanctuary very seriously," the Father observed.

“Good, because I’m claiming that right,” I interjected hastily, surreptitiously picking at the lock. I set a record for cuff-breaking back during my intelligence training, but these were proving difficult.

“Tell me, Inspector, what is it you want?” Father Conway's question was perfectly mild, but there was something in its underlying tone that gave me a sudden chill. His steady dark eyes held Sullivan's gaze with the intensity of a hawk honing in on prey. It occurred to me he had asked me the same question. And it hadn't registered at the time, but now it did—he had put the same curious emphasis on the word 'you.'”

Sullivan gave a tight smile. “Honestly, Father, going home for a Scotch or three would be perfection. Until then--” He pushed me towards the gate, but I went dead-weight, stopping him in his tracks. The same ominous feeling from my dream that something was badly wrong gripped me like a hand around my throat.

The Father opened the gate, his smile twisting his face. “Ah. Vetium in Nitimur. 'We strive for the forbidden,' as Ovid would say.

“Wait,” I whispered hoarsely. I was looking past the Father, almost not believing what I was seeing. Or wasn’t seeing. The fog had thinned, and the glow of the lamp post on the sidewalk outlined his body. But it didn’t reveal his shadow—any shadow—at all.

Sullivan's eyes narrowed on the Father. “Latin was not my long suit, but I believe you are saying that backwards.”

Father Conway sighed, his fingers flexing. “Ah. It’s been so long since I’ve had to play in bones and sinew and blood, I always forget the little details.”

His eyes were alight with an inhuman glow. The top of his hands rippled as something crawled under his skin. Blackness slithered down his face and consumed the rest of him, swirling darkly. 

The fog around us thickened, almost impenetrable. Sullivan shoved me behind him. He could have saved himself the gallant-knight move, because I'd freed my hand from the cuff, and turned to run. But the air was now icy with waves of concentrated hatred, tearing at me. I clenched my teeth in pain. It was all I could do to not surrender to that wrenching sensation and be pulled into that thing’s grip. Sullivan's body pushed mine up against the church wall, protecting me. But I could feel a shudder going through him, tearing at his resolve. Neither one of us could last much longer…

Chapter Text

Suddenly, a fall of icy water drenched me and Sullivan. The tearing sensation stopped, the shock of its sudden absence held us both still.

“Cor, that actually worked!” The rangy man—Sid—stood before us, a now-empty dishpan in hand and an amazed grin on his face. I managed to move one hand enough to wipe my eyes. The street behind us was empty, the lamplight illuminating nothing but light fog. Sullivan had gotten the worst of it—his trench coat and suit back was soaked, and his previously-immaculate hair now fell across his brow.

“And what exactly—“ he gritted, “was that?”

“Holy water, of course,” Sid said proudly.

“Sidney Carter, what is going on here?” A grey-haired lady stood at the back door, eying us with justifiable dismay.

“Just scarin' away the Marylebone Spectre, Mrs. M,” he replied cheerfully.

“By throwing water on perfect strangers? It's bad enough you believe that blasphemous rubbish, but this--”

“Well, the stories say holy water is supposed to work and it did.”

The lady came down the porch steps for a closer look. She drew herself up indignantly. “That was my clean dish water. Hardly blessed by anyone.”

“That's where you're wrong, Mrs. M. It's from the church's underground well, right? On sacred ground? Coming up through a holy building’s plumbing. So, it's got to be blessed at least once, right?. The font out here is empty ‘cause of leaks. And I didn't have time to run to the one inside.” He indicated me and Sullivan. “Lucky they were still on holy ground, too. Saved their lives, anyways.”

“Apparently it did. Thanks a lot.” I sneezed, shaking water from my hair. “I think.” My other hand was gripping Sullivan’s shoulder, and he staggered imperceptibly as I released it. A red sheen coated my fingers.

“Look at that!” Sid exclaimed. The back of Sullivan’s coat, shirt, and undershirt was partially shredded. Blood dripped from a puncture wound in his right shoulder, and a nasty cut ran down his back.

I carefully moved the shreds out of the way to clear the wound. “Wow. You’re lucky it wasn’t deeper. And that it missed your neck or an artery.” His back was taut muscle under my touch. But the cut intersected with several long delicate marks that ran horizontally across. That scar tissue was healed, but I suspected it ran deeper than his current injury. I couldn’t say how I knew, but there was something insidious and sly in those tracings that bespoke not an accident, but deliberate, cruel patience. Sullivan flinched, and as I glanced up at him, I saw he could not have been much older than me. Pain softened the angles of his face, making him look surprisingly vulnerable. “Sorry.”

“Thank you,” he said stiffly. “No need for that.”

“Well, you certainly need something before that gets infected, young man.” the lady replied.

“I‘ll see to it at the station, thank you,” He fixed me with a cool gaze. “After I process this witness.”

“Are you crazy? I’m not going anywhere with that thing out there. Did you miss what just happened, or…?”

“An attack by a medical-chainsaw-wielding lunatic dressed as a priest? Yes, Miss Dennison, I did rather notice that.” He glanced at Sid. “And that same person is also probably using that Spectre nonsense as a cover.”

“I don’t think a killer nutter would be scared off by holy water,” Sid retorted. “He right disappeared, to boot.”

“Hard to see anything clearly in this fog. More likely he was fleeing from an unexpected witness,” Sullivan looked closely at Sid. “ Who, if my memory serves, also likes to avoid the law.”

Sid grinned. “I think you have better things to do than haul me in, copper.”

The lady took Sullivan’s uninjured arm, “Like getting treated first thing.” He made as if to protest, but grimaced instead.

Sid gave a mock-formal wave. "Mrs. Bridget McCarthy, Police Constable Sullivan."

"Detective Inspec-“ But before Sullivan could finish, Mrs. McCarthy marched him to the back door, her determination brooking no argument.

“You brought my sister here,” I said to Sid. “Where is she?”

He gave me a quick once-over, and nodded with recognition.

“Father Brown’s with her upstairs.” His eyes shifted a little, their look unreadable. He turned toward a side entrance to the church I had not noticed before, and indicated I should follow him.

As we went up the stone stairs, I could see his nervousness growing. He didn’t strike me as someone easily rattled, and in truth, I was feeling apprehensive as well.

We reached a hallway. Although its radiator was working, there was a noticeable chill from somewhere that was making the air strangely clammy. Its heaviness was palpable. I sat down on a bench, to give us both a chance to recoup. “What is all this Marylebone Spectre stuff?”

Sid cast a look at the last door down the hall, lit a cigarette, and sat down, obviously relieved. “See, there was this minister ages ago—1400s or summat. Ian Wendley. Rich bloke from a good family, military hero. Became a lay preacher and took over a church here when the minister suddenly died. Drew a lot of people to his congregation, real generous with his money and good works.”

“Too good to be true.”

“Right. Turns out he was what they called a church Summoner on the low down. He’d spy on folks, and have them arrested for any tiny old sin you can imagine. They’d go to prison or get executed—the Church would get their property.

“Nice side job,” I muttered grimly.

“The day he was ordained, a woman confronts him during the ceremony, accusing him of being in league with the devil. She throws this silver coin at him and it flies right into his neck and sticks there. He starts screaming and blaspheming all over the place, then turns into this beast-shaped thing and disappears. His house goes up in flames—nobody knows why, or wants to know. A search didn’t find anything, but a few months later people started turning up dead, ripped to pieces. Story was the silver killed Wendley, but since it was holy, he was prevented from going down under, as it were. He’s trapped like that forever until he sacrifices enough people. The church had the area blessed, doused the buildings with holy water—“

“That must have been some work—“

“And the killings suddenly stopped—“

“Until now.”

Sid took a drag on his cigarette, and nodded. “People kept claiming they saw Wendley lurking about on moonless nights, but over the years it became a pub yarn—then a bedtime story to scare the kiddies with. 'Til about a month ago. Some kids were trying to fish their toy boat out of some seaweed floating in the Thames. One poke with a stick . . . and they saw what other things were in there.

I recalled the condition of the body in Sophie’s flat with a shudder. “Who was it?”

“Lloyd Beamis, a ragpicker. The police figured he’d fallen in and got chewed up by a boat. But it’s shallow for miles on that stretch of river; only canal boats and skiffs can use it. And it flows towards the main river where the big ships sail, not away from it. He would have had to have fallen under an ocean liner to get cut up that bad.” He gave a snort. “Not that the police really wanted to investigate. Weren’t rushing to look at the other murders, too.”

“I’ll bet they’ll be all over them now—“ A garbled scream echoed down the hallway. I was on my feet in an instant, sprinting towards the room at the far end. The doorknob was ice-cold and wouldn’t open when I turned it. Another scream, muffled this time. I banged on the door, “Sophie!”

Even though the door was thick wood, I could hear a sonorous murmuring from inside. It rose to a frightening pitch…then, silence. The door bolt clicked open and the knob twisted in my hand. I rushed in, only to be stopped by a calm voice. “Carefully, Miss Dennison. She can’t take many more shocks tonight.”

The frigid air in the spacious bedroom wrapped around me, as if in welcome. The window was closed, and only the bell tower of a nearby cathedral could be seen through the fog. My sister lay strapped to the bed, staring emptily at the ceiling. There was blood on her lips, and her only movement was her left hand clasping and unclasping the bed covers. For a split-second, I didn’t want her attention, to have her eyes meet mine and show me who—or what—now lay behind them.

Father Brown tilted a lamp towards her. “Try talking to her now,” he said quietly.

“Sophie. I’m here,” I said raggedly. Silence. I took a step forward.

“I called you,” she said. Her voice was flat, indifferent, as if she was reciting a phone number.

“No, you missed your Friday phone call to Mother. And she hasn't gotten any letters for three weeks. She was worried—“

“Not her,” Sophie said impatiently. “ Her head turned and she held me with a look. Her pupils were pinpoints. “Did you like the dream I gave you?”

Father Brown lightly touched my arm, as if warning me to play along. "Yes. Yes, I did."

Her lips quirked in that way she had when she knew I wasn’t being straight with her. "Come on, Sheila." Her tone was surprisingly normal, so much like my quietly-observant, exasperated, sensible, un-tormented sister.

“Never could fool you,” I managed to continue. “You could have just used the phone, you know.”

“Too expensive. No time.” she breathed. “Needed you here…”

“So, are you going to tell me what happened at your apartment tonight?” I tried to smile, but failed. “I’ve done some wild parties, but yours—“

“Didn’t think I had it in me, did you?” Her left hand suddenly gripped the covers, and the awful glee in her voice was like a living thing.

I swallowed hard.“No. No, I sure didn’t. I’m supposed to be the family bad-news girl, not you. You trying to make me look good?”

“Do you want to know who he was? The mess on my floor?”

“Sophie—“ I whispered despairingly.

She went still, cocked her head towards the door, and smiled. “Sheila, honey, I do believe your beau is outside wanting to hear our conversation,” she drawled. Her voice was exactly like that of our mean, dead, decidedly-unmourned aunt from Mississippi.

“My what—?”

“You might as well invite him in. I’m only going to tell this story once.” She raised her voice. “Come on in, Constable.”

Father Brown unlocked the door. Sullivan’s expression was calmly professional, as if he arrested two troublesome suspects at once every day. He had a throw blanket draped around him and tied at the neck after Mrs, McCarthy’s ministrations. But the dreadful cold certainly wasn’t getting to him; he didn’t give as much as a shiver as he walked in. Or maybe underneath, he was only a bit less icy himself.

“Or should I call you Edgar?” Sophie inquired sweetly.”We’re all friends here.”

Under any other circumstances, the split-second chagrined expression on Sullivan’s face would have been worth it. I shot him a look, glad to have something weirdly normal to fix on. “Really? Edgar?”

“‘Tis true,” Sophie sang.

No wonder he was so grim. “Man. That is just sad—“

Ignoring me, he addressed my sister with surprising gentleness. “I’m more interested in the gentleman at your flat, Sophie. Can you help me?”

“I didn’t kill anyone, 'Edgah.' But if you must know, his name was David Lowery.“

“An Oxford classmate of yours. The son of Martin Lowery, the American millionaire--”

Sophie wagged her finger at him “Come on, tell the fun part—the reason you and all the king’s men suddenly care about all these murders.”

Sullivan glanced at me. “—and the older brother of Alice St. Clair.

My heart sank. Oh, God. That news couldn't have been worse. Alice St. Clair was the wife of “Darlin', Daring Charlie" St. Clair. And you’d have to be living on the moon for the past four years to not hear about him—the aviator who broke Charles Lindbergh’s New York to Paris record. The man who subsequently flew around the world alone twice only weeks after pilot Wiley Post made that trip solo for the first time ever. After that deluge of fame, fortune, and international acclaim, there was no way St. Clair’s brother-in-law’s death was going to be ignored just like the other “lesser” victims. And given the shape my sister was in, it would be easy for the police to pin his murder on her—even if they couldn’t prove she did the others. And if they could prove her the only killer, it would wrap things up perfectly for them.

Sophie pouted.”David was more interesting than that. Third violinist in our school orchestra. We were working on a duet—our senior concert performance piece. Secret, you know. His family wouldn’t have approved. Only proper English Roses for their darling boy.” She gave me a ghastly wink.

With an effort, I let disbelief creep into my voice. “Stop playing games, Sophie. You couldn’t hurt anybody.”

“I didn’t. I—“ A look of confusion came over her face, then her eyes closed. For a moment, I felt as if a silent struggle was happening somewhere inside what was left of her. Her eyes snapped open, and Sophie was finally, totally there, scared and desperate.

“Sheila. Help me. I can’t … I can't get away from it--”

To my surprise, Sullivan crossed over to the bed. Taking her left hand in his, he turned it over and began gently stroking her wrist just above the pulse. Some of the terror left her eyes, and I could sense she was calming down a little. “Can you tell us what happened, Sophie? Please?”

“The door just flew open. Nobody knocked. All the lights went out and it was dark and wind and cold everywhere. I tried to stand, but the wind pushed me to the floor. I rolled under the piano. David was screaming, crashing into things like he was being thrown around the room. Something kept hitting my face, my arms—it was all wet and sticky, like skin. I couldn’t see him to help him, I—I …”

Her face twisted with agitation, and her body shook, as if she were fighting off something inside. Father Brown was by her bed in an instant, shoving Sullivan aside. He gripped one of her arms. Sophie went quiet for a moment, but as he injected her with a hypodermic syringe, she began to scream—a wrenching, agonized sound that went right through me. The cathedral bell outside began to toll, overwhelming her screams, shaking the room even from that distance. But by my watch it was thirteen past twelve, no time for a bell to be chiming. And the tower was still pitch-dark. No one was there--could be there.

I ran forward to calm Sophie, but she jerked against the restraints with ferocious strength, the bed banging against the floor. Murmuring a prayer, Father Brown made the sign of the cross on her forehead. She gripped his hand, and he withdrew it as if he’d been burned. She went still, and smiled. It was all I could do to not to bolt from the room, the church, the street—and keep running far enough to forget the look on her face. The bell gave one last triumphant toll before it shattered in a crash of crazed, dying metal.

In Father Brown’s hand was a military medal dangling from a dirty ribbon. The medal was tarnished and gave off a sickening scent of rot. Father Brown stood stock-still as he gazed at it, his mild expression almost blank. Then he crossed himself with a slightly trembling hand.

“Harry says hi, old sport.” Sophie sang cheerfully. She fell back, still staring at us, As her eyes closed in sleep, they were bright with inhuman malice.

“Leave, all of you. Now.” Father Brown didn’t raise his voice above a whisper but somehow in that terrible room, it carried. Before I knew it, he had pushed me and Sullivan through the door before following hard on our heels. Once outside in the hallway, he whirled and slammed the door shut, then locked it with deliberate, fearful care.

Chapter Text

        The blanket Mrs. McCarthy gave me was certainly welcome, but I couldn’t stop shivering. Even the cheerful fire I sat next to in the rectory study didn’t help much. Sid handed me a glass, and once I smelled liquor, I downed it, not caring what kind it was. I had to get control of myself, had to still my mind to think, but one obstacle after another to saving Sophie kept accumulating in my thoughts, an increasingly-impenetrable storm. Before arriving in London, I had made tentative plans and had a couple of strings I could try pulling. But there was no way to prepare for something this unexplainable and insane. I needed information. And Father Brown seemed the only answer as to what the hell was going on.

          Before I could object again to Sophie being left alone in her current condition, Father Brown gave me a reassuring glance.“Your sister will be fine for now, Miss Dennison,” he said. “The sedative I gave her will let her finally sleep—and a doctor friend is monitoring her—.”

         “Call me Sheila, please. That wasn’t just Sophie in there. Something is speaking through her. How can any drug help?”

          “I know from experience this medicine can. And I believe she’s delivered the message we were supposed to get—“

           "But she’s still . . . not herself.”

           "No. Please forgive me for being so harsh, but right now she’s like a … marionette. Until we stop what is controlling her, she won’t recover, and could easily die. Or worse”

           “Who’s this Harry creep? And how do you know—“

           Father Brown raised his hand. “I’ll explain everything in a moment.”

           I'd kept a close eye on Sullivan. Curiously, he hadn't slipped away to call or check in at his station. For someone as inflexible and rule-driven as he seemed to be, that would be like forgetting to put on a tie every morning of his life. He probably needed a drink worse than I did. But I was unsurprised when he refused one from Sid with a sharp, “I’m still on duty, Carter,” and stiffly sat down in one of the chairs around the fire, the throw blanket still around his shoulders.

           Sid shrugged and passed the glass to Father Brown, who gave Mrs. McCarthy a guilty look. She waved a hand as she headed to the kitchen. “Go on, then.” But her anxious glance back showed she was worried about more than the Father overindulging. He looked very calm sitting in his chair next to the fire, a marked-up calendar on his lap atop a sheaf of very wide, strangely-familiar tan paper. But a shadow seemed to cross his face when he glanced once at the medal, now on his desk nearby. It floated in a glass globe apparently filled with holy water—or God knows what kind of cleaning fluid—for the sickening green tarnish that coated it was slowly flaking off, landing in a putrid-looking pool at the globe’s bottom.

            Sid refilled my drink, and I promptly polished it off. Sullivan fixed me with a look. “You’re in shock. And alcohol won’t help.”

            I leaned back, too exhausted to even glance his way. “Works for me. Why do you care, anyway? You going to arrest me for drunk drinking or something?”

             “You’re no use to your sister like this.”

             “And I’m sure you have a perfectly logical explanation for her condition. Let me save you some time. Sophie is not having a nervous breakdown and she’s not faking this. And she can’t do magic tricks to save her life, and those sure weren’t tricks we saw or heard--“

              “Now I have some fresh scones if anyone wants them.” Mrs. McCarthy bustled in from the kitchen carrying a towel-covered basket, a teapot, and other items on a tray. The aromas of ham, cheese, baked apples, lemon cake, and butter-baked bread filled the air. Sid’s eyes lit up, but Mrs. McCarthy adroitly avoided his darting hand and placed the tray on the table in the center of the chairs. In an instant, she moved my liquor glass aside and put an apple scone on a plate and a glass of cold milk in its place.

              “And when was the last time you had something to eat, miss?” she asked me.

               “I . . . I don’t know,” I replied shakily. I took a tentative sip of milk and followed it with a piece of the scone.The milk tasted of sweet vanilla, so I drank some more. Father Brown beamed. “Sugar is good for shock.”

              Sid eyed my glass. “Good for nightmares, too,” he said somberly. “I should know.”

             Belatedly, I realized I hadn’t introduced myself to Mrs. McCarthy, “Thank you. I’m sorry I was rude earlier. I’m—”

             She put a ham and cheese scone and some butter on my plate. “Oh, no need for any of that. I most certainly know who you are now,” she replied wryly. I dipped the rest of the apple scone in the butter and swallowed it down. It tasted curiously like homemade apple pie, but richer. The crumbly cinnamon juicy-apple warmth was irresistible, and it was suddenly just enough to sit peacefully, letting the room’s gentle glow and the sound of the crackling fire wash over me as I slowly ate.

           The others settled into Mrs. McCarthy’s feast as well, and she sat down once everyone’s plates were full. She handed a clean but rather-worn trench coat to Sullivan, which he accepted with a polite grimace and a murmur of thanks. As he moved, the blanket on his shoulders came untied, slipping to the floor.

            Sid glanced at him, and snickered. “Well, who ‘ave we here? Robin Hood?” Sullivan was wearing what looked for all the world like a poet’s shirt, complete with flowing sleeves and a ferocious number of ruffles at his throat. Apparently Mrs. McCarthy had had to raid the church holiday costume wardrobe.

           “More like the Sheriff of Nottingham. Oh, excuse me—the Police Constable of Nottingham.” I muttered. The corner of Father Brown’s mouth twitched with amusement.

            “Father Brown’s shirts are too big. And there were none fit for wearing in the charity bin,” Mrs. McCarthy said severely.

            Sullivan shot me an unamused look, and shifted uncomfortably, “It’ll do till I get home. That’s on the way to the station.”

            He took several precise sips of tea. In spite of myself, my gaze lingered on him for a moment. Under any other circumstances, he would have looked striking. With his hair falling softly on his forehead, and his eyes cool and concealing, he was almost as handsome as any Charlotte Bronte or Elinor Glyn hero in the novels that one of my hopelessly romantic-minded cousins favored. But Sullivan sat upright in the chair, as if unable to relax. Instead of dashing, he looked exhausted, though he was trying mightily to hide it. And somehow, I sensed he was desperately worried.

             Sid had polished off three scones and a hearty chunk of bread. He settled back, a slice of cake in one hand and a glass in the other. “So, it’s not the Marylebone Spectre who’s doing all this?”

             Father Brown smiled faintly. “No, Sid. That’s just a legend. Though your holy water solution was on the right track.”

             Something in his tone made Sid regard him with some caution. “This Harry fella, then. Not an old war comrade?”

              Father Brown pressed his lips together. “No. And Harry Spalding was—is—not someone to take lightly.” For a moment, the firelight seemed to dim and shrink, and the medal in the globe gave off a sudden vicious green flicker. Sid finished off his drink, but instead of going to refill it, he glanced around apprehensively.

              Sullivan looked up. His eyes were suddenly faraway, as if he were running identification records through his head. “That name sounds familiar.”

              “American. Extremely wealthy—from an old Rhode Island family. Went to Yale—a most prestigious college. Served in the Great War with distinction—led a group of thirteen hand-picked soldiers called the Jericho Crew, who became expert in trench raids and covert operations. After the war, he became a famous yachtsman—his ship Dark Echo took the America's Cup three years running. He bought a polo pony he never rode--he became more interested in motor racing. He sponsored one of the first American drivers to enter the French Grand Prix. In fact, he and the Dark Echo managed to get the contestant's car from London to Calais through a raging storm only an hour before the race—“

              Sullivan nodded in recognition. “Yes--the X3 racer from Reviens Victorieux. The French auto firm. Victorieux designed it with a instant start speed of 220 bhp. No other company had come close to trying it, much less inventing a car that could do it."

             Sid whistled. “Quite a jump. The standard was, what, 180 from a cold-engine start?”

             “Close. 188,” Sullivan’s eyes were alight with a true hobbyist’s interest. He was admittedly good-looking, in a supercilious kind of way. But his enthusiasm really warmed his features, making him somehow truly appealing. Damn it. Maybe I was still in shock. Or really needed more booze.

              “The X3 was a prototype—a real gamble for the company. Dexter Freeling was the driver. He came in first, and he and the X3 became instant worldwide sensations. But he died later that year when the car exploded at the Comminges Grand Prix. Quite a catastrophe. There was an investigation, but no one ever figured out the cause.”

             “Burned alive with his entire pit crew—and at least sixty viewers in the stands. ” Father Brown said in a quiet voice. “Horrible deaths—and not the last connected to Spalding.” Mrs.McCarthy rapidly crossed herself.

             “Victorieux cancelled all plans for the X3, quietly paid off the victims’ families, and very quietly broke ties with Spalding,” Sullivan continued. "But the financial loss bankrupted the firm--and the owner disappeared under unexplained circumstances. Spalding quit auto racing altogether.”

            Father Brown took a sip of his drink. “He had turned down a position in his family’s banking empire to travel, spend several fortunes, and hone a reputation as a playboy. One could say he was escaping the war, like most of his generation. Many people back in the '20s thought that if they spent hard enough and lived for the new, they could outrun the trenches, the slaughter--and the collapse of the Victorian "verities" they'd put too much faith in."

            “But I take it Spalding wasn’t escaping,” I said.

            “No. What he was doing was buying time through blood. Prolonging his life through abominable means.”

             Sullivan gave him a very disbelieving look. “A suicide, wasn’t he?  It made all the international papers”

             Father Brown bowed his head. “Shot himself through the head in December of ‘29, two months after the Crash.”

            “Lost his money?” Sid asked.

           “No, his fortune actually tripled because he sold his investments in time.  It was for a far worse reason. I can’t tell you the whole story, but I can share what I know of it.

            He gazed into the fire. “It was early November, 1917. The Third Battle Of Ypres--Passchendaele--had just ended. I was injured during one of the last assaults. While in hospital, I learned my friend Derry Conway was dead--hung himself from the rafters of a barn in Calais, France."

            Mrs. McCarthy drew her breath in sharply. Apparently this was a story Father Brown had never told her. And she wasn't the only one shaken, to put it mildly. It's not every day a dead man tries to cut you to ribbons.

            "He was one of my oldest friends, and I knew instantly something was wrong. He had survived some of the worst fighting on the Front and had an extremely strong faith. Granted, it didn’t take much for men to crack under pressure. And he’d been assigned to the Jericho Crew as its chaplain, so giving such men spiritual comfort might have been his breaking point. But I simply couldn’t see it.”

          “Wait. He wasn’t Catholic, then?” I asked.

          “No. He was from America. A Baptist minister.”

           “So I take it that wasn’t him tonight?”

          Father Brown’s gentle eyes hardened a little. “No. One of Spalding’s little jokes.”

          “Since I had to take a troop ship from Calais to return to London, I decided to make a few enquires. When I arrived, I learned Derry’s possessions had not been sent home—indeed, had not been found at all. Not unusual in war--but odd, since the Jericho Crew saw no action that day where Derry’s things could have been lost. As well, the barn where he was found was the Jericho Crew’s base. And there was a strange reluctance to discuss his death at American Third Army Headquarters…except for one older general. Rumor said he had recently been forcibly retired. When I discovered he had done a classified report on the Jericho Crew, I had to speak with him.”

         “Did he know what actually happened?” I asked.  

         "No. But he did have something to say about Spalding. The general’s father had fought Apaches in America. They were incredibly skilled at hunting to obtain food--and later defending themselves against white interlopers. Spalding had that same brilliant, almost unearthly gift for tracking his targets--and for the new brutal trench warfare. But what the general found …abhorrent is the best word for it…was that Spalding killed for sheer pleasure, not survival. His missions were carefully planned, executed without flaw--but always caused far more casualties than they needed to, particularly of civilians. And many of those deaths seemed particularly . . . agonizing. But for some reason, he and his men were never bought to account. And in all this carnage, the Jericho Crew never lost a man. Until Derry."

          "Never lost any one of thirteen men?" I said incredulously. My father had served in the Great War. He'd never spoken of it, and after he left us, I only had his letters to my aunt to go by. But his forty-men unit routinely lost half its soldiers--often in only a few hours.  And even on the front lines, they apparently took way less risks than the Jericho Crew.

         "None of them were ever even wounded," Father Brown said.

         Sid scoffed. "Come on. Nobody has that kind of luck."

         "True," he responded, and his tone was even grimmer.

         "I planned to examine the barn where Derry died. There was a very slim chance that something--some evidence or anomaly--could have been missed. But I never got the opportunity. The day I spoke to the general, Jericho Crew's headquarters was declared top-secret and off-limits to even enlisted personnel, which I wasn't any longer."

          “Hm. Not too convenient,” Sid observed.

          Sullivan frowned. “Surely the Royal Military Police could help.”

          “The official autopsy said suicide, and there were no indications it wasn’t. The RMP couldn’t reopen a United States Army investigation based on my feelings and some missing personal effects. And it was the final year of the war—complete chaos. Between troop mobilizations and last-minute operations, any witnesses were on their way to the front—including the Jericho Crew.”

          “So you never even got a chance to question them?”

          Father Brown's face went expressionless. “Actually, their leader . . . 'honored' me with a visit. Unofficially, of course.”

           He hastily downed the rest of his liquor. “I tried everything to investigate Derry’s death--but was stopped at almost every turn. Needless to say, I felt guilt-stricken and melancholy. I had basically no proof, and I had failed my friend. My troop ship was due to leave the next day, and I faced a long miserable night. I went for a walk on a Calais beach, the Opal Coast. The light there was unique, especially at sunset, and somehow parts of the coast were undamaged. And one of the few ways I could temporarily calm my nightmares and shell shock was to take long walks in places that the war seemingly hadn't touched."

         “I was sitting on a jetty in a remote inlet. The area was noted for being a perfect echo chamber--sounds reverberated off the rocks even at low tide. Still, it was relatively quiet, especially since the seagulls had left when I ran out of food. My fighting instincts were still on alert--it took years to quell them. And my hearing was still very good, even after going through mortar attacks. But I didn't hear--or see--Spalding approach at all. I only knew he was there when he finally spoke.”

         "’Enjoying the peace, Private Brown? Hard to see how you could, given your record.’"

         “He towered over me on the rocks. He was tall, slender, but muscular--very much a product of American prosperity, excellent nutrition, and elite education. I suppose you could call him handsome--chiseled face, sun-blond hair, bright blue eyes, a perfectly-tailored uniform crisp with medals. But there was something in his gaze that made me automatically reach for the gun I no longer had. A hunger, a savagery just barely contained. I could easily sense how he'd won his battlefield reputation. It was like he was always poised to slaughter--and only held himself in check because it amused him.”

        "’You stayed alive by staying alert. Definitely a habit you should keep.’" Spalding’s voice was harsh and high-pitched, though his diction was exquisitely cultured. But it did not echo at all.

         "'True,'" I said quietly. "'Easy to break a man's neck when he doesn't hear you approach.'"

         His smile was warm, dazzling…and utterly soulless. "’Sorry, old sport. Your friend Derry killed himself without any help from us.’”

        "’As an explanation, battle fatigue won’t wash.”

          "’No, but I can hazard a guess why he did it. Suppose his faith was not as strong as he thought? Perhaps he discovered something all his prayers, determination, and good old down-home muscular Christianity were useless against. Perhaps he decided to take the coward's way out because this was one fight he could not win.’" He shook his head. "'Suicide--still a mortal sin no matter what one's motive is. He was damned despite all his good intentions.’"

             "’I don't believe that,’" I replied. "'I believe God's mercy takes all of a person's ordeals--and heart--in account.’"

             "’Ah. Hearts.’" Spalding leaned down, the scent of cologne and Turkish tobacco overwhelming even the fresh sea air. "'His was very tempting. Muscular. And would have been exceptionally delicious, I imagine. But his corpse made such an inspiring picture, we didn't want to ruin it.'"

              "'It took everything I had to keep my voice steady. "'A rare moment of restraint.’”

             “He laughed, a mirthless, hollow sound, as if echoing from a open grave. And even under the blazing sun, I felt cold. "‘Honestly, old chum. You are almost everything I thought you’d be. Mealy-mannered. Weakly tolerant. But that interfering intelligence, that insistence on logic is rather unexpected--and most entertaining. It’s why you can’t really believe what I am, no matter that you've seen men blow each other apart for no rational reason at all. Derry at least knew there were all kinds of less-than-holy . . . ways. And he tried to go down fighting. Unfortunately, you’ll always see reason and repentance as the answers. But some things have precious little use for those. And such things you will never solve. Or defeat.'”

              “Something clinked on the rocks beside me. It was a medal, but not of military issue. I couldn’t quite make out the images and inscription, but they looked blasphemous. Obscene. Gleefully so."

               “‘We had these privately made up to celebrate,’” Spalding said. “‘Derry was never one of us, but I thought this should at least decorate his grave.’”

               “I calmly stood up and turned around, anger thrumming in my head. Spalding was strolling away from me on the beach, as jauntily as if he were walking down a Parisian boulevard or a New York City street. But his ghastly chuckle persisted, even as I picked up the medal with my handkerchief and placed it in my Bible. I hurried to the nearest church—a small Catholic one. I dissolved the medal in a baptismal font; watched the priest bless--then destroy—all of it, and paid to replace the font. When I arrived home, I instantly went to see my old friend Father Palfreyman … and entered seminary the next day.”

                Father Brown smiled grimly. “I still find the unearthly unbelievable. But that encounter led me to my calling. Perhaps it is atonement for Derry as well. And if I can help right what wrongs I can, that will be at least something. But I fear I will be little use here."

                There was a stunned silence. Then Mrs. McCarthy fixed him with a look and said,  “Forgive me, Father. But that’s nonsense. I've never known you to be a coward. And what are you not telling us?"

Chapter Text

     Father Brown’s smile turned sad. “Ah, Mrs. M. No getting anything past you.”

     “I should think not,” she replied indignantly, pouring him a cup of tea. He looked hopefully at the cake; and with a sigh, she cut him a slice even bigger than Sid’s. The rest of us awkwardly busied ourselves with finishing off what was left of the high tea, giving Father Brown a chance to recoup.

   Once he finished, and settled back in his chair, Sullivan quietly observed. “That wasn’t the last time you saw Spalding,”

    “No, it was not. After I was confirmed, I served here as rector for a time, then was given this parish when Father Paltreyman went to run my seminary—Upcott.”

    He tented his fingers. “I made sure I kept busy enough to keep looking ahead—not difficult, in seminary. Or here, with such a … morally-interesting congregation.” Sid grinned, deftly swiping the last scone before Mrs. McCarthy could stop him.

    “Still for all my prayers and efforts, I could never really reconcile my failure—or what I had experienced. I did my best not to follow Spalding’s activities during those years. The wealthy get a great deal of press, no matter what their accomplishments, so it was hard to avoid the temptation. But the rare times I ran across an article about him, I couldn’t help but read between the lines. Or picture poor Derry broken at the end of a rope--" He stopped abruptly, shaking his head slightly as if to rid himself of that image. “But a phone call from America in early ‘29 made my . . . lack of courage decidedly moot.”

     “It was an invitation to a Federal Bureau of Investigation “prohibition raid” from an Agent Parker Grey. I met him and his partner--Agent Giancarlo Gianelli--at a massive cliff house on the Rhode Island coast. They were accompanied by an army of "G-men" and a demolition crew. And two Jesuit priests, one a Father Lambert—an exorcist from the New York City Diocese. It took a full day to cleanse the building. After which it was torn down, drenched in gasoline, and burned to rubble and ashes. Then bulldozers wiped out any last traces of it for good.”

    Sid looked aghast. “All that to get rid of some bootleg pints?”

    “The cleansing took most of the time. There were bodies buried in the foundation going back decades. The souls of those poor victims needed release. The house was the headquarters, church, and meeting place for Spalding’s family and others of their depraved faith. They were known only as “The Membership,” but there’s a much darker name for what they were.”

      “Good Heavens,” Mrs. McCarthy exclaimed.

     “Its members were among America’s first settlers. They—including Spalding’s family—built fortunes through sacrificial occult means. It had taken a long time for the law to catch up with them, and Parker’s actions cut off the main head of the snake. Parker had found out about my Calais investigation, and the Vatican thought it an excellent idea that I be at the raid so nothing would be missed.”

      “It seems your “few enquiries” gained more attention than you thought, Father,” Sullivan noted dryly.

    “Indeed. The FBI also captured records stored there. That evidence of The Membership's corruption—plus certain Vatican-approved rituals that removed the group’s evil protection—was enough to shatter it beyond repair."

   “But Spalding and his family somehow slipped the net,” I said.

   “No, actually, he and his parents stayed in plain sight. There were no records concerning them found, not nearly enough evidence of their involvement—“

   “Someone planned ahead,” Sid muttered.

   “And there was no chance of the other members betraying them. In the next few months, a great many 'accidents' and suspicious deaths occurred amid the American East Coast elite. The thing they worshipped always sacrifices many to save the strongest.”

   “Or Spalding was covering his tracks,” Sullivan replied.

    “Definitely a factor. And I would be lying if I said I wasn’t afraid to cross paths with him again. But he went after more indirect targets first. Parker had a daughter, Emily, an aspiring dancer. He thought she was finishing out her senior year at Marymount Manhattan College. In the spring, he received a ship's telegram from her. She was on the Dark Echo heading to Paris. Spalding had promised her a dazzling European career.”

  “Holy Mary Mother of God” Mrs. McCarthy whispered.

 Father Brown nodded grimly. “Parker marshaled all his connections to stop them. But the telegram was sent three days after it was written. The Dark Echo had already docked—and Emily was gone. Spalding claimed she broke up with him and left as soon as they made harbor. The police practically went over the ship with a microscope, but found no evidence of violence. They dredged the harbor and surrounding waters—still nothing.With no evidence to hold Spalding on, the police had to let him go.”

  “They never found Emily?” I asked, already knowing the answer.

   “No. Parker oddly enough refused to continue searching. He was convinced she was dead. He returned from Paris … and was gunned down during a warehouse raid that fall.”

    "A hired killing, then," Sullivan stated, his jaw set.

    "Difficult to tell. The gangster responsible and his entire crew were massacred by Parker's fellow FBI agents. Parker's death could have been murder, but there was no witnesses left—or any way to prove it wasn't."

    Father Brown gazed into the fire. "But Agent Gianelli was even more determined to bring Spalding to book. He was the black sheep of his Mafia family, but had cultivated underworld and law-enforcement connections. His allies hounded Spalding from one European port to another, giving him no chance to rest or hide."

    "Wait—if he couldn't be hurt or killed, why was he scared?”

    "I believed when we destroyed his family's temple, we weakened his power. No one strikes a harder bargain than the devil--and those decades of sacrifices were Spalding's ... down payment, for lack of a better word. By losing them, he became vulnerable, more ... human. Physically, at least. Human enough to dock the Dark Echo in New York, check into the city’s most luxurious hotel--and put a bullet in his head."

    Father Brown finished his liquor, but waved Sid away when he was about to refill the glass.

     "But that still wasn’t the end of it?” Mrs. McCarthy asked

    "Hmpf. A vicious sod like that's bound to have fallback plans for the fallback plans," Sid said.

    "Well, once Agent Gianelli, Father Lambert, and I broke into Spalding’s crypt and reduced it and his body to nothing with sulfuric acid, that seemed to be the end of it."

  I wasn’t the only one to gasp in shock. Father Brown pushed his glass aside emphatically, as if removing a suddenly-irresistable temptation.

   "Father, I--"Mrs. McCarthy said, her eyes stunned and sorrowful.

   He held up a hand. "Please. I must finish this. Spalding's parents passed on a week later--not of natural causes, of course. The day they died, the family's lawyer converted all the family holdings into cash, and deposited in in an untouchable Swiss account--perfectly legal and above board. Except for the Dark Echo. It was sold at auction soon after--and continued what I later found was a very unpleasant history. Murder-suicides, madness, disappearances at sea--"

   "But where is it now? That would be a perfect place to stash some more ... immortality insurance." I said. "And it sounds like Spalding isn't far from here."

  "Yeah, we blow that tub to blazes and that should settle this proper," Sid added.

  "If we could find it," Father Brown said somberly. "After it's last owner perished, it was dry-docked at one of the Florida Keys. In 1935, the area was hit with the Labor Day Hurricane. It tore up the western coast, but the storm surge did the real damage. It washed away the only railroad connecting the Keys to Key West proper, and took most of Long Key--including that dry-dock--with it."

  "So one of his dodgy mates sailed it out of there before the storm," Sid declared.

  Sullivan frowned. "Which means it could be anywhere, under another name. Impossible to trace. If it wasn't destroyed completely--which is most likely."

  "Bollocks. He's bound to have stashed it somewhere," Sid said forcefully. "And I'm not letting you out of my sight, Father, even if I have to lock you in a thousand-blessed priest’s hole with a million crucifixes. That bastard wants revenge, that’s certain.”

  "Sidney!" Mrs.McCarthy exclaimed.

   But Father Brown just smiled wearily. "It's more than that, Sid. I think Spalding is after something much worse." He indicated the medal, which now floated clean and ominous in its globe. "That’s not the same medal he showed me. And it might have clues to what else he’s really after—“

  His voice broke off. He was gazing at the medal, an odd look on his face. He rose, taking up the tan paper on his lap, and flickered through each one, apparently comparing them to the medal. With a shock, I recognized it as sketch pad paper--and remembered where I had seen it before.

   “Father.” Mrs. McCarthy asked in alarm.

   Abruptly. Father Brown moved his dishes out of the way, and assembled the four papers into one picture. Next to it, he placed the calendar, an open magazine--then produced a magnifying glass. He began scanning the sketches as we gathered around, examining them in turn. Drawn in colored pencil, they were smeared in places with a brownish substance. With a shudder, I realized that must be David Lowery’s blood.

   Father Brown moved the magnifying glass over the uncovered sliver of the moon, then stopped. “I was right, “ he said, almost to himself. Taking paper and pencil in hand, he began jotting down whatever he was seeing.

    In the left foreground, a streamlined yacht sailed on a river that had to be the Thames. Above the London skyline two moons floated, one in half-eclipse, the other in full, somehow uncovered by clouds and fog. But the picture was missing all the buildings--the Royal Opera House, The National Gallery--that were between Marylebone and the Thames. Instead Marylebone's skyline--it's apartment buildings, churches, houses and stores--were as visible from the yacht deck as if nothing existed between them. In the sky above the center, the fog obscured a . . . something that cast an all-consuming brightness in the middle of Marylebone, igniting an explosive blaze. In the streets, small figures were running from the district center as flames began licking at the buildings. Though the drawing seemed flat and static, somehow, one could see the yacht rising gently up and down with the tide, its ports and the deck glittering as if a party was going on. The fog seemed to roil and thicken, mercifully obscuring whatever was flying in the sky. And if one stared too long, it seemed that the figures were fleeing in panic, their screams echoing off the doomed buildings, swallowed up by the fog. I wrenched my eyes away long enough to glimpse the magazine, open to a gorgeous ship sailing in the sun, its sails billowing triumphantly. It was the same yacht in the drawing--Harry Spalding's pride, the Dark Echo. I didn’t know much about sailing. But I could tell its design lines were spare, elegant; the prow was sleek and pointed, enabling it to cut through the waves as cleanly as a knife…no. A shark. I suddenly pictured that edge slicing through rough waves—or a smaller helpless boat—with brutally swift efficiency, leaving only a slick of oil—and blood—in its wake . . .

  "The Good Lord protect us," Mrs. McCarthy murmured.

   "What the heck is that thing in the sky?" I said hoarsely.

   "Don't know--and don't fancy knowing," Sid said. He was doing his best not to look too long at it, and I couldn't blame him. It could be mistaken for a plane at first glance--or even a dragon, if one's imagination bent that way. But as one gazed at it too long, it began to shape itself into something twisted and unimaginable . . .

  “Where did you get these, Father” Sullivan's face was grim.

   Father Brown held up his hand. "Sid, hand me that book of maps, if you would," He opened the book to a marked page for Marylebone and placed his notes next to it. It was a list of number pairs, each with a date beside it. He began looking up the numbers on the map, marking them as he went along, his expression growing darker.

    "Cleopatra's Needle. 23 Gale Street. 1334 Vervey Lane. 26B Guards Lane. 38 Molyneux Street. These numbers are the longitude and latitude of these addresses. "

   "Cleo's Needle--that's where they found Lloyd Beamis' body," Sid interjected.

    I remained silent. 38 Molyneux was Sophie's address.

    Sullivan's eyes narrowed. "And the rest are where the other murder victims were found."

    "What are the dates?" I asked.

    Sullivan paused, as if weighing what to say. Father Brown gazed at him mildly, and he gave in. "Birthdates. Each victim was murdered on their birthday."

   "So Spalding is behind the Marylebone Spectre murders," I said.

    "Yes. Beamis was originally from Marylebone. And his is the only murder outside the district, on a river--"

   "...where Spalding's yacht could be docked now." Sid concluded. "I knew that sod had to be somewhere near by. We find the boat, we can finish him."

  "That's a rather unsupported conclusion," Sullivan interrupted. "It could be anywhere on the Thames--if it still exists at all--"

  "Besides, I suspect Spalding can't be finished unless this ritual is stopped," Father Brown said gravely.

  I indicated the picture."You're saying the murder victims are a . . . lead-up to this?"

  "Yes. " Father Brown leaned over the map. "If we look at Cleopatra's Needle as an outlier, we have four separate disparate points that could easily connect---" He traced a pattern.

   "Into a star?" Sid asked, confused.

     "Into a pentagram--a five-point symbol of great power--especially when it's been completed. And if you believe in witchcraft, this particular one will link several ley lines together." He caught my querying glance."Lines of supernatural energy that extend throughout the world. I can't be sure, but Spalding is building up to some sort of catastrophe that will cost more than enough lives to prolong his. He needs another murder to finish the symbol--and cause that disaster. It looks like he must do it halfway through the moon's eclipse."

   Observing over Father Brown's shoulder, Sullivan tapped the final spot where the Father's pencil was about to land. "17 Waverly Place. That's Tallevant's--a club. It takes up that whole square."

   "Hm. Very wealthy. Very private. And almost too blue-blooded. Plenty of potential victims. And to make things more difficult, I wager just about anyone there could have crossed Spalding at some point."

    "And it's the reason I'm going to be short of sugar for the next week," Mrs. McCarthy said with some irritation. "That place has bought most of it up from the stores around here. The nerve--"

      Everyone gave her a very worried look. “The party," she explained. "Every spring, the club holds something called a Thrasher's Revel. Silly costumes and such-like. Taking away food from hard-working people for such nonsense--"

     "When is it, Mrs. McCarthy?" Sullivan interrupted.

    "Saturday. Tomorrow—“ she glanced at the study clock. It was almost three in the morning. “No. It’s tonight."

  "That reminds me," Father Brown said "Inspector, were the murders all committed at night?”

   “Yes. Why?

  “I believe Spalding only has enough power to send his creature out then.”

   “So, he’s like Dracula?” Sid said, rather hopefully.

  “I wish it was going to be that easy,” Father Brown replied. “He killed some of the Newport victims himself, which strengthened his abilities. But he’s doing these murders  . . . secondhand, as it were, which could mean he’s conserving his power. Or…”

  “What,” Sullivan asked.

  Father Brown paused.  ”Nothing. Just a thought."

  "So we have to gain entry to this party, and protect Spalding's target to stop . . . whatever this is from happening." Sullivan stated, with some frustration--and not a little disbelief--in his voice.

  "First, we have to narrow down his next victim. It would help if we could see the Tallevant Club’s membership and staff list--then reference their birthdays.

   Shaking his head, Sullivan gave a short laugh. “You're really asking for a miracle, Father. Even if I could access it through some war preparedness act, we wouldn’t get it in time. It would take an order from the King to get it quickly—and it’s a good bet that still wouldn’t do it.”

    Sid snickered.”I’m not saying it’ll be a piece of cake, but I haven’t seen a private club yet that was as secure as the members think—or want us to believe.” He glanced at Sullivan, whose expression was rapidly souring.“Guess you shouldn’t be hearing this. No problem--I'm not leaving the Father for a second--"

    "I don't think that will be a problem. I suspect Spalding will be saving me till after he regains his powers,” Father Brown smiled grimly. “He’s too weak to do it now, but he most certainly will want to finish me at the height of his triumph himself instead of relying on his creature. He’s nothing if not mission-oriented.”

     A jumble of letters underneath Father Brown's number list caught my eye. "''AI erratuma tempters ultra.' What's this?"

     "I'm not sure. It doesn't make sense in Latin or English. I believe it's an anagram for another Latin phrase--for what, I have to decipher."

   "You still haven’t answered my question, Father" Sullivan said severely. "Where did you get these sketches?"

   The Father looked at me with a troubled expression. “Your sister had these in her hand when Sid and I found her.”

    Sullivan turned his gaze towards me. “Could she have drawn these, Miss Dennison?”

    “Yes,” I whispered reluctantly.

   "Not of her own free will, of course," Father Brown explained.

    Sullivan gave an exasperated sigh. "Frankly, I find most of this incredible, Father. You have a reputation for being an overly curious, too-inquisitive, extremely meddlesome person—“

   “Thank you,” Father Brown said wryly.

   “But you are honest. And if it was anyone else but you telling this . . . insanity, I wouldn’t believe a word of it--.”

   "Oh, come on. We don't have time for this!" I exclaimed. "You still can't think Sophie did any of this because she wanted to."

    Sid's lips thinned dangerously. "What are you saying, Constable?"

    Sullivan indicated the medal. "I'm saying that however this got here, it’s most certainly a trap,"

     "I'm afraid I must agree with the Inspector," Father Brown said. “David Lowery was not a typical victim of this killer. Indeed, such a high-profile victim was bound to get attention. And that killer did not leave witnesses--until now."

    I took a breath. That ominous feeling from my dream gripped me again, worse this time. "I don't understand. You're saying Spalding had David killed just to involve you somehow?"

    "Not only that. Spalding most certainly has a lot of grudges to settle besides his differences with me." Father Brown looked gravely at me. "I think he targeted your sister to bring you here."

    For a moment, I couldn't speak."Me? But what the h---, sorry. But why? I've never even heard of this guy before this."

   "But it could be someone in your family has," Father Brown replied.

    I was about to say something in denial, until a memory, one I had thought I'd forgotten, suddenly slithered its way back into my consciousness, freezing me in place. I caught sight of my face in the study mirror--eyes wide, mouth tight with hurt and fear. My hand shook as I touched my cheek--which was stinging from a sudden, remembered slap--then brushed a tear from my eye.

    Sullivan started towards me as the others gazed in consternation. 'Who was it, Sheila?" Father Brown asked gently.

     But before I could croak out a word, I became aware of a low droning, a grinding sound so deep it pressed on the consciousness and raked the nerves raw. It was coming from the globe on the desk, which was now solid black--the medal could not be seen at all. Everything seemed still, but the air itself began to tremble, the pressure gathering, building, like a massive jammed engine about to explode. Father Brown started towards it, but Sid covered him with his body, dropping them both to the ground. I looked around wildly for Mrs.McCarthy. She'd taken refuge under the table, her face deathly pale. But she, Sid, and Father Brown were still in harm’s way—if that globe exploded, its glass would be flying knives.

    A ripping noise sounded as night filled the room. Sullivan was tearing down a set of heavy study drapes.With an effort, I pushed through my paralysis. I grabbed another pair of drapes, bringing them to the ground. Hauling them together amid a cloud of dust, Sullivan and I tossed them over the globe, then pulled. As it and the curtains toppled to the floor, we sprinted back to the table to flip it over as a shield. As we were halfway there, the noise stopped—then the room filled with a blistering light as if to etch shadows across the room. I closed my eyes against the brightness, but something slammed me against the wall. My head reverberated with pain, and mercifully, I felt myself slipping into a lightless, overwhelming oblivion.

Chapter Text

   I could hear a jumble of voices. I was lying down, and sensed that someone was sitting next to me on the sofa. Something cold pressed against my aching temple. I gave a start as the pain began to numb away. A hand lightly touched my cheek, and seemed to linger there. I caught a faint scent of aftershave, crisp and clean, like a lake in summer.

  “She’s coming round,” Sullivan’s voice was definitely familiar, but the concern underneath his words was not. Suddenly there was movement, the cold and the hand abruptly went away. A few moments later, I felt my eyelids being opened. A blinding light shone in one eye, then the other.

  I winced as my brain slowly caught up, then I opened my eyes. I was on the sofa in Father Brown’s study. A quiet-looking man wearing a head mirror and stethoscope scrutinized me from a nearby chair. “Much better. Your pupils are reacting nicely. A bruise on the head, but no sign of a concussion or any skull injuries.”

  "Thank heavens for that,” Mrs. McCarthy exclaimed.

  “Do you know what year it is?” the doctor asked.

  “Still 1938, right?” I replied. “Just my luck I didn’t stay conked out through it.”

   Amid the circle of worried faces behind the doctor, Sid grinned. “And miss all the fun? You’d never forgive us.”

   I groaned.

  “Hearing and speech seems fine,” the doctor said. As he asked a few more questions, Sid pulled off a damp jacket, and put a ledger book on the table. Apparently, he'd paid his visit to the Tallevant Club. Grey light shone through the window, and the wall clock told me I'd been out for at least a few hours.

   “I put the word out,” Sid said to Father Brown. “If that tub is docked anywhere near here, someone will see it.”

   “Excellent work, Sid.”

  Sullivan’s face was a study in disapproval as he indicated the ledger.”They might just miss this, you know.”

  “There were two of these in the safe. The names were the same, but the charges for each member’s expenses in this one, well . . . let’s just say someone’s been cooking the books to a nice turn over there. I doubt he’s going to raise a stink about this being missing—forget calling in the police.”

  I couldn’t help but smile, in spite of my aching head. “Nice job.”

  Sid held up the suitcase I had stored in the train station locker when I arrived in London. He put it by the sofa, then handed me the locker key with a flourish. "Yours, Madam?"

 "Hey, how did you--" 

 "I must apologize," Father Brown said. "I'm afraid--"

"I searched your pocketbook," Sullivan cut in.

"You what?" I snapped.

"When the doctor came, he needed to know if you had any medical conditions."

"I'm sorry, but it was necessary," Father Brown added gently. "I also thought you would need your suitcase."

My hair was fluffing from the humidity in the fog, and I would need a shower soon. "I sure do," I replied. I shifted my arm enough to feel that the papers and money I'd stashed in my shirt's hidden pocket were still there. But I also prepared myself for some hard questions just in case they’d been found.

Sid held up a elegant-looking shopping bag. "And here's an early birthday gift for P. C. Sullivan. Hope it fits."

Eyeing him suspiciously, Sullivan opened it. It was a very expensive shirt from Selfridges.

"Before you say anything, the receipt's in the bag. No dodgy loot here.”

"And it's on the house," Father Brown smiled.

"Just in time," Mrs. McCarthy replied. "I have to check your shoulder soon."

"I . . I really can't--" Faced with a united front, Sullivan apparently realized his odds of refusing this gift were way past slim to none. "Thank you."

 ”When is your birthday, exactly?” I couldn’t resist asking. “I’d say in autumn. Beautiful outside—lots of fiery colors—but chilly, especially at night.”

  Sullivan snatched up his shirt, not looking at me. “Again, all of you, thanks. I really appreciate it.”

 “And thank you, Dr. Chandraty,” Father Brown said. The doctor took off his head mirror and stethoscope and handed it to a tall boy holding his doctor’s bag. “We’ve kept you very busy tonight.”

  “Don’t mention it.”

  Putting two and two together, I asked, “How’s Sophie?”

  Dr. Chandraty eyed me guardedly. “Doing as well as can be expected. Physically, a few cuts and bruises, but otherwise . . . We’re keeping her asleep for the time being. A nurse will be staying with her.”

  I sat up with a wince. “Seems we owe you quite a bill.”

  The doctor waved his hand.

  The boy was looking around the room, his eyes intent and searching. He bore a strong resemblance to the doctor. “It wasn’t the Spectre, was it?”

 “Now, Raj, what did we say about that?” Dr. Chandraty said quietly.

 “There are no such things as bhootas . . .um, ghosts.”

 “Correct.”

“It couldn’t have been the Nazis sneak-attacking, though," the boy replied logically. "There would be bullet holes,”

  “We think it was a electrical short of some kind,” Father Brown said smoothly. He indicated the pile of curtains and a broken lamp next to them on the floor. Some smoke hung in the air, a couple of chairs were overturned, and two bookcases' glass fronts were shattered. but the room was otherwise undamaged. “Miss Dennison got hurt helping to put the fire out.”

  Raj frowned. “Oh. But…”

  Dr. Chandraty stood up. “Time for us to go, son. You’ve got cricket practice later today.”

  Raj eyed me gravely. “I hope you feel better.”

  “Thanks,” I smiled. As they left, I put my feet on the floor and tested standing up. The floor tilted a bit. Nope. I gratefully accepted some aspirin and a cup of tea from Mrs. McCarthy.

  “Shame on you, Father, lying to that boy,” I said, mock-severely.

  “Well, technically speaking, what we’re up against isn’t a ghost,” Father Brown replied mildly. “And that lamp was a bit wonky, lately. Inspector, I think that spot is cooled off enough to be safe, now."

  Sullivan used a curtain rod to carefully move the curtains out of the way. He gave a low exclamation. There was no glass, no liquid, no medal underneath--no sign anything had been there at all except the well-worn carpet. He fished a pair of tweezers from his pants pocket. Retrieving carpet strands--and some glass shards from the bookcase--he wrapped them separately in wax paper Mrs. McCarthy must have supplied, and pocketed them in his borrowed trench coat.

  “Still hoping for forensic proof Inspector?” Father Brown inquired. “I take it there was no promising evidence at the other crime scenes as well?”

  “Not that I'm at liberty to say, Father—“

“But you just did, pretty much,” I said. I’d found that line usually got people to betray themselves. Sullivan’s split-second reaction confirmed the police had no concrete evidence.

  “Thank you, Miss Dennison," he replied ungraciously. "That medal would have been proof of some kind. If there's nothing on these clues, that leaves these drawings--and your sister--as the only solid leads we . . . the police have.”

  “Forget it. She’s not going anywhere,” I said grimly.

  "I must agree with Miss Dennison," the Father murmured. "Her sister certainly can't be moved in the condition she's in--Dr. Chandraty was adamant that she remain here.”

  Before Sullivan could object, Sid looked at me, clearing his throat a bit nervously ”Before that thing exploded, what did you remember?"

   My hand shook, and I put down the teacup. “My aunt … it was something to do with my Aunt Lois. I was a kid when she came back to New York suddenly on the Aquitania, a few months before the Crash. She’d been in Europe for years, and I’d really missed her.” I gave a weak smile. “You know, favorite aunt. Lots of fun, takes you places your parents wouldn’t, teaches you stuff they couldn't—and understands you when they can’t. I don't ever remember her being afraid of anything."

   Father Brown and Mrs. McCarthy nodded. I pressed my finger against my temple, trying to mute a sudden twinge. “But I knew something was wrong when she disembarked that day. It was late summer, but Aunt Lois was wrapped in a fur coat so bulky it looked like she was hiding. She practically ran out of steerage--which was strange right there. She'd made her money as a showgirl, and she'd always traveled first-class after that. And she was nervous--she kept looking around like she expected someone she was afraid to see. She was holding her arm very stiffly. As we got in the car, she was trying to keep her arm hidden. I could see it was all bandaged up, and I was really worried. I touched her arm and asked her what was wrong, and—“

  I drew in a sharp breath. “She slapped me. Hard. Just like that. I'd gotten my fair share of spankings, but nobody had ever belted me one. I started crying; she started crying . . . and apologizing. My mother ordered the chauffeur to drive us home immediately. She wasn’t about to make a worse scene in front of him;  this was going to be all over Harlem as it was. But my aunt was in such bad shape, my mother packed her off to bed when we got home. And that was weird, too--my mother had never gotten along with Aunt Lois. But she didn't even reproach her or read her the riot act for what she did. She just looked after her--and told me not to talk about it. My aunt apologized later-- said she'd accidentally broken her arm in a fall backstage, and it hadn't yet set when she came home."

  "But one night, I couldn't sleep, and went to get some water. Aunt Lois was in the downstairs bathroom taking her bandages off. Her arm was red, like the skin had been pulled off, and was seeping blood in a couple of places. And there were scorch marks. The scarring went from her hand all the way up to her neck. And even after months of treatment, it never really quite healed--"

  I stopped. “Wait. She said something just as we were driving away from the dock. She glanced back--not at the ocean liner, not at the sea, but at something I would swear was even farther away. She looked . . . hunted is the only way I can describe it. I could barely hear her, “You burn, Harry Spalding." She sounded so toneless, so . . . hating, I was too afraid to look at her after that."

  I sat back in the chair, curiously tired. I should have felt relief at telling this memory, but the sense of unease it had engendered suddenly was even heavier.

  "She stayed with us for a while, but she never went out anywhere. Not to see her old friends, or where she used to go Saturday nights, or the places she got her dancing start. She didn’t get any letters, either. And she jumped every time the phone rang. She kept mostly to herself, reading in our library, tending my mother’s garden, and listening to the radio. My mother was delighted Aunt Lois 'was acting with some sense, finally.' Still, she could see something wasn’t right. But for once even my mother’s notorious persistence came up empty—Aunt Lois refused to talk about what really happened."

  “Where is your aunt now?” Father Brown asked.

  “She moved out that January. She got an apartment downtown in Greenwich Village--"

  Sullivan's eyes met mine. "A month after Spalding supposedly killed himself," he observed.

  I got up abruptly. “Father, may I call from here? I’ll pay for the charges.”

  Father Brown indicated the phone on his desk. “That won’t be necessary.”

  It was past three o'clock in the morning in New York City, but my aunt didn't answer even after several tries. I called my mother's house--she was away visiting friends--but Aunt Lois wasn't there either. I left a message with our butler for Mother or my aunt to call me, then leaned against the desk, tense and exhausted. I had a sudden vision of a handsome blond man, striding confidently through unnaturally-foggy Village streets, a feral grin fixed on his face--

  "Miss Dennison?" I jumped. Sullivan stood behind me, scrutinizing me closely.

  "She's not home. She should be. It's three in the frickin' morning— I took a steadying breath. "She was running from Spalding when she came back to New York. Guess she didn't run far enough--"

  "I’ll ask the police there to check on her," he said quietly.

  I shook my head. "Can't take the risk. That might lead him straight to her--"

  "How would he even know where she was once she left Europe? Or where she is now?”

  "How does he know anything he does?" I became aware my voice was raised--and I was starting to shiver. "And if you were it, or him, or whatever the hell he is, wouldn't you have cops on your payroll?"

  "All right," Sullivan lightly touched my arm, his voice calm. "It's all right. Please—come sit down."

   As we walked back, I gave an unsteady laugh. "Boy, you're sure getting your fill of Dennisons for a lifetime."

  Sullivan glanced at me, something undefinable in his eyes, "I wouldn't quite say that."

  Oh. Right. I could not forget that at worst, this would be a nice little arrest for P.C. Sullivan's record. At best, it was a huge career opportunity. Without another word, I sat back down. Mrs. McCarthy handed me another cup of tea, patting my hand as she did so.

  Father Brown was perusing the ledger. There were columns of member names, their addresses, fees, expenses, and a list of their birthdays with notes about "special gifts." The staff names were in the back with addresses, salaries, and birthdays only.

   Sid whistled. “Ten thousand pounds a year for membership."

  “Wicked waste of money,” Mrs. McCarthy said severely.

  “Come on, Mrs. M. For a lifetime of the best pints anywhere --and most likely gourmet scones--that’s worth it, in't it?” Mrs. McCarthy went to swat him, but he dodged her.

  I couldn't help but smile. “You didn’t bring any of those pints back, though.”

   Sid shook his head. “No time. Their liquor cabinet had tougher locks than their safe. The early morning staff would have been there soon. Just as I was leaving, in fact, some croaker of a butler was coming in the front door. Canton, I think his name was. Here he is—“" he pointed out a name--"'Canton--Butler'. Fifty years in service. And it looks like he's due for a gold goblet. Gold-plated more like."

  Father Brown tapped on another name, “Sir Llewellyn Prentiss, 14 Grovensner Square, Mayfair. Born April 24, 1864. The only one with today's birth date."

  “Rather nouveau riche for Tallevant’s,” Sullivan said. “He made his money supplying pharmaceuticals during the Great War. But there were rumors of addictive medicines pushed on medical personnel--and watered-down cures.”

  “He was making sure he’d have plenty of post-war customers,” I noted cynically.

  “Hmpf," Sid said. "You would think Spalding would rather keep him alive to do more dirty work,”

  “Now he’s more valuable as a sacrifice, I’d imagine,” Father Brown replied.

  “One question—suppose its a guest Spalding is after?”

  “We’ll just have to be on alert—in addition to guarding Sir Llewellyn. It might be useful to know more about him, however. What he looks like, for example.”

  "Or what he 'really wants,'" I said, remembering Father Conway's question with a grimace.

   Father Brown smiled. "The kind of thing I suspect you'd find in a tabloid, not the respectable London Times--"

  "Good, because I can't access police records for you," Sullivan interjected hastily.

   Sid raised an eyebrow. "Hang on--no one asked you to."

  "Under the new war restrictions, House of Lords' members' information is now classified. I'd have to have a very good reason to request it. And I'm certainly not going to explain to my superiors that Sir Llewellyn needs protection from a vengeful . . . whatever Spalding is."

  Father Brown nodded. "Agreed--that would bring down a great deal of unwanted attention. And I don't think the Crown's forces will be much help here."

  Sid pulled something out of his pocket. "Unless they are carrying one of these little beauties."

  Everyone stared for a moment, and I burst out laughing. "You have got to be kidding. A Buck Rogers squirt gun?"

  "Fill it with holy water, and you've got yourself a weapon, thank you," Sid replied. "A whole batch of these just . . . fell off a ship at the port. Was going to give a few to the kiddies 'round here for toys, but . . ."

    Father Brown smiled. "I would imagine holy water weaponized in any way would come in handy. Along with these." He pulled a piece of paper from his cassock and handed it to Sid, who scanned it gleefully. "But please make sure they didn’t . . .wander off a ship. "

       "Silver, too?" Sid asked, with a mischievous grin.

    "Very traditional, but a proven protection against evil" Father Brown fixed him with an meaningful look. "And we don't need the kind that 'left" through someone's window."

   Sullivan looked outraged. "And I certainly am not going to try to explain that to my bosses or any policeman worth his salt."

   "For crying out loud--what can you do?" I asked irritably.

    He picked up his trench coat. "Get your wretched scandal-sheet information."

    Father Brown nodded. "Ah. Any sufficiently ambitious police officer has a friend in the press. I would suggest you take someone with you as protection."

     "Thank you, Father, but I can take care of myself."

     "Why not just call this guy," I asked.

     Sullivan gave a cool smile. "He's not the sort who hangs around his office. I know where to find him, however."

    "Since you and Miss Dennison will be attending the Revel undercover tonight, a practice run together would be advisable, correct?"

   "Whoa . . .we'll be doing what?" I said, aghast.

   "Absolutely not," Sullivan replied icily. "I don’t need civilians in the way when I’m seeing an informant."

   "Besides, P. C. Sullivan will also be too distracted making sure I don’t escape," I muttered.

   “Not without your sister, you won’t--"

    "I believe Miss Dennison has far more skills than you think, Inspector. Indeed, in some ways, she may be more qualified for this than you." Father Brown looked at me. "It might be time to tell us the truth."

    "And that is?" I said, very quietly.

  "You weren't carrying luggage, and you've made no indication you were staying anywhere. There was no sign of you at your sister's--no spare bed made up or anything. The locker key in your purse indicated that you stored your suitcase at the train station for a fast return back to America. Someone here for her sister might be more prepared for a long stay, but you aren't. Which means you have a expeditious way or two of getting her out of the country--I would guess through government connections. And there are not many civilians who can easily pick handcuffs with a hairpin."

   Mrs. McCarthy’s eyes widened. "Good heavens! You're a spy?"

  "If I had to hazard a guess, I would say a United States War Department courier," Father Brown smiled. "Excellent experience for a resourceful young woman--"

  "Who still may not be experienced enough," Sullivan broke in.

   "Coming from you, Constable, that's quite an assumption," I retorted.

   Father Brown eyed us sternly. “I would say neither of you has a choice. We don’t have much time. Better two going undercover than one."

   "And in case they get into trouble and need reinforcements, I'm going as well," Mrs.McCarthy declared. “The club will be needing extra kitchen help," She smiled a little. "As well, I could 'borrow' some sugar for next week.”

   “An excellent idea,” the Father said.

   “You sure you want to do that, Mrs. M.?” Sid asked.

  “Yes, Sidney, I do," Mrs. McCarthy replied in a tone that brooked no debate. She glanced up at the clock. "Good heavens, I need to open the kitchen for the free breakfast, But first-" she fixed Sullivan with a look.

    I tried calling my aunt again—no luck. As I gave up, Sullivan had gotten into 'discussing' something with Father Brown . . . and was apparently losing the argument. Mrs. McCarthy promptly concluded their conversation by heading Sullivan towards a back room to check his injury.

   Sid sidled over, nodding towards Sullivan. "He was really worried. He stayed by you till the doc came."

    I glanced inside my shoulder bag. Except for the locker key, everything was still there, though the wallet had been searched. And my two fountain pens had been used--probably to test the ink. My papers and additional money were still undisturbed in my hidden pocket.

    “Guess he wanted to spell my name right on the arrest warrant. And he probably didn’t want a suspect and a witness both losing their marbles on his watch.”

    Sid’s lips quirked in a grim half-smile. “Not before the prosecution grills you proper in the dock.”

    “Can’t wait to disappoint him. One question—is he really an inspector or what? Nobody except Father Brown seems to think so.”

    “He was a constable for six months and a Detective-Sergeant for even less time than that. He was good at both jobs--broke a couple of big cases, But word has it that some strings got yanked on behind the scenes and he was transferred here as a DI. His old man is some High Street muckety-muck with a lot of friends.”

   “Including some Chief Superintendents, apparently.”

    Sid peered into the study mirror, fixing his collar. “You know, I don’t mind being chased by coppers. All part of the game—"

   “Which is?”

    He looked sheepish, but there was a certain glint in his eye. “You know. Getting things that are getting hard to find, what with war coming, and restrictions starting and all…”

  “Figured as much,” I replied. “So that’s how you know so much about cars for a city guy.”

  “Oi, I don’t steal those. I might know a few . . . unofficial garages where a bloke can take things apart and see how they run.”

  “I take it Sullivan knows them, too.”

  Sid grinned. “Almost caught me once. But like I was saying, a copper should at least have some, what do you call it … seasoning, you know. Should earn his stripes if he’s going to be good enough to toss me in the poke.”

  I had had no idea cop bragging rights were part of the London underworld. You learn something new everyday.

  “The way I hear it, Sullivan’s a good detective. But he’s not just by the book—he acts like he wrote it. And nobody can do right by it but him.”

   “Terrific,” I muttered. “”And I’ll bet he feels he’s got a lot to prove.”

   "When I came back from the club, he was just getting off the phone. Probably checking in at the station." He handed me the Buck Rogers gun, his face grave. "I'd watch it out there if I were you."

   After several minutes, Sullivan came from the hallway, buttoning his trench coat. As we were leaving, I asked, "How's your shoulder?"

    "Fine."

    Oh, great. It was plain his demeanor was back down to subzero. I didn't hold out much hope to break the ice. But I did have a theory about him I wanted to test. “Thank you for calming Sophie down.”

   Sullivan nodded. "No need to thank me. Just a simple interrogation technique."

    I grimaced. I should have figured as much. It was unlikely this guy cared about anything beyond keeping the streets, his suit, and his hair in order. Still, it was a curious way to get information.

    “How did you know to do that, though? Are police getting wartime medical training here now, or—“

    “I learned it before I became a policeman," he replied tersely.

    I tossed my curve ball. “Well, thank goodness. It’s awful to be trapped, and feel no one can help you.”

    Sullivan's face tightened, and he resolutely avoided my gaze. “Yes. It is.”

       The stairs led to a hallway that bypassed a side entrance to the chapel. It was empty, except for a tall figure standing before the altar. He took his hat off, and bowed his head in prayer. I could only see him from the side in the dim church light, but there was something about his profile, his height, and his tousled brown hair that made me pause for a moment. I wasn't sure why, and couldn't figure it out.

     Sullivan glanced at him, then gave me an inquiring look. Giving up, I murmured, "Sorry, it was nothing," and followed him out the church door.

    The fog was swirling heavier as we came onto the street. A newsboy ran by shouting headlines. I bought a paper from him. Sophie smiled back at me, her face cropped from our Atlantic City picture. Above was a headline—“Mad Murderess Musician Hunt!!” I didn't need to read farther than "bewitching American coloured temptress" and "tragic golden-boy heir to vast fortune" to know what lies were getting out there. And Sophie wasn't the only one running out of time.

Chapter Text

     The fog pressed against the sedan windows as I huddled in the back seat under several blankets. Father Brown had been kind enough to loan Sullivan and me the presbytery vehicle—an ancient but surprisingly comfortable donation from a parishioner. It was even slower going than I expected, for Sullivan was driving with extra caution. And I didn’t blame him—people outside looked like indefinable shapes shuffling slowly past the windows, unnervingly like “Father Conway” as he melted back into the thing he was. As I did my best to keep watch, I caught a faint flicker of life, a detail here and there—the grey hat of a woman trudging back from the market; the smart red wool coat of a frowning secretary or clerk reluctantly hurrying somewhere she didn’t want to go on a Saturday.

     “How did you get to Sophie’s in the first place?” I asked Sullivan, curious as to where his car was.

    “I rode in with some constables—was in the station when the call came in.” He glanced at me in the rear view mirror. “Besides, its best we don’t use an official vehicle—no need drawing attention.”

   Which was the reason I was lying on the back seat. There were police officers directing traffic through the murk and refereeing irate drivers fighting over auto scrapes. But when we surveyed the street before entering the garage, we’d seen pairs of constables on seemingly every other corner scanning cars and passersby intently. One pair stopped us, but when Sullivan presented his warrant card, they waved us by. The newspaper hadn’t been kidding about a dragnet. Police were assiduously scrutinizing non-white residents, stopping several for questioning that, in just about all the cases we saw, did not stay civil. During one, Sullivan slowed the car down, flashed his card, and acidly wondered if the offending officer had noticed the Lowery suspect was American, not Jamaican. While the officer was defending himself, the woman he had started to harass slipped away thanks to a helpful crowd. Sullivan took advantage of the confusion to drive off.

   I would have smiled at the irony of having a British police chauffeur, but the circumstances were too grim. I was on edge for the first several blocks. I had fixed the door handle in case Sullivan had another agenda in mind and I needed to bail out fast--even though in this murk I probably wouldn’t have gotten far.

   In a few moments, the traffic lightened, and Sullivan was able to drive a little faster. The streets and buildings spaced out into stretches of townhouses, then increasingly long patches of grass and trees. I sat up a little, unfolding the newspaper. I’d hadn’t had a chance to read the rest of the article about Sophie, and I suddenly saw a paragraph at its end. “Neither Mr. St Clair or his wife would comment on the investigation as they left the station. Mr. St Clair has been touring London aviation facilities as his wife recuperates from her ongoing illness.” A side-view photo showed him helping his wife down from a plane.

    I blinked, then examined the picture closely. St. Clair looked very much like the man I'd seen in the presbytery chapel.

   Now that was interesting. I was about to point it out to Sullivan when a sign “The London Zoo—Closed” came up in the fog. The gate was down, but after Sullivan stopped and exchanged a brief word with the guard, we were let through. He was looking tense and preoccupied as he drove in, and I made a mental note to show him the photo later for confirmation.

   We passed a bulldozer and a truck full of building materials, obviously on their way to fix or shore up a wall. The truck was so laden the road literally trembled. After several minutes, we drew up behind a huge building marked “Aquarium Employees' Entrance—Restricted.”

   Giving the area a quick scan, Sullivan and I got out. As we reached the door, I could hear all sorts of muffled noises that the fog smothered as effectively as a blanket. The weird cackle of a kookaburra, like one I’d seen at the Bronx Zoo at home. The roar of either a lion or a tiger way off in the distance. And closer by, a carillon was grinding out a song. After a moment, I recognized it as "The Roses Of Picardy"--a Great War melody. My father used to whistle it quietly on our townhouse roof as he watched the sun go down. But the carillon's version was a shade out of tune; and its curiously mournful tempo made it sound like a dance for those long dead.

   With a slight grimace, I followed Sullivan into the aquarium, stopping to survey it. It was warm inside and even more humid, the air surprisingly fresh. Gigantic tanks built into the walls extended all the way down to the other side of the building. We were walking along the main corridor, with tanks on the main floor going from medium size to large. The corridor intersected with several aisles leading to the huge tank walls. Down the left of the middle aisle above one of the wall tanks, a room of windows looked out onto the floor—probably the main maintenance area for the wall tanks. Directly underneath the windows, was a huge padlocked cage on wheels, which looked like a portable supply or janitor's room. It held tools, cleaning items, and several large cylinders of oxygen and other gases whose labels I couldn't see. The ceiling was composed of glass panels, and shimmered with water reflections from rows of brightly-lit tanks. But except for a spotlight here and there, the complex was mostly dark, pockmarked with shadowy areas and pitch-black corners.

    I swallowed. There were thousand places here for anyone up to bad news to hide. "Creepy meeting place."

   Sullivan indicated the door at the corridor's far end. "We're not there yet. It's in the aviary." His lips quirked. "My informant is very protective of his identity."

   "We better stay on the corridor, then," I replied. It was way out in the open and exposed. But it was as well-lit as the tanks, so no chance of any inhuman shadows sneaking up on us there. Sullivan nodded.

   Schools of different colored fish darted like windblown flags through their respective tanks’ watery darkness as we passed by. In a large aquarium that resembled a swamp, an electric eel swam restlessly through its plant-laded waters. There were several quick noises like muffled patters coming from a loudspeaker hooked up to the tank. A light meter attached to it buried its needle at a 800 volts as it and the loudspeaker registered the eel's shocks. But most tanks held just water, or rocks. No surprise--I'd read somewhere the Zoo had begun sending most of its animals away in the grim certainty that London would again suffer German air-raids.

    The exit door at the far wall was under an archway, which was flanked by the largest tanks of all. One was designed to resemble a jungle thicket. It appeared empty as well--until the underbrush moved, and a large lizard head poked up. Sullivan gave a start. The animal glided out, serenely displaying its nine-foot body and tail--a Great Komodo Dragon, Indonesia, according to the exhibit sign..

   “Long way from home,” I noted.

   Sullivan eyed it warily. “ Not far enough.”

   “Guess you are not a reptile kinda guy, huh?”

  “Creatures who see you as a heat source, a threat—or dinner? No.”

  “Well, I wouldn’t have picked them as your kind of pet, anyway."

  “Because you think I’m cold-blooded enough, don’t you?”

   Was that a hint of humor in his voice? “Oh, I’m not saying a word,” I replied, with a smirk.

   “I'm curious--what pet do you think I’d have?'

   “Beats me. Everything seems too messy, noisy, or rambunctious for you. I’m surprised you didn’t have a dog of some kind though--”

   “Since I'm British, and all,” he said dryly.

    “Well, yeah.”

    He was quiet for a moment. “My father had hunting dogs at our country house. But he would never let me or anyone get friendly with them. Said they didn’t need anything breaking their concentration. They needed to stay focused--keep their pack mentality"

   “Wow, That’s … rough,” I said uneasily. I had only seen hunting dogs on my uncle's farm down South, where they played like puppies when they were off duty. I didn't want to know how ferocious Sullivan Senior's were.

    A faint splash sounded from the other wall tank. A shark swam back and forth. It looked to be a good seven to ten feet. It moved gracefully, seeming to only be aware of the tank wall in front of it. It turned to head back to the other end, but detoured sharply to the tank front near where we were standing, startling me and Sullivan both. It bumped its snout against the glass, showing its formidable rows of teeth, then calmly swam back onto its watery path.

  Young Great White Shark, Florida. the placard read. I shook out my shoulders nervously. "Well, it's pretty . . . playful, considering."

   Sullivan opened the exit door. "It's probably wondering how we would taste. We shouldn't let it think about that too long."

  "For once, I agree with you," I replied, hastening through. "Believe it or not."

  For a second, a faint smile seemed to cross his face, but in the sudden outdoors light it was difficult to see clearly.

   We crossed the street and entered the aviary, housed in a red-brick, round, Gothic-looking building. There were a few more animals here, though many of the cages and exhibits were also empty. Raucous screeching echoed from somewhere inside. A flamingo peered curiously at us from behind its mate as they stood in a lagoon. The kookaburra we’d heard earlier let out another racketous call as it landed on a tree branch in its tank. What sounded like another bulldozer rumbled by, causing the the ground to shake. At the building's center, a huge three story octagonal cage stood, its inside looking like a mini-forest. It was split into three sections. One was empty. But another had several bright green parrots flitting from tree to tree. In the third one, a handful of macaws perched on branches, hollering as if to bring the roof down. When they saw us, they yelled even louder.

   “Where's the Zoo sending all these animals?" I wondered.

   "Most are going to Whipsnade, the conservation zoo up in Bedfordshire," a voice from above said. "Native fish are getting released into the local rivers. It’s rumored some of the big cats are at Dickie Hasting's estate out in Kent.”

  A woman stood on a huge stepladder that had been wheeled next to the cage. Tall, slightly broad-shouldered, she was in overalls and a shirt, her hair tucked under a cap. She brushed a tendril of reddish-brown hair back from her face as she slipped one of the macaws what looked like half a coconut. Behind wide-frame spectacles, her gray eyes gazed at us steadily. She came down the stairs, ignoring Sullivan's offered hand as she alighted on the floor.

   “Where on earth is your tie?" she said to Sullivan. As his fingers went automatically to his collar---then straightened it out in lieu of a tie--she glanced at me. "He had quite a collection at university.”

   "Oh," I replied. No surprise there.

   She turned to him. “Hello, Steadfast. I should have known you’d pop up again sometime. You were never one to let anything go."

   “You did owe me a favor,” Sullivan observed.

   “--and you were hoping I’d forget all that other unpleasantness--”

   Sullivan regarded her coolly, an unreadable look in his eyes. “Sheila Dennison—the Honorable Delilah Selkirk. Dally, to her friends.”

    “—but not to her one-time acquaintances. Emphasis on the ‘one-time.’" she replied.

   Sullivan didn’t respond. I shook Dally’s hand. I had taken care to put some holy water from Sid’s Buck Rogers' gun on it “Sorry,”I said. “It’s a bit wet.”

   To my secret relief, she failed to change into a murderous entity, returning my grip firmly. “Understandable. Every since that miserable murk outside started, it's been hard to keep condensation off fish tanks--or any glass."

   She picked up a bucket of fruit, and the macaws resumed their chorus of reverberating yells. “Better give Merlin and the flock their treats, else we won’t be able to hear ourselves think.”

    From the top of the cage, a huge blue macaw swooped down onto an inside perch, honking joyously. It flipped its head upside down and went silent, regarding Dally expectantly. She handed him a skinned banana, which he grabbed in his beak and took off. She pulled down two metal drawers built into the cage bottom, loading fruit in each one. They flipped back into place, dumping the fruit in two huge bins inside the cage. As the macaws set upon them, their hollers died down, punctuated only by munching noises, several chuckles, and an occasional quarreling squawk.

    “Right. Sir Llewellyn Prentiss. Started as an engineer fixing trains. In the Army, he handled supply lines—made millions out of a patent medicine for pain relief. Went into aviation. Came up with a invention that stabilized flight takeoffs in rough weather—rain or fog. That got him more millions and a knighthood. Invested in an airline—which will make another fortune supplying planes for wartime. Was married, was devoted to his wife, had two children--a son and a daughter. Son was one of the first gas victims of the Great War. Wife died of the 'flu a few years later."

    From her overall pocket, Dally took out several photos which she pointedly handed to me first. Prentiss was a thin, greying man, with dark, flat eyes and an unsmiling mouth. He looked empty of everything except the necessity to be going somewhere doing something important, as if stopping for a moment would be an unconscionable intrusion on his time. Just as interesting, the pictures were obviously surveillance pictures taken from a distance--grainy resolution; their background indistinct; identifying information on the bottom redacted.  I had had a sneaking suspicion that Sullivan's informant wasn’t a reporter. But I hadn’t expected her to be MI5--Military Intelligence.. Or--if the really crazy rumors in Washington were correct--a member of another, way more dangerous British counterpart, the Special Operations Executive.

    She handed another photo to Sullivan. "You know his daughter, Eileen, of course." It was a tabloid picture, taken outside a dance club; lit by photo flashes so bright they almost seemed to scorch the woman at their center. She wore a shimmering Schiaparelli dress along with a perfect rigid smile--and her astonishingly-pale, beautiful eyes glittered with the kind of excitement only a lot of chemicals could spark. But the harsh light also revealed how frighteningly thin her arms were  . . . and made her gaze burn in a way more disturbing than glamorous.

   "I can't say I've had the immediate pleasure," Sullivan replied. "Not my district. And I've never worked elite drug cases."

   "Pity," Dally said. "Her father bought off plenty of tin soldiers like you trying to keep her out of the papers--and get her into hospital instead of jail. If Prentiss cares about anything, it's getting Eileen off cocaine—and somewhere near sane.” She wrinkled her nose. “Some Not Very Bright Young People refuse to let go of their '20s glory days."

    “Know what you mean,” I muttered, thinking back to Spalding’s grisly bonhomie with a slight shudder.

   "I'll give her credit—she’s sticking to her principles, such as they are. She’s almost forty, but she refuses to get married-to-death to some vapor-headed peer. Or commit to some insane fascist cause. She’s going out doing the only thing that means anything to her—giving a damn good show. And if that’s all she can do well, it’s her business and no one else’s.”

   There was a challenging note in her voice as she looked at Sullivan. I hastily jumped in. “Is there anything else you can tell us about Prentiss that might . . . make him vulnerable? You said he was devoted to his wife—was that always true?”

     If Dally was startled by my interruption, she didn't even blink. “Yes. Enough to keep her in the dark that he was selling watered-down medication to the military. Suffice to say she didn't love him much after she found out. When she got ill, she took some of Prentiss' medicine to prove a point. She made sure he watched her die. And it's a good bet all he wants now is to keep his daughter from killing herself."

   “Thank you, Dally,” Sullivan said quietly. He turned to leave.

   She appraised me with a look, then nodded towards Sullivan.”You don’t trust Steadfast, do you?”

   Caught off guard, I quickly tried to think of something--but failed.

   She waved a hand.“You don’t. Smart lady. That's the thing about tin soldiers--"

   "Soldiers? Steadfast? I'm sorry, but what are you talking about. . .? Oh." Finally, I got a clue. "You mean 'The Steadfast Tin Soldier?' The kids' fairy tale?" I hadn't read it in years. But now that Dally mentioned it, that too-stiff-to-live Hans Christian Anderson hero and Sullivan had a lot in common.

    "Sullivan is all about duty, no matter who gets hurt. He’ll make an exception if he wants something badly enough. He really does care about protecting people . . . but that's also a perfect excuse for ambition. It’s a luxury some people—mostly men—always have. And they'd rather be melted down to ash than ever admit they're wrong.”

   "I take it you always play fair in your… non-zoological job," I replied dryly.

   Dally smiled a little. "Touche. Actually, there's not a lot of difference between my occupations. Rest assured, the animals are far better-behaved." She shrugged. “You get used to it--cutting corners. And if it gives you opportunities women never get, it’s worth the tradeoff. And I always know when to get out when it’s not worth it anymore.”

   Sullivan’s face was grim. “If they’ll let you,”

  “Still trying to save me? That’s not your concern anymore, is it?” she noted acerbically.

   I touched Sullivan’s arm. “Thank you, Dally. Have to go. You guys should really fight this out another day. You know--do a championship bout on the radio or something.” If any of us even have another day, I thought.

   “Dally, we're not going to agree," Sullivan said. "But if you ever need help . . .” He trailed off, looking uncharacteristically at a loss.

    In a swoop of blue and yellow, Merlin returned to the perch near Dally. There was a flicker of expression on her face before she turned away from us, handing Merlin another banana and giving him an affectionate head scratch. “A pleasure, Miss Dennison. Good hunting.”

   As we reentered the aquarium, it shook from yet another heavy rumbling noise.

   "What the heck are they building out there--a quarry?" I asked.

   Sullivan went still, his face suddenly tense. "That wasn't from outside."

  Suddenly the electrical and ventilating systems gave a huge rattle--then died, plunging the aquarium into darkness. Sullivan lunged for the door, but it slammed shut, refusing to open even when we repeatedly crashed against it.

  The rumbling was now a steady tremor, and there was a loud grinding noise. Water hit the floor as one of the big tanks shuddered slightly.  I quickly looked out to where I thought the main corridor was. Crossing the pitch-black aquarium would be crazy, but if we stayed to force the door open and that tank cracked...

   The same thought had apparently occurred to Sullivan. His arm brushed my back, then went around my waist, pulling me close. “We have to get to the side door," he whispered. "I know where it is. Two aisles up the corridor.”

    Always know your exits--one of the first things I'd learned in courier training. I would have cursed myself for forgetting that simple rule, but we didn't have the time. Sullivan took my hand. We darted up the main corridor to one aisle. There was a crash as several tanks hit the floor somewhere up ahead to our left. The eel was darting madly about in its tank, and there was a sudden heaviness in the air that stopped me and Sullivan in our tracks.

    The employees' entrance door was open. The fog came swirling in, bringing in the sound of the carillon. It was playing "The Roses Of Picardy" again--this time faster, merrily, shriekingly discordant, every note a taunt. Suddenly the emergency spotlight over the Komodo dragon's and shark's tank clicked on. The dragon was nowhere to be seen, and the shark's tank was thick, opaque blackness.

    “What the--" I whispered, unable to make sense of what I was seeing.

   Abruptly, the dragon’s snout appeared suddenly in the murk, slamming against the tank. Its eyes stared at us as its head sank to the bottom, landing next to its tail. It had been neatly cut in two, as if a shark had neatly chomped it in one savage bite. Or …an image of the Dark Echo’s prow slashing through hurricane-force Florida waves--and any obstacles--flashed in my head.

   Fierce giant teeth lunged from the dark water, hitting the side of the tank, and sending a wave of water over the top. The shark lunged again, crashing into the side.  Another blow, and one of the tank's huge corner supports shook. It had broken some teeth, but its massive grin kept coming at us as it repeatedly plowed into the glass. Its eyes were rolled back in its head, its tail thrashing frantically. Its body twisted in agony, as if it were straining against something forcing it to crash the glass.

   The shark struck again, weakening the other corner, sending bits of cement and metal cracking to the floor. The tank glass literally shimmered, slowly melding with the water to form a shattering, lethal wave.

    Sullivan and I sprinted to the exit aisle. The side exit loomed in front of us. Suddenly, tanks along the aisle began to fall, the crush of jagged glass blocking our way.

    A glint from above caught my eye. The windows of the maintenance room. There had to be stairs going up there from the main floor. If not . . .

   “Come on!” I yelled, grabbing Sullivan's hand and heading towards the next aisle. The supply cage—if we could climb it, we might be able to reach the upper room.

  In seconds, we reached the cage. Pure panic helped me jump on it higher than I thought I could. With surprising agility, Sullivan landed beside me, and we scrambled up the side. Suddenly, Sullivan's trench coat sleeve was skewered on several metal cage tines, yanking him back. As I struggled to untangle him, I began to hear a strange sound, like several snakes giving warning before a strike. With horror, I saw the various canisters inside the cage just below Sullivan were starting to crumple, gas hissing out of them.

   His eyes met mine. He was pale, and it was plain his injured shoulder was hurting. "Go!" he said harshly.

  With one last desperate rip, I tore the sleeve from the coat. Frantically, we climbed the last few feet to the top. Sullivan put his watch on his hand like brass knuckles, and hit the maintenance room window. In a couple of blows, it shattered, and we were through it in an instant.

   Running to the room exit, we fled down steps which led to the parking lot. As I tumbled into the sedan's back seat. Sullivan gunned the engine. The building shook with a dreadful grinding noise, as the shark tank rocked loose, finally crashing to the floor. As we sped away, a silent ball of flame exploded part of the building, Water flooded into that zoo area, turning its streets into a ocean of little waves and whitecaps. Sullivan drove frantically through the open back gate, skidding onto the street and speeding away.

 "We have to go back,” I cried. “They might need help."

  “There’s nothing we can do--”

  “Are you crazy? Aren't you going to call it in or something?"

  In the rear view mirror his eyes met mine--icy, strangely . . .remote. “Do you want to explain all that to the police. I certainly don’t.”

  The tone in Sullivan's voice sent a chill through me. Even more unnerving, there was a bead of sweat on his forehead. His hair was falling into his face, and he narrowly avoided hitting a lorry. His hands were shaking as he swerved onto another road, barely sideswiping a car. With an effort, I kept my voice calm. “Sullivan, you have to slow down and pull over. Something’s wrong.”

   He gave a short, strange laugh. ""Do you know what they call me at the station? The ‘Toff Cop.’”

   He made another skittering turn, wrenching the car onto a mercifully deserted street. "'I'm going back to my flat to get a tie. Can't go to the Chief Superintendent without one. Then we finally can make sense of this case."

    His apartment. Perfect. I needed to get him somewhere where I could figure out what was going on with him. I could only hope his place was nearby. Trying to take the wheel from him and drive on the left side of the street from the backseat even in a patchy fog would be suicide. "Good idea. We better take it slow, though. You don't want to get pulled over and have other officers see you . . . not up to standard."

   Sullivan glanced at me in the mirror. One look at his pupils made my breath catch in my throat. Those leaking gas canisters . . . "Don't patronize me, Miss Dennison."

   I assumed an insulted tone. "Well, if you don’t want them to keep calling you a toff or whatever--look out!"

   We barely missed a bus dropping off passengers. Sullivan sped past it fast enough to keep anyone from getting our license plate number. He dodged down several side streets, then let the car slow to a cruise."You're right. Need to slow down. Not far now."

  Thank God. His hands had tightened on the wheel, probably to stop them from trembling.

   After a few blocks, we glided past a huge four-story Victorian red-brick building that resembled a castle more than a set of apartments. He turned into the driveway, eventually bringing the car to a stop in a far corner of the complex's garage.

   A large red industrial-looking door stood near near a pile of coal and garbage bins. "Wait," I said. "Maybe we better take the back way."

   "It's a coal lift," Sullivan replied, frowning."Rather messy."

    So long as it was electric and hidden, that was fine with me. And I hoped to God it was electric. A building this old probably still had the janitor hauling coal up by rope. "Well, I’m sure your doorman and neighbors would have fun seeing you like this--"

   He nodded. "Right." He was out the car before I was, his steps purposeful but with a hint of unsteadiness. He slid the lift door open. The inside was surprisingly clean, though streaked with coal dust, but it did smell like a million unwashed ashtrays. At least its wheels and tracks were oiled, for it moved quietly. After tapping the third floor button. Sullivan leaned against the wall, sweat beading his forehead, his mouth drawn tight with exhaustion and pain.

   The hallway was empty. From the sounds of radios going and children running in the corridor overhead, most tenants had apparently decided to stay in for the day. Sullivan had his keys out before we reached the door. He motioned me to stop as he unlocked it, then stepped inside. "All clear," he said after a few minutes. Whatever he was under the influence of hadn't dampened all his cop instincts.

    It was a corner apartment, more spacious than I'd imagined--but just as spotless as I figured. Sullivan had kept some of the previous owner's bigger, less-unfortunate Victorian furniture. A desk crowded with neatly-stacked papers and files, bookcases full almost to bursting, one very uncomfortable-looking chair, and a sofa took up most of the space. The papers were case files copies, one marked with the name of Spalding's first Marylebone victim. It made perfect sense Sullivan wouldn't leave his work at the office. And given the two bottles of very expensive Scotch on the desk, he liked working "off-duty" as well.

  As he shed his coat, he staggered, and would have fallen if I hadn’t slipped under the crook of his shoulder and caught his weight. He waved weakly at an adjoining hallway. "Bedroom--"

   For such a slim guy, he was heavy, and it was with some effort I pulled-dragged him into the room. It made a monk's cell look overdecorated--and like the living room, was extremely neat. Two windows overlooked the street, a southern exposure that gave the room light despite the fog. A sleek modern bed, night table and arm chair were in the center of the room. The nearby wardrobe was another Victorian leviathan--fortunately sturdy enough for me to grab its door and keep me and Sullivan upright. Inside, four white shirts and four blue suits hung in a row next to a constable's uniform. There were two pairs of shoes: a regular set and highly polished dress ones. And ties. Plenty of surprisingly vivid, almost-dashing ties. Another half-empty bottle of Scotch was on the night table, and I was beginning to see the reason for his decidedly-unwelcome drinking advice back at Father Brown's.

   With a final push, we got to the bed. Sullivan toppled onto it, pulling me down with him, and gave a soundless laugh. By the time I’d gotten out from under his arm and irritably brushed my hair out of the way, he had gone still, and was gazing steadily into my eyes.

  “Pools,” he murmured, gently touching my cheek. “Pools like the ocean. So green and light.”

  “Oh, for cryin’ out loud,” I muttered. Definitely time to ring Father Brown--and continue to help the much-tried Dr. Chandratty send Raj to Oxford. Anything was better than listening to Sullivan blathering on like a dime store hearts-and-flowers card. I undid his top shirt buttons so he could breathe easier. He caught my wrist, holding it there, and tried to sit up, but I promptly pushed him back down. “Sorry--got a doctor to call--"

  "Not. . . necessary. Nitrous oxide--the gas. Recognized smell. Just have to sleep--"

 "Good." I tried to pull away, but his grip was suddenly too strong. "You need a nice long nap."

  “Need …you. . . Want to tell you-“

  “No, what you want is some beddy-bye.”

  His gaze intensified. “I’d never been to the ocean proper, you know. My mother loved reading about Cornwall, so when my father almost broke her other arm, that’s where we ran away to. I was nine."

  I froze. He went on as if he hadn’t noticed. “The ocean was so different there, all light and open. Father hated the sea, said it would swallow you up. Best to stay close to home, protected. But I realized so long as you could sail or swim or just listen to the waves, you would be safe enough to feel free. To go anywhere you wanted. To take chances.”

  I thought to get him a glass of water or something, but given this sudden fugue state, I was afraid to leave him alone. “What happened?” I asked softly.

 “We were there through the summer and into the fall. Mother worked at this little library—we rented a room on top, second floor. She did drawings she sold on the beach. Better for her than London—quieter, less confusion. I knew we couldn’t stay forever. But I thought if she had time, she could get a little better. She could go days there without one of her spells—her fades, she would call them. Whenever she would have one, I could help her.”

 I remembered his actions in my sister’s room.”That’s how you were able to calm Sophie,”

  He nodded. "Always wondered what it would be like to have a sister or brother. Mother was too ill to have more children. Must have been lovely for you, growing up with Sophie . . . "

   I squirmed uncomfortably, not wanting him to lose focus on his story. "It was--interesting. We're kind of different, but we try to look out for each other."

   "Father was never like that. Sink or swim--else you weren't a real Sullivan." He reached up to touch my cheek again. "You trying to save Sophie now--very brave."

   I avoided his hand, feeling a sudden surge of anger. “Nice try. But you still believe she's guilty somehow."

   "No. . . don't think she is.” He moved his shoulder slightly, wincing with pain. “And this case  . . . a nightmare. Nonsensical evidence, no logical procedure—“

   "That's putting it mildly," I replied with some bitterness. "But, I'm not going to risk Sophie getting railroaded--and those odds are overwhelming."

   "I won't let that--" Sullivan stopped, and went silent for a moment. "No. You're right. Can't promise anything. But you helping her . . . I admire you. I—“

    Oh, boy. This conversation was getting personal in the wrong direction. "How did your father find you?"

   “He never said—“ Sullivan broke off, his gaze turning inward.“Oh. Yes. Yes, he did. Quite often, actually. He had to make my punishment stick, you see.”

  “It’s okay. You don’t have to tell me any more—“

  “He took us home. He had my mother committed. I was in boarding school when she died—pneumonia, supposedly. It wasn’t until I joined the force and read her autopsy that I found out what really happened.”

  “Jesus, Sullivan—“

  “An accident. She kept trying to escape from the asylum to save me. She managed to get away and come home, but my father was away in the country, and had shut the house up for the winter. She broke in to see me. She tripped on the stairs and fell. By the time they found her, she’d frozen to death in the front hall.”

  He smiled. The sudden detachment in his voice was truly disturbing. ”After Father sent her away, he cried every night. He knew she was ill when he married her. He loved her more than anything, and she’d try to get well, but he said she just never tried hard enough.”

  I didn’t know what to say. Comforting-sounding words went through my head, but all of them felt hopelessly inadequate.

 “She needed to have discipline, focus, that’s what he said. If she'd just concentrate on her husband, her talent, her home . . . ignore those odd fancies and ideas. He thought she could get well it if she worked hard enough to control herself. And she'd have to do it alone, because no one would be there to help her all the time—“

 “But she was sick. It wasn’t anything she could control or fix. I don’t know much about mental illness, but I know that.”

“When I came home for the funeral, he made me stay an extra week. He wanted to make sure I would stay the course, wouldn’t ‘go dreamy’ like my mother.”

Sullivan tightened his grip on my wrist. Turning his body slightly, he drew my hand across his lower back. His shirt and undershirt had ridden up, and I could once again feel those delicate, insidious scars on his bare skin. His eyes held mine--anguished, dark, and unreachable. ”He taught me to focus, you see. To not move when he hurt me. To not feel the straight razor when it cut. To fix on anything that could help me stay still and silent—“

  “Oh my God,” I whispered. I had figured Sullivan and his dad had no love lost between them, but this— We were only inches apart. His breathing was getting shallow, and he was starting to tremble. I couldn't let him slip any further into this tortured state, but I had no idea what to say or do. Instinctively, I flattened my hand on his back, gently holding him.  “Rest while I get help, okay?”

 He leaned into my touch and gave what sounded like a sigh. “No. Please. Stay with me. My father … all true. Wanted you to know…” His voice trailed away. His breathing deepened, and his eyes slowly closed.

   I watched him for several minutes, still worried that he would have a seizure, some kind of allergic reaction, or worse. Slowly, his features relaxed. But I had some trouble easing my hand from his. It wasn’t until he was in a deep sleep that he let me go. His shoulder was bleeding, but the best I could do was put a towel under it. I didn’t want to risk waking him by taking his shirt off.

 After putting through a call to Father Brown, I curled up in the armchair next to the bed, drawing a blanket around me. Grimly, I mused that Sullivan had to be desperate to want me around when he was in such bad shape--or to tell me things he apparently had never revealed to anyone. But I wasn’t going to even try to think too hard about those implications. There was too much at stake for both of us.

Chapter Text

     I don't know what disturbed me, but suddenly I was wide awake from a deep, mercifully-dreamless sleep. I thought Sullivan had stirred, but he was practically unconscious. He was lying on his side, and didn't move at all when I got up from the armchair, sending a thick medical reference tome clunking to the floor. I'd hastily looked up his symptoms in one of the many books on his shelves before I drifted off. I stopped a moment to see if he was running a fever or having any other reactions--nothing. He was breathing regularly, and his shoulder wound had stopped bleeding.

     I moved quietly out into the hallway, within sight of the front door. The sun was going down, and the living room was almost dark. Sullivan had four locks on his door--two pickable, one a deadbolt. and the last a formidable looking chain lock. The doorknob turned partway once, then stopped. There was a faint noise, and one of the locks clicked open. Since Spalding's entity preferred grander entrances, I figured this was someone human I might need a weapon for. Sullivan hadn't been wearing a gun when we went out, and if I wanted the advantage of surprise, I had no time to search his closet.

   Darting into the kitchen, I was surprised to find a large cast-iron skillet on the stove, smelling of something savory and sweet. Inside were sausages fried in a egg-and-bread batter--an "Egg In A Basket" as we'd call it at home--and there was enough for a couple of days. Sullivan being any kind of cook hadn't occurred to me. However, it was plain he didn't have much money, and probably wanted food at home once he'd tired of English pub fare--or whatever a copper dined out on.

    The door clicked again. Another lock had fallen. There were no other sounds, or anything revealing how many people might be outside. Emptying the skillet into a bowl in the icebox, I also plucked a knife from a counter block. I hadn't done any strategic fighting outside of training--especially since I preferred to avoid trouble whenever possible. And this far I hadn't had to face any. But a decent left hook wouldn't do me much good against numbers.

   Even worse, I had two bad options: surprise whomever was at the door, or make a last stand in the bedroom. Either would give Sullivan a chance to use the fire escape, if he was in any shape to try. Leaving him behind and escaping to the presbytery would be the smart play. After all, I was still the only one Sophie could rely on. But I couldn't bring myself to go. Evidence I was here would be all over the scene. Besides, after being hunted by something intangible, It would be a relief to fight someone directly. And I wasn't about to leave an injured man to an even-worse fate. 

   I gently pressed my fingers to his lips, then shook him gently. "Someone's here. In the living room." He stirred restlessly. Slowly, his eyes opened, surprisingly alert, and he nodded.

   I indicated the fire escape. "You go. I'll keep them busy."

   In one swift motion, he sat up, grimacing with pain. From his nightstand's drawer, he took his gun from behind a book. "No," he whispered. "You leave--"

   A scraping noise from the living room--the deadbolt slid free.

   As Sullivan glided out the door, I quietly opened the window... but couldn't bring myself to go. Maybe he could take out most of them. Maybe--

   I turned, catching up with him as he hid by the living room door frame. There was a firm snap, and the sound of the now-broken chain softly hit the front door. The door opened slowly, but no one was standing in front of it.

   Several seconds went by. Suddenly a slim figure glanced in from the outside hallway.

  Sullivan raised his gun. "Don't move!"

  "Oi, don't shoot," Sid clicked the light on, and stood there grinning. "You didn't know it was me?"

   "Are you sure?" I asked irritably.

   "I believe I can vouch for him," Father Brown stepped out from behind Sid, a Buck Rogers water gun in his hand."Are you two all right?"

   I put the skillet and knife down, and collapsed into a chair. Lack of real sleep and a decent shower was catching up with me. "Barely,"

   Sullivan eyed Sid. "How were we supposed to know it was you?"

    Sid glanced at the broken locks and rolled his eyes. "Trust me, if I was really breaking into this place, I wouldn't be so obvious. Coming from the roof to a window would be a better bet. I'd be in and out in no time."

   "Excellent," Sullivan said. "Now I can compare your technique with all those open breaking-and-entering cases at the station."

  "Won't help," Sid replied cheerfully. "Never use the same trick twice--or so I've heard."

 “And you were breaking in why?” I asked.

  “Walk into a dark apartment at night with Spalding and whatever out there? It could easily have been a trap.”

   “Well-played, Sidney. Though this is quite exciting already.” A tall ash-blonde woman walked in behind Father Brown. A powder-blue couture skirt and jacket, a tasteful string of pearls, and a raincoat with mink collar and cuffs completed her perfectly-fashionable ensemble. But she was such a vivid presence, I instantly forgot her polished appearance, and was drawn to the lively warmth in her eyes.

     She shook my hand. “Lady Felicia Montague at your service.” She studied me for a moment.“I’m sorry—this must be dreadful for you.”

     I returned her shake. “Sheila Dennison. And I have had less . . . crazy days.”

     Dr. Chandraty walked past, scrutinized me briefly, then raised an eyebrow at Sullivan, "Back at the wars so soon, Inspector? Mrs. McCarthy asked me to check on you."

     I glanced at Sullivan. He didn't meet my eyes as he headed into the bedroom. So, he did remember what he had told me about his father. And was probably regretting it already.

     "Sophie is still the same," Father Brown said gently. "If you'd like to stop and see her--"

     I shook my head "The faster we solve this, the better-- Wait--what do you mean stop by?"

    "I thought you and the Inspector could get ready for tonight at my townhouse," Lady Felicia replied.

   "Lady Felicia has gotten invitations to the Revels," Father Brown said.

    She grimaced. "Not that Monty is a club member. Much too...odd a place for him. He's not one for surprise--pardon me, Father--orgies, in any case. Finds them rather messy."

    "Good to know," I stammered.

    With a quick motion, she unexpectedly pulled me to my feet, looked me up and down, and gave a delighted smile. “Yes. My designer Valine is going to love you." She lowered her voice. "She's never dressed a spy before. I know you can’t really say that’s what you are, but it will be our little secret.” She winked.

    “Okay,” I replied, even more dumbfounded.

     Sullivan and Dr. Chandraty came back into the living room. The latter let out an exasperated noise. "I advise you to let that shoulder heal and get some rest--but no use wasting my breath."

    "Quite,” Sullivan responded dryly, as he took his raincoat from a closet.

    "We'll go over the case at Lady Felicia's," Father Brown said.

    Sullivan's eyes narrowed. "Why?"

    "Because the police came by with some questions. A Chief Inspector Langham." Father Brown gave Sullivan a reproachful gaze. "He's the real lead investigator on the Lowry case--and the other murders. The police are checking all the presbyteries. Apparently someone informed them that a priest might have taken Sophie away. And I have the distinct impression the Chief Inspector is suspicious enough to have men watching all those places"

  "Did anyone follow you here?" Sullivan asked.

   Sid grinned. "If they did, they are still circling Piccadilly Circus."

    I looked sharply at Sullivan. "Wait--I thought you were heading up this investigation."

   "We all did," Sid said.

    "I didn't," Father Brown replied. "The Inspector never checked in at his station while he was at the presbytery--or before he went to the Zoo." He smiled. "That call he made was to a Zoo number according to the phone operator. I was suspicious--and offered the presbytery car to see what he would do. It seemed strange to me he would borrow it when he could easily have gotten one from the men patrolling the area."

   "Son of a--" I broke off, glaring at Sullivan. "Don't say you're doing this case undercover."

   "Nah. He's probably doing this just for shits and giggles," Sid muttered.

     "Sidney!" Lady Felicia exclaimed.

     I glanced over at Sullivan's stack of case files. Damnit. I should have noticed there was something weird about him working from copies. He seemed way too picky and conscientious for that. "You've been investigating on your own from the start, haven't you?"

    I had to give Sullivan credit. Under several severe-to-furious gazes, he didn't even flinch. “There was no case at first--just some strange accidental deaths. Langham is my superior, and believe me, he's not interested in ‘street refuse’ getting murdered. A HM Coast Guard friend told me about the first victim, Beamis; a Home Office pathologist gave me a tip about the second. Then I found the others by isolating how they were murdered. I didn't dare tell anyone at the station--I couldn't trust Langham or the other detectives to investigate properly. It wasn't until David Lowery was killed that someone else made the connection--and these murders became an official investigation. Which Langham promptly took over."

    He looked over at me. "I needed to find out what your sister knew. I thought it would be better if you believed I was leading the investigation. With a witness and Lowery's murder, I would have a solid case to present, but--"

    "The case got rather out of hand--and became more than you bargained for," Father Brown finished. "I take it you are on leave."

   Sullivan nodded. "That was a risk right there. I had just put in enough hours for a week off--and unofficially, new inspectors aren't supposed to use leave for a good five years or so."

  "Always an angle with you, eh, Constable?" Sid said mirthlessly. "Upward and onward to the Yard."

   "Yes, indeed. A big case would finally prove you are a real cop--and score you a nice promotion. And eventually people might forget how your father got you this job. Nice move," I remarked.

   Sullivan regarded me coolly, but the look in his eyes revealed my shot had hit home. Before he could respond, Lady Felicia interceded. "The Revels begin at one. We have to go."

    "One? Talk about a late start," I said.

    "The thirteenth hour," Father Brown mused.

   "Rumor has it that one of the club's tenets is that anything that happens on the other side of midnight is more--"

    "Crazy?" Sid asked.

    "Illegal," Sullivan said grimly.

    "Forbidden," Lady Felicia supplied. And the way she said it made me understand why she and her husband would never become members. Apparently Spalding had chosen this final sacrifice spot with good reason...

* * *

    In my room at Lady Felicia's townhouse, I put down the phone, close to terrified now. My mother had returned, but said no one had heard from Aunt Lois--and she wasn't at her apartment. I tried to be as honest as I could about Sophie, but my mother had a knack for knowing what one didn't say. I reassured her as best I could, but hung up knowing that to her, I had failed--again. I gazed aimlessly out the window. The fog was somehow even denser now, pure white. Father Brown had observed it was nothing like typical London ones of industrial yellow and black--and it was thicker than even the legendary December fogs. It said a great deal about the Tallevant Club's . . . eccentricity that it would hold Revels even under this insidious shroud.

    Turning away to the room's full length mirror, I took a deep breath. I had to push my fear for Aunt Lois down deep--and concentrate on the next few hours. I was glad to have gotten a shower and some sleep since we had gone to our separate rooms. And as I looked in the mirror, I saw Lady Felicia had not exaggerated her designer's skills. The elegant bronze satin gown she had altered for me from an unreleased design was sleek and streamlined from my shoulders to my waist. It dipped down the center of my back and fell into shimmering folds at my feet. Its color highlighted my sienna skin--but even better, it moved easily and concealed everything I needed to hide. Between it, the makeup, and hair, it would have cost a year's salary for me to ever look this good. My mother would have been delighted to see me look so un-casual and un-scruffy, but mercifully, this was one sight she was going to miss.

    I folded up the Sophie article to show Father Brown. As I tucked it into one of the gown's hidden pockets, I felt a faint draft on my back. Strange--none of the windows were open. I glanced around. The room was beautiful, all light blue, white, and French Provincial. On the wall behind me was a large painting, a landscape of the Devon hills; but as I looked closely, I noticed something a little off about it. One of the trees on the bottom corner wasn't quite flush with the rest of the picture, and as I examined it more closely, I could see why. The painting concealed a hidden door that was half-wall, half-painting. The door had cracked open very slightly. I felt along the ornate frame around the painting corner-- and something clicked under my fingers. I shut the door, and moved back. It was hard to spot close up, and it would have been invisible from anywhere else in the room. Opening it again, I placed a chair to hold it ajar. If someone might use this, I needed to know where it led.

   I took a step or two, then pushed gently on the wall in front of me. A door swung open, revealing another bedroom--as large as mine, but dark green, with heavier furniture, and darker paneling. It seemed to be empty, but the bedside light was on, and there was humidity in the air, as if a shower in the adjoining bathroom had recently been turned off. I quickly began to retreat, but I heard a gun click.

   Holding his semi-automatic, Sullivan moved in front of me, alert and hunter-cold. After the last few days, I couldn't blame him for being on edge. He paused for a moment, then lowered his gun. He put the safety on, then brushed something off the sleeve of his white-tie-and-tails. With some irritation, I realized I had been right. Apparently there was nothing he could wear that would make him look less than . . . dashing. I'd seen several men try to live up the demands of formal wear. Usually those battles resulted in them looking tired and tense;  or like they were walking around attached to a hidden ironing board--or just plain resigned to being stuck for hours in that particular suit of armor. Sullivan did look slightly uncomfortable—it was plain the stiff high-neck collar was even less forgiving than his usual shirt-and-tie deal. But there was an unconscious confidence in his bearing. The tuxedo accentuated his slim, well-defined body--and the white shirt set off his blue-grey eyes and chiseled features. His eyes widened slightly as he took me in, and for a moment neither of us could say anything.

   I recovered first. "Sullivan," I said, as coolly as possible. "Sorry to intrude."

   He put his gun on the dresser, raising an eyebrow. "If you say you were guarding me, I might believe you."

   "Just making sure this passageway didn't lead outside--or could let uninvited guests in."

     He glanced behind me and smiled slightly. "I suspect this was intended for more ...er, personal purposes."

    "It's in a titled lady's townhouse that's probably from the 18th century--no surprise there at all." I turned to go.

   "May I speak with you a moment?"

   "I don't think there's much to say, do you?"

   "Please. I . . . I must apologize for misleading you. I couldn't risk revealing the truth--"

  "I don't blame you. I wouldn't have trusted me. I've got way too much to lose. And to be fair, I'm not some delicate English Rose you've known from the cradle to the grave either," I replied dryly.

   "That has nothing to do with any English Rose nonsense. And I'm determined that things won't come to that--the grave, I mean."

  "I'll give you credit--you never guarantee anything. I guess that's about as honest as you get."

    He took a deep breath. "You saved my life today. You helped me when I needed help. I'm not used to that. At all."

    "You're welcome. Now, if you'll excuse me--"

    "You and Carter were right. I wanted to prove myself beyond anyone's doubt. And beyond my father’s influence.” A flash of anger showed in his eyes. "He wants a tame policeman to help fix things for him. At worst, he's hoping I'll give him confidential information to keep his business . . . advantages."

    I sighed. "Look. I'm sorry for what your father did to you--and is still trying to do--"

   "Continuing to work together is the only way we can finish Spalding, stop what he's planning--and save your sister. You have every reason not to believe a word I say. But you know I'll do anything to find the truth, just as you will. And I . . . we, can't do that unless we call a truce and get on with things."

    "Well, I hadn't planned to sulk all night, if that's what you were thinking. But you're right. Solving this is still the fastest way to clearing Sophie's name. And it's not like either of us have a choice."

   "I'm sure you have a plan to get her back to America in any case," he replied.

   "As if I would tell you."

     He gave a quick triumphant smile. "I believe you just did."

    Dammit. I lifted my chin. "You've got a deal. But if anything happens to my sister that you cause--or could have prevented--"

      I was bluffing. I knew all too painfully well there was nothing I could do if Sullivan went back on his word--short of murder. Or sinking his tie collection into the Thames. But I wasn't about to show my cards.

    He looked taken back, but recovered quickly. "Deal," He gave me a firm handshake.  For a sudden, odd moment, we stood there, looking into each other's eyes. Suddenly, I was more aware of him than ever beyond his looks and much-too-appealing body . . . his relentless intelligence and persistence driven by a vulnerability--an anguish--that made him understand victims all too well.

   "We have to go," he said, and I could swear his voice shook slightly.

   "Yes," I heard myself whisper. "Wait--" I took the article from my pocket, keeping it folding to show only the photo. "Does he look familiar?"

  Sullivan frowned. Taking it over to the desk, he turned on a lamp, examining the photo closely. "That's the man we saw this morning at the altar."

  "Are you sure?

  He scanned it again. "Positive."

  I opened the paper. He saw the tagline, and looked at me, startled. I nodded.

   "So why was Charlie St. Clair at Father Brown's church this morning? And I don't think it was to pray."

  "I'm inclined to agree," His mouth set, he took his dress coat from a chair, then locked his bedroom door. He indicated the passageway, "Do you mind..."

    "No. Anything to save time," Returning to my room, I picked up my costume mask, evening bag and an elegant black fur belted evening coat lined in bronze silk.

   I took one cautious look out the bedroom door. "Worried about your reputation?" Sullivan said, some amusement in his voice.

   I snorted. "Like I have nothing else to worry about."

    A footman ushered us into a small library. Father Brown was at the desk, scribbling on a long list of words. They were Latin anagram variations on 'AI erratuma tempters ultra,' the phrase atop Sophie's drawing. At an adjoining table, Sid was marking exits and hallways on what looked like blueprints, and I didn't even have to ask to know they were the Tallievant Club's.

    Sullivan handed Father Brown the article. "It seems Mr. St. Clair has been visiting your church, Father."

    "Sullivan and I saw him at the altar today," I said.

    Father Brown blinked, then frowned a little. He withdrew an expensive piece of stationary from his cassock."That explains this, then."

  Father Brown,

  I understand you are a friend of Lady Felicia Montague's. We will be by tonight on a private matter of the gravest urgency. Insist that you meet us alone.

  Charles St, Clair

    "Talk about nerve," I muttered. "Guess he figured you didn't have anything better to do with your time."

   The Father smiled grimly. "He certainly works his connections most effectively."

   Just then, Lady Felicia entered. "The St. Clairs are here." she said urgently. "Bennett--my butler--is stalling them."

   "I don't think I should meet them alone," Father Brown said.

   Sullivan straightened his shoulders. "If you think St. Clair is dangerous, Father--"

  Lady Felicia smiled and walked over to one of the bookshelves. She took a naked Cupid statue in hand and turned it slightly. "--you won't have to," she finished. A wall with a ornate mirror opened to reveal a spare little room with several chairs. "A listening post. You'll be able to hear, but no one will see or hear you. It has one of those one-way mirrors--though that's quite new. A very useful room when one's friends, enemies--or royalty--come calling."

    As she ushered me, Sullivan, and Sid in, I asked, "Just how many secret stash-aways does this house have?'

  Amusement sparkled in her eyes. "Why, whatever do you mean?"

  Sullivan gazed at her knowingly, "I suspect you have a very good idea, Lady Montague."

   "Call me Felicia, please. Oh . . . the passageway between your bedrooms. I thought our renovations last year closed that off. It has quite the . . . romantic history."

   "I'm sure," I said, keeping my expression blank.

  "It can be rather drafty if not blocked properly. If it's a problem, I would move you two, but the west wing hasn't been cleaned for the spring. And we're rather short of help because of the fog--"

  Giving up in defeat, I murmured, "That's fine. I think we can handle it."

    Lady Felicia inclined her head, almost hiding her smile in time. "I'm sure you'll both behave most appropriately." She headed back into the library, letting the secret door close behind her.

    Sid grinned, but he had the good sense not to say anything when Sullivan and I shot him a look. Barely hiding his exasperation, Sullivan took a seat behind the mirror.

    Lady Felicia's voice came through very clearly. "I'm sorry it's under such horrible circumstances, but I am so pleased to meet you at last, Mr. St. Clair--"

  "'Charlie' is fine, Your Ladyship." His voice was direct, confident. A slight twang made his voice redolent of open country skies and American Midwest formality.

   "And Alice--I'm sure this has been terrible for you--"

   "I'm well, thank you," Hers was delicate, quietly cultured--almost insubstantial.

   There was the sound of chairs scraping and a clink of glasses, which sounded like Bennett was pouring out drinks. After introducing Father Brown, Lady Felicia left the three alone. Silence fell on the room.

   I sat down next to Sullivan to examine the St. Clairs. Charlie’s vitality and rangy good looks definitely made him stand out in a room. And he took a chair across from Father Brown with the confidence of someone who took being listened to--and obeyed--for granted. But it was Alice who drew my attention. She was taller than I thought--only an inch less than her husband. And her dark blue-silver gown and sable coat gave her a tranquil elegance. But she moved tentatively, as if she was ill--or was feeling her way around after a long sickness. She gave the impression she was holding herself together with her last reserves of strength, and had only enough energy left to keep up her facade. Though her long dark hair was smartly arranged, it fell in a way that made her look like a mourning maiden in some old Victorian daguerreotype. And nothing lightened the sadness in her eyes, as if she wasn't really present, not quite there--but speaking from a place of graves, wreaths, and eternal weeping ...

  "We're sorry to interrupt your night, Father," she said quietly. "Surely you have to prepare for tomorrow's service ..."

  "No apologies necessary," he replied. "Some parishioners often get impatient if there's a line at confession, but I tell them unburdening a soul takes the time that it takes."

  St. Clair smiled with a hint of impatience. "Well, we aren't here for that. We'd like you to investigate David's murder. I understand you have a reputation for solving difficult cases."

   Father Brown looked modest. "I've only helped with a very few. And surely Chief Inspector Langham and his men have far more resources than I do. He struck me as a very diligent officer--"

   "He's a dern fool. Does a lot of useless putting things in place and rushing around, but leaves the hard work to others. Especially when things aren't going well."

  "Well, he's certainly right about that," Sullivan murmured dryly.

   "And they aren't, I can tell you. That girl he's after--I saw her picture. No little slip like her could have killed a man like that."

   "She might have help, Charles," Alice said insistently, and I got the feeling they had been arguing about this for some time now without changing the other's mind one bit. "After all, if she was part of one of those colored gangs with knives...or even machetes--"

   "Lally, dear, come on--"

    Wonderful. My sympathy for Mrs. St. Clair vanished faster than smoke. Of course, Sophie had to be part of some rampaging criminal gang. Behind me, Sid gave an exclamation of disgust.

    "I'm not sure what you'd have me do, Mr. St. Clair, " Father Brown interrupted gently. "If I had any information, I would have given it to the police by now. And I'd really rather cooperate with them."

     Sullivan made a skeptical sound. “Shh!" Sid whispered.

    "Any amount of money or donations you want--I'll give it," St. Clair said. "But no police, no anyone else--you alone."

    "Actually, I was wondering . . ."Father Brown paused. "Where were you and Mrs. St. Clair that night?"

    "Really, Father--" Alice exclaimed.

   St. Clair gave a boyish grin. "Good. The first question I would ask if I were hiring me. I was at a dinner party for most of the night. Yes--several people saw me there. But there was a time I stepped out for some air--not sure when--and didn't see anyone for a good half-hour or so. Tell him where you were, sweetheart."

  "I don't see why I have to," Alice said, a definite frost in her soft voice.

   St Clair leaned forward, something suddenly menacing in his easy movement. "Now, Lally--"

   Instantly, the sadness--and something else--was back in her gaze. "I was ill. Headaches, exhaustion, fever. The servants can tell you I was in bed at home all night."

   St. Clair's good humor returned. "These overseas tours can be quite a haul. Lally normally is as healthy as a horse, but she got sick about a month ago."

  "Thank you," Father Brown replied humbly.

  "So you'll help us?"

    "I would . . . if I didn't have the welfare of my parishioners to be concerned with.. The little investigative work I did was for a more . . . tolerant person, and I kept my name mostly out of it. But I doubt that will be possible here. I don't want to get in wrong with the police--" This brought a snort from Sullivan. "And Inspector Langham is not one for civilian help. He's also known for bearing grudges."

   There was a long silence. "I'm truly sorry," Father Brown said.

    "No--we should apologize," Alice replied, pulling her fur coat up around her shoulders as if feeling a sudden chill and rising from her chair. "I was afraid this would put you in an impossible situation--

   St. Clair interrupted. "But if this girl they're accusing is innocent--"

    Alice lifted a hand."--then the evidence will show that. Surely, Father?"

   "I'm sure the police will do their best," he said.

   She eyed him closely, "But you don't really think—oh."

    She swayed a little, and gripped the table to stay upright. In an instant St. Clair was by her side. Father Brown promptly rang the servants' bell. "I thought this would be too much for you, sweetheart," St. Clair murmured. "Let's get you home. Thank you, Father, for seeing us."

   We waited for several minutes as St. Clair and a footman helped Alice outside to her car. Once the sound of their car engine died away, Lady Felicia entered the room as Sid opened the secret door. He returned to his table, hurriedly marking up the rest of the Club blueprints.

   "Does anyone know what Mrs. St. Clair's illness is?" Father Brown asked Lady Felicia.

   "Well, rumor has it she had the sleeping sickness several years ago. She recovered, but was never quite as healthy as before. Losing her brother and going through all this . . ."

   "No one ever really recovers from that disease. The emotional strain might be causing her symptoms to reoccur," Father Brown finished.

  "I can't imagine her husband makes things easy for her," Sullivan said grimly.

  I nodded. "Yeah, he takes that 'All-American living legend' moniker the papers gave him way too seriously."

  "Why didn't you pretend to work for them?" Sid asked. "Could have been an easy way to see what they are really up to."

   "Because they came to see what Father Brown is up to," Sullivan replied.

  "They could be working with Langham,” I pointed out. “St. Clair kind of overplayed how much he disliked him.”

   Sullivan smiled. “Strange. I thought that was one of the few times St. Clair was telling the truth. And he and his wife could be working with Spalding. That article mentioned they are touring aviation plants--and speaking to defense officials--"

  "And visiting an electroforming plant," I added.

  "Hmpf," Sid said. "Sounds like the great aviator needs some special-made parts for his next sky chariot."

   "Or is looking into some modern form of alchemy," Father Brown murmured.

   "Or he's simply designing some kind of flying weapon. It's easy enough to murder people from above without supernatural help," Sullivan observed dryly.

   "True, Inspector." Father Brown smiled. "However, Spalding always has a backup plan. No use tipping my hand too early. Or making it any easier for Mr. St. Clair or his men to spy on me--which they are most likely doing even now." Sid handed him the finished blueprints. "It's getting late. We need to prepare."

  From a nearby closet, Sid pulled out several heavy-looking valises. After putting two on the table and snapping them open, he pulled out a garment bag that was his height. ”Found everything you asked for, Father. Have to load the rest in the car before I get dressed." He glanced at Sullivan, who was eyeing the blueprints with disapproval. "And, no, you don't want to know how I got these, Constable."

  "Not difficult," Sullivan replied. "I'm sure the Club has been in criminal sights for some time."

  "Though its layout seems quite curious," Father Brown mused. "Stairs that don't lead anywhere; an elevator that only stops in the basement and on the roof; a door on the fifth floor that has no room behind it--"

   "Which is why the place has never been properly robbed," Sid said.

  Sullivan gave him a sardonic look, "Could it be that a Club member is secretly a crime boss, and has put out the word to leave Talleivant's alone?

   "Maybe," Sid replied, unruffled. "But the one idiot who tried a heist wound up dead in the courtyard fountain. His partner got away, but never said what happened."

   "Where's he?" I asked.

   Sid shrugged. "Some say the Foreign Legion. Some say he stowed away on a fishing boat that made a lot of unofficial stops. Some say he joined an expedition to Africa--"

   "In other words, the usual underworld myths and unbelievable stories," Sullivan said caustically.

   “Well, wherever he went, it was somewhere where nobody could find him. Or someone did--and made sure no one ever would find him."

  There was a momentary silence. As Sid began laying the valise items on the table, Father Brown perused his notes on the case thus far, looking disturbed.

  "Something wrong, Father?" I asked.

 "I was wondering why the 'Spectre' murders and the aquarium attacks were so different."

  "I don't understand--"

   "Killing those animals is definitely something Spalding would do--calculated, efficient, destroying something to terrorize . . . and because he enjoys it. But the human murders are more savage, brutal, emotional--as if this entity had a personal link to each victim.

   Sullivan looked skeptical. "The killer had a link, you mean. I didn't find any between the victims, though there might have been something I missed. Or the connection is only in the killer's mind."

    "So, someone could be murdering these people the way they were hurt? " I speculated. "Over and over--like a record stuck in one place."

   Father Brown's eyes lit up. "I think we're all correct. Spalding is the reason for these murders. But someone else is controlling the thing causing them. And that person is manifesting trauma through the murder method."

   "The St. Clairs, you mean?"

    Sid snorted. "No wonder they wanted to drop by."

   "I could see St. Clair tormenting his wife," Sullivan said. "But what possible reason would he have to kill his brother in law? In fact, why would she want her brother dead?"

   Father Brown shook his head impatiently. "Because of what Spalding offered them. Say Spalding gave them the power to control this creature. The murders would enable his plan to destroy London--"

  "But what would they get in return?" I asked. "And are we talking one St. Clair--or both?"

   "That we have to find out," Father Brown replied quietly. "There has to be something in their past that would drive them to such a devilish bargain--"

  There was an abrupt cracking sound at the window, as if someone had thrown a rock at it. Since I was the closest to it, I went over to check. There was no mark on the glass . . .but a tall figure was standing below in a street lamp's shadows. This part of London had electrical lighting, but for some odd reason the lamp was casting a soft glow of gaslight. As the fog roiled, I had to blink. All the cars below looked old, the kind of roadsters and sports cars driven back in the '20s.

   A woman stepped into the light--slender, delicate, with bobbed brown hair. She took hold of the lamppost with one hand and spun around it with a dancer's grace, laughing at the tall figure. She looked to be very young, just this side of eighteen. The figure strode forward, his blond hair suddenly visible.

   I must have made a noise, for Father Brown and the others were by my side in a moment. Spalding looked up at us, an amused smile on his handsome, too-perfect features. The young woman executed a perfect jetee, landing neatly in Spalding's outstretched arms. As her feet touched the sidewalk, he began to twirl her around with practiced ease.

    But as the woman's back came to us, I could see Spalding was holding a long thin knife behind her--the kind I remembered seeing at a farm down South. The kind used to de-bone a small animal--a chicken or a baby lamb. With one smooth gliding motion, he drew it across her throat, then dragged the knife down the front of her body. Blood spilled softly onto the sidewalk, the street, in an endless flow. She fell back in his arms, and he kissed the knife wound passionately. He pulled her into the shadows, a solicitous lover whisking his darling away. The fog roiled over the street, then receded. There was no gaslight, no roadsters. The street had been returned to our time as if nothing had happened.

   Lady Felicia's hand was on her mouth, her eyes outraged and her face pale.

   "Good God," Sullivan murmured, anger evident even beneath his controlled tone.

   "I guess we know what happened to Agent Grey's daughter," I said shakily.

    Father Brown crossed himself, his expression darker than any thus far. "I think it's time Mr. Spalding's abominable waltz ended."

    Sid swore softly. "No argument there. At all."

Chapter Text

As Lady Felicia's limousine stopped just down the street from the Tallevant Club, Father Brown asked, "Is everyone ready?"

There were murmurs of assent. Lady Felicia regarded the blessed silver napkin rings decorating each of our ring fingers with some amusement. "In a strange way, they are rather stylish."

Father Brown raised an eyebrow. "Thank you. Remember--they get warm when something inhuman is nearby."

"It's a shame we couldn't use my old perfume bottles to ward this thing off. I've got far too many."

"A holy water spray wouldn't be concentrated enough. We have to either drench this creature--or apply holy water directly through its ... skin."

Sullivan glanced skeptically at the flat short sword he'd tucked under his waistcoat. "At least this is a weapon that makes some kind of sense."

"Don't worry, Inspector. It's cast iron--very effective against evil. Even if you just throw it at this creature, it should wound it enough to drive it off, at the least."

"What's the most?" I asked.

"A blow to the heart should finish it, but I hardly recommend getting that close."

Sullivan's expression somehow got even more grim. "Noted."

As we exited the car, Father Brown turned as if he'd forgotten something. "Sid--"

"I'm 'well-locked and loaded,' as His Majesty's sailors would say," Sid gave me a wink.

"Hmpf," Sullivan replied. "I can't see you joining the Royal Navy any time soon. Or ever."

"Oi--that's hardly nice," Sid protested. "Wait till I tell Mrs. M."

"If you don't bring her some sugar back, she won't want to hear any tales you tell. She's most disappointed she couldn't come," Father Brown smiled.

"Nah," Sid said. "I think she was relieved. Especially after Lady F. showed her her costume."

With a grin, he drove off to park Lady Felicia's limousine. As he passed two men working on an ancient fire truck across the square, he nodded. One man raised a hand in greeting.

As we drew near the club, intense flashes of light flickered across its three-story front wall, bright enough to be seen through the fog. In the center of a battery of photographers and newsreel cameras, a tall woman stood in front of the club door. Wearing a floor-length white sable coat, she waved and posed for the rapidly-gathering crowd, her pale eyes glittering.

"What in the--" Sullivan exclaimed. The plan was to get in unobtrusively, find Prentiss, then take him anywhere but where Spalding needed him to die. But Miss Eileen Prentiss just upset the game board.

"When are you due back in court, honey?" a reporter shouted.

"Sorry, gentlemen. That's one party I can't attend," she called. "And why talk about that now? Time to celebrate!!"

She flicked open her coat, showing a long, beautiful leg--and enough of her body to prove the rest of her wasn't clothed either. "Birthday suit for the birthday girrrrrlll!"

The crush of reporters moved in even more tightly around her, clicking away, effectively blocking the club doorway as if they'd planned it. Eileen laughed, turning around to bare her shoulders.

We stopped cold as the same thought hit us all at once.

"Her birthday is the same as her dad's?" I muttered. "For cryin' out loud--"

"Spalding could be after her and her father," Sullivan said, his frustration evident. "Or just one. But which?"

Father Brown glanced up at the sky, then at his watch. The edge of the moon was already starting to darken, heading into eclipse. "It will pass through the umbra in two hours, when it turns bright red. We have to get them out before then."

Sid rushed up, breathless and grimacing a bit--apparently his waiter disguise was a little tight. He glanced down the street at the fire truck. "Everything's ready, Father."

I scanned the crowd with dismay. "How are we going to get through this?"

"Leave that to me," Lady Felicia said resolutely. She gave a sharp penetrating whistle that drew some of the reporters' attention. She nodded at Sid, who promptly took the lead and shouldered through the mob, Lady Felicia following in his wake. As the press turned their cameras on her, she strode effortlessly through the path they opened, her gown golden bright in the lights. Taking advantage of her distraction, Father Brown, Sullivan and I made our way along the crowd edge to the club door's side.

Eileen paused, squinting out into the street. A displeased look crossed her face--obviously she didn't like being upstaged. But as she noticed Sid, it vanished. Her gaze leveled on him with hungry anticipation as he and Lady Felicia reached the door.

"Well, Felicia. If you wanted a membership, he's certainly the way to go about it."

"No need," Lady Felicia smiled. "Mind if we go inside?”

An older gentleman in a butler's uniform opened the door, "Miss Prentiss, I really must insist--"

"Of course, Canton. I'm being terribly rude. Eileen made a sweeping motion in front of Sid. "After you, kind sir."

"Miss, I--" Sid looked half-stunned and half-very interested. Eileen threw her arms around him, giving him a long, deep kiss. Flashbulbs exploded, and hoots broke out from the crowd.

Before any of us could move, she pulled Sid off-balance and into the red-hued darkness within. Just before the photographers surged forward, Sullivan shouldered through the door, giving Lady Felicia and the rest of us time to get in. A stunned Canton--apparently figuring it was better to stop the ravenous press horde than chase down Eileen---slammed and bolted the door with the help of two footmen.

Unruffled, Lady Felicia adjusted her fur coat. "They're with me, Canton."

"Very good, Lady Montague," His gaze swept over us, and he didn't even look surprised at seeing a priest in her company. Granted, he probably assumed it was a costume, but I had no doubt he'd seen a lot of real clergy entering here. He pointed to the massive double doors on the foyer's other side--and a smaller door next to them."The ballroom is that way, just beyond the pool room."

The foyer was huge, lit with red candles and a huge chandelier glowing electric red. Several dark man-sized niches were spaced along the walls. Two huge staircases curved upstairs to the second floor. A jazz band was playing, barely audible above the ballroom crowd, this one even more noisier than the reporters outside. As we walked towards the music, something moved in a niche to our left. It was a naked couple, totally oblivious to us, moving in an increasingly-intense embrace. The woman fixed us with a glassy look, smiled at our shocked faces, and pulled her partner deeper into the niche as we hurried past.

I glanced around. "They could be anywhere in here."

"I think we can rule out the ballroom." Father Brown said.

"I doubt that. It seems Miss Prentiss likes an audience--for anything," Sullivan replied sardonically.

"We should split up to find them and Sir Llewellyn,"

"I don't think it's safe.”

"I don't either, but Miss Prentiss has left us no choice. Lady Felicia and I will go after Sir Llewellyn--considering his hobbies, it's a good bet he's in the pool room,. You and Sheila find Miss Prentiss and Sid. Remember, don't respond if anyone asks you what you want. We'll meet back here by two if possible. Don't want to cut things too fine--"

"No," Sullivan said. "We stay together and I take the Prentisses into police custody. And if I know Carter, he won't let Miss Prentiss take him very far. No use for any of us to get lost in this place."

"How are you going to explain that?" I asked, startled. "The Prentisses will most likely file a complaint or something--which means Langham will find out what you've been doing--"

Sullivan's mouth quirked. "Worried about my career, Miss Dennison?"

"Not hardly--"

"I really don't think we have the time," Father Brown interrupted. "But we'll do it your way Inspector."

"Thank you," Sullivan said dryly, pointing to the pool room door. "Big fish first--"

"No," I broke in. "Let's get Eileen. She doesn't respect her dad much, and if we brought him with us, she'd definitely put up a fight. If we have her in tow, Prentiss might come along without trouble."

Sullivan lifted a hand as if to protest, then let it fall. "Fine."

One look in the ballroom proved we had our work cut out for us. It was a swirl of dancing bodies, insane costumes, shrieks of delight . . . or of something else. Confetti fell down from the ceiling, snowing white to red to black in the alternating colored lights. Every so often, a random geyser of champagne shot into the air, drenching everyone within range. In several dark nooks and crannies, a glimpse of a woman's bare breast or a man's naked backside revealed exactly what was going on. I doubted Sid would let himself get drawn into one of those--at least I hoped not.

As we skirted the chaos, I glimpsed a bit of white fur, iridescent in the spot lights. Eileen and Sid were front of the bandstand, locked in each other's arms. He was leading her in a slow, unhurried, wickedly-close tango. And to my surprise, he wasn't half-bad.

I tapped him on the shoulder, deftly sliding between him and Eileen as he spun her away. "Mind if I cut in?"

He looked slightly stunned, but the relief in his eyes was obvious. "Gladly."

I returned Eileen's burning look with a wink and seductively leaned up to Sid's ear. "Let's get outta here," I said, indicating the ballroom door.

We hastily danced away as Sullivan got Eileen's attention and tried to explain the situation. As I figured, she wasn't about to interrupt a most promising night for any minor police problem. She immediately followed us across the floor, occasionally bumping into other dancers. A slim golden-clad leg tripped her, giving Sid and I enough time to exit to the foyer. Lady Felicia helped Eileen up, profoundly apologetic, but she broke away, her expression furious.

Just as she closed in on us, Sullivan caught up with her, his warrant card in hand. "You need to come with me, Miss Prentiss."

"If my father sent you, I'm dammed if I go anywhere!" she shouted.

He turned her around to face him, his expression tense. "He didn't. But you're not safe here. And neither is he."

She focused on him as if she was finally listening to what he was saying. A slow smile spread across her face. "Someone else wants him dead? Why didn't you say so? Why, we better warn him, hadn't we? Or . . . maybe not."

She took off like a shot, bypassing the pool room and heading straight for the Club front door. Father Brown made as if to follow her, but Sullivan shook his head. "I'll keep her outside. Get Prentiss!"

As Lady Felicia joined us, Father Brown opened the pool room door. I don't know who was more surprised: the men concentrating on their games . . . or us that they were actually engaged in billiards. One player looked up, and I recognized Sir Llewellyn's flat stare.

"What the--" A broad-shouldered man tried to get in our way, but Sid put up his fists, bouncing lightly on the balls of his feet as he distracted him. Father Brown slipped around him, followed by me and Lady Felicia. Sid feinted, and the man shied back.

"The devil is this, Lady Montague?" Sir Llewellyn asked.

"Can't explain now," she replied tersely. "You and Eileen are in danger. She's outside--and you need to be, too."

Sir Llewellyn's lips tightened. "If this is some nonsense she's playing at--"

"Please, Sir Llewellyn," Father Brown's tone was quiet, but authoritative. "You must come with us."

The lights flickered and the room shook, sending the pool balls on the tables skittering. The other men glanced around with startled murmurs.

"I'm not going anywhere. Where's Canton? I--"

He broke off as Sid pulled a small seltzer bottle he'd somehow concealed under his waiter's jacket, How it had stayed put during his tango with Eileen was a mystery to me. Unceremoniously, he drenched Sir Llewellyn with holy water.

As Sir Llewellyn staggered back coughing, Sid grabbed his collar and tuxedo back. "Pardon, Your Mightiness," He promptly hustled him out the room into the foyer, the rest of us right behind him.

Suddenly, my breath caught in my throat. A harsh wind from nowhere extinguished the chandelier and candles. Outside, just beyond the front door, Sullivan held Eileen back as she fought him. She broke away, running back inside just before the front door slammed shut--marble on marble like a tomb being sealed. The sidelight windows on each side of the door cracked, then broke into pieces. The wind howled triumphantly, overwhelming the panicked noises of the people it was flinging about like a pack of cards. The band inside the ballroom broke off with a discordant screech, followed by terrible screams.

The wind shoved me up against a column, and I crawled into the space between it and the wall, sheltering from the wind. The ring on my hand was warm, very near-hot. A woman spun past me, her hand snagging my sleeve. She pulled herself close trying to hang on, her gaze wide with terror. Suddenly, her head tilted at insane angle. The awareness faded from her eyes as she collapsed on the floor, her neck broken. A massive dark spiral engulfed the foyer center, bruising my side as its force pulled me between the column and the wall. The chandelier rocked wildly, its bulbs exploding; its large shimmering prisms, chains, and metal arms splintering apart. With a cracking sound, it ripped away from the ceiling, bringing the skylight with it as it shattered to the floor.

Suddenly, everything went silent. The moon shone down through the ceiling, casting a blood-red light onto the empty foyer center. I eased myself from my hiding place, rubbing my hands and arms vigorously. But all I could feel was cold. Through the dimness, I saw the faint outlines of bodies scattered around, the silence broken by incoherent groans of pain and racked sobbing. But it was impossible to make out Father Brown or the others through the dust and gloom.

I was about to call out, but the ring suddenly flared hot on my finger. Still with fear, I kept my back against the wall as I scanned the entire foyer. That thing was here, posing as one of the injured or dead. Which could only mean its sacrificial work wasn't hardly finished.

Since there was no use trying the front door, I needed somewhere to hide. Several feet away, a door hung off its hinges, revealing a broken bust and overturned chair just inside what looked a drawing room. It was pitch-black in there, and I couldn't be sure where that thing was. But my chances were much better out of sight.

I slid along the wall and across the drawing room threshold. My hand touched some kind of cabinet, and I went still, giving my eyes time to adjust. A hinge creaked, and a piece of glass fell. One of French doors at the end of the room had been smashed inward, glass and broken frames everywhere. Before I could move, something slipped over my mouth, pulling me deep into the darkness.

"Shh!" a voice whispered. But my ring was still burning. Reaching into my pocket, I grabbed one of my fountain pens, and stabbed its holy-water-filled nib into what was holding me.

"Dammit!" Sullivan winced with pain, but held me close. He was human--and wonderfully warm--and I went still.

"Are you all right?" he asked. I touched his face in response.

"Sorry," I murmured, leaning against him with relief. Sullivan's body gently tightened around mine. His head turned; his lips met my palm, lingering there. Suddenly, I didn't want to move. Nowhere was safe, but if Sullivan and I could stay together, protected by each other, here and now . . .

A furious voice echoed from the foyer. "She's here, blast you! I saw her come in--"

"Father?" Eileen's faint voice sounded from somewhere near the foyer door.

Sullivan and I came out to see Sir Llewellyn sitting on debris, grimacing as he tried to stand up on one leg. Sid had one hand on his shoulder holding him down, and Father Brown stood beside them. A gold lighter flicked on, illuminating Lady Felicia as she peered into the red gloom. Eileen stood, her back to me and Sullivan as she faced her father.

"Eileen--" Sir Llewellyn called.

"Stay put, old man," she snapped. "I'm fine."

"Are you hurt?"

She gave a laugh that ended in a racking gasp. "Don't start caring now."

Barely supported by a wobbling table, Eileen shook her head, then winced with pain. Her sable coat was matted with blood down the side, the red moonlight causing the glass shards in her coat to glitter.

"Eileen, be sensible for once. You've been injured. At the least, you need to sit down."

"That's what you want, is it?"

"Don't answer her!" Father Brown interrupted. He brushed his hand with the ring against his cassock as if it was burning him, but his face betrayed no sign of pain. Apparently, he knew the entity was here--and didn't think this Eileen was the real one.

"Why not?" Sir Llewellyn almost snarled.

She threw a angry look at him. "Everything is always about you, isn't it? You couldn't give me what I want even if you cared to learn how."

"Which is what?" her father replied.

Father Brown moved between them, holding his hand up. "Stop! Don't say anything, either of you."

Eileen ignored him. Her gaze fixed on her father, she put her head to the side, as if considering. "Can you bring my mother back? Or give me my share of her estate?" She raised her voice. "Llewellyn here swears a woman can't be trusted with money, and I'm not responsible enough. But he's held it back so long, I've never learned how. Of course, I should be married by now, shouldn't I?

There was fleeting guilt in Sir Llewellyn's gaze. "Don't destroy yourself to hurt me, Eileen," he said in a low voice.

Just as Father Brown was about to speak he froze, looking beyond the sealed door.  Something stirred in the shadows there. Its skin was ice-pale, its eyes dead smudges. As we watched in horror, it shaped itself into a woman, its arms outstretched.

"Hester?" Sir Llewellyn called frantically. It had the same pale eyes as Eileen, but was taller, a strikingly beautiful woman with long brown hair and a wistful look on its face. Sir Llewellyn tried to rise, but Sid held him down. I promptly put an arm around Eileen, pulling her back.

"That's not your wife, Sir Llewellyn," Father Brown exclaimed

"Or your mother," I said to Eileen.

She curled her lip. “I can see that.”

"Sorry. I wasn't sure you were sober enough," I muttered.

Sullivan sidled along the wall towards the foyer door, his sword in hand. Through the shattered sidelight windows, I saw the antique fire truck parked in front of the Club. I understood immediately that he was trying to lure "Hester" in front of the windows ... and into the truck's line of holy-water-fire.

"Harry Spalding wants you both dead--and that thing is here to collect." Sid said.

"Spalding?" A look of abject terror crossed Sir Llewellyn's face.

Lady Felicia leaned down beside him. "It's true, Llewellyn. I know it sounds insane, but--"

Gun in hand, Sullivan fired a shot--the agreed-upon signal for the fire truck. But with one quick motion, “Hester” immobilized him, knocking him flat on his back, which made him drop the sword and gun. Delicately, it lifted him an inch above the shattered chandelier, turning him over to face its sparkling shards.

"Hester" turned to Father Brown. "I'll take either Prentiss. I'm not choosy. But I'll grind the Constable apart if I don't get what I want."

Sullivan's gaze met mine. His eyes were tense with strain, as if he were trying to break free.

"Whoa," I said, keeping my voice level with an effort. "Spalding is not going like that. You're supposed to be doing a Prentiss two-fer here. Failing your end of the deal, aren't you?"

"Whomever you really are, that is." Father Brown interjected.

Its smile was a pitiless straight line. "Well, Father Brown, you get to make my choice for me. Should I take the Prentiss too weak and useless to make her life worth something? Or the one who thinks his brilliance makes up for the lives he’s ruined?

It nodded slightly, letting Sullivan fall just on top of the glass and metal. He grimaced with pain, but made no sound. "Choose quickly. Constable Sullivan is almost out of time."

"The devil never accepts half-measures," Father Brown said. "And what you are doing will never make up for the way you've suffered. That plane crash. The tragedy with your daughter. Your recurring illness--"

Plane crash? Daughter? What?  I thought, stunned. So this thing really is Alice St. Clair?

Eileen twitched in my grasp. Before I could react, she slammed her head backwards, hitting my face as she pulled free.

She fixed "Hester" with a terrible grin. "Weak? Useless? I really beg to differ." Grabbing Sullivan's sword from the floor, she moved across the foyer with surprising speed.

"Eileen, no!" her father called out, trying to rise, but collapsing on his hurt leg.

With one motion, Eileen ran "Hester" through. It screamed, blackness roiling over it and Eileen. I darted across the floor, doing a stealing-home-base slide as I neared the chandelier. I gave it a savage kick. It split apart, its glass and metal ends skittering across the floor. Sullivan landed on top of me in a heap.

A spark deep within the dark ignited, and suddenly "Hester" and Eileen were engulfed in flames. The smoke rapidly became dense, choking and acrid. Sullivan pulled me up, and we headed for where we last saw Father Brown and the others. The fire spread along the walls to the ballrooms and up the banisters, as if the foyer were coated in gasoline.

Lady Felicia emerged from the smoke, coughing. Behind her, Sid and Father Brown were dragging a raging Sir Llewellyn. A bedraggled couple was banging desperately on the foyer door. Sullivan quickly marshaled them, and together, we gave one mighty pull, finally crashing the door open. As we staggered out, one of the fire truck repairmen flipped on the hose, sending a blast of water into the foyer. I was limping, my lip was bleeding, and my jaw still ached from Eileen’s little maneuver. By the time I reached the street, the fire had spread throughout the first floor. People were streaming out of the servants entrance at the building's side. From the second and third floor windows, several people risked jumping into the thick hedges surrounding the club. Most missed.

Sullivan put his arm around my waist, helping me to the other side of the street where the others were waiting. I was aware Sir Llewellyn had collapsed on the curb, and Sid was parking the Rolls. But I never took my gaze off the building, which was burning fast. There was no way that fire should have had enough wood, carpet, or any kind of kindling to spread that quickly. And as other fire trucks arrived, and firemen began fighting the blaze, it was plain the only water putting any fire out was the holy water from the antique truck. The other flames could be seen dancing greedily through the windows of the other floors, consuming the rest of the building, sending up smoke that made the fog even thicker--though not enough to obscure the now-pale moon.

Chapter Text

By the time Father Brown returned from surreptitiously blessing the street hydrants' water, Sir Llewellyn had recovered somewhat. As the Tallievant Club fire dwindled down to embers of ruins, Sid drove us away. We were exhausted and grime-streaked, often coughing to clear smoke from our throats. Sir Llewellyn wiped his face with a handkerchief and fixed Father Brown with a baleful glare.

Unperturbed, Father Brown addressed him gently. "I'm so sorry for your loss."

"Thank you," Sir Llewellyn said, his expression unchanged.

"Forgive me for asking this, but what were your dealings with Harry Spalding?"

Sir Llewellyn went still, grasping at shards of his former arrogance. "Classified--so they are nothing I will speak of. Even if any of you had any authority." He threw me a particular look of dislike. "Which I doubt."

Sullivan showed his warrant card. "Spalding is responsible for your daughter's death--and almost got you killed. Not someone who gives up easily."

Sir Llewellyn gave a harsh bark of laughter. "Most certainly not. But revealing anything to a jumped-up patrolman is hardly going to help me."

"If you have something to confess--" Father Brown began.

"It won't be to you."

Sid glanced in the rear-view mirror. "So, where shall we drop you, m'lord?? A morgue? A graveyard? Or would ya prefer the nearest meat-grinding factory to save Spalding some time?"

I looked outside. "Right here looks fine to me." We were by the docks. Hulking rows of locked-down warehouses and factories loomed in the shrouded distance. There was barely a light to be seen amid the cobblestoned streets. It was so desolate, I wouldn't set foot here unless the Great War's Harlem Hellfighters Infantry Regiment and the Buffalo Soldiers were backing me up.

Sid pulled to a stop.

"No!" Sir Llewellyn turned to Lady Felicia. "Felicia, surely you understand--"

A uncharacteristic look of coldness crossed her face. "I understand you're letting Eileen die for nothing, Llewellyn--and that's hardly fair to her. Are your secrets really worth it?"

“They're the only thing between us and the Nazis. Their weapons-building ability is already second to none. Hitler has some of Germany's most brilliant minds developing armaments like we’ve never seen. Either we get ahead of him, and get the upper hand, or—“

“So, this is about something you and Mr. St. Clair devised," Father Brown surmised.

Prentiss hesitated.

“And Spalding has a hand in it,” I said. The look on his face revealed I'd hit a home run.

His voice shook. "You can't protect me--any of you."

"We can try," Father Brown replied. "If you tell the truth, you'll save many lives--and your soul will perhaps be at peace."

Prentiss' mouth twisted. "'Perhaps.' Not a lot of forgiveness there."

"I know a few of your sins--not all. Your ultimate fate is not my judgement to make. But stopping Spalding will prevent a terrible disaster, and that will count for something."

"Not much consolation there, either."

"If you are looking for guarantees, you're out of luck," I said harshly.

Outside, two lone figures were striding towards us, their faces a mix of delight--and violent anticipation.

"Yup," Sid chimed in. "Best take your chances here--"

"No!" Prentiss was silent for a while. "I'll tell you what I know--if you drop me at my safe house. It's at Perryn Abbey in Acton, a few miles from here.

"Wait," Sullivan said. "We need to arrest, er . . . contain Alice St. Clair. If she's our killer, she's probably injured from Eileen's attack. She'll be vulnerable. And it will be one less threat against Sir Llewellyn."

Sid hit the accelerator, almost knocking over the menacing figures as we headed into the fog.

But it was plain we were out of luck when we pulled up to the St. Clair's townhouse. The place was pitch-dark--even the front door lights weren't on.

"Think they've done a bolt?" Sid asked uneasily.

The building's forbidding facade even gave Sullivan pause. "I don't fancy walking into a trap if they haven't."

A young maid staggered from the front door. "Police! Help! Someone!"

Sullivan and I were by her side in moments, catching her as she fell. "What happened? Where are the St. Clairs?"

She stared at us as if she'd never seen humans before. "The master hasn't come home. And the mistress...gone."

"Where?" Sullivan insisted.

In an awful parody of a devoted servant, the maid bobbed her head, a nightmarish smile on her face "No forwarding address where she's headed, sir." Her smile faded; her head dropped to the side. As Sullivan felt for a pulse, I glanced inside the townhouse.

The place was a shambles, anything breakable was shattered, and there was a huge smear of blood on the foyer floor.

"She's dead," Sullivan murmured. A police siren sounded very close by.

"And unless we want to answer some awkward questions, we need to leave," I replied, as he lowered the maid's body gently to the ground.

We were barely in the limousine before Sid sped off. "What now?" I asked.

Father Brown pressed his lips firmly together. "It's vital we secure Sir Llewellyn. But we need to know everything about this weapon."

A scratch on Sullivan's chin began to bleed. He felt for his handkerchief, but it was a grimy mess. I took a spare one from my pocket, gently cleaning the wound before he could stop me.

He touched my hand for a moment. His face had other minor scratches, his tuxedo showed several rips, and it was plain his shoulder was hurting. But when he glanced back at the St. Clairs', a familiar grim expression clouded his face, and he pulled away.

"This is not your fault." I whispered.

He wouldn't meet my eyes. "If I hadn't insisted on staying together, none of this would have happened--"

"We all made mistakes. We did the best we could."

Prentiss regarded us with distaste. "You could have at least kept my daughter outside." His accusing gaze fixed on me. "And you shouldn't have let her fool you."

I felt a surge of anger. "Talk about nerve. You shouldn't have gone to Tallievant’s in the first place.”

“I had business to conduct. Besides, the Revel is an unbreakable tradition, no matter what.”

"Well, if you survive Spalding, hope ya find another club," Sid said cheerfully.

Lady Felicia hid a smile. Father Brown raised his hand. His gaze signaled us to stop--and for Prentiss to start talking.

"Once MI6 extracted intelligence from Berlin two months ago, Downing Street and Whitehall panicked. The Nazis were ahead of us, and two missions to steal their plans had failed--badly. And what MI6 got this time looked like a bluff or a forgery. The Germans theorized that 'space reflectors' could turn the sun's rays into a weapon--an idea they abandoned as impractical. But the basic principle--plus Einstein's theory of stimulated emissions--gave them another idea. They developed a rudimentary wave spectroscopy--a tool to discover molecular properties. With it they found that optical light had wavelengths that could activate atoms using mirrors--and amplify the atom-proton mix into something truly destructive. My firm hired one of the top light experts in the field to cobble together a functioning weapon.

Prentiss leaned forward. "His name is Carter Linvale. We didn't know until later that he was funded by a Spalding foundation. Or that he was a covert member of the Thule Society."

"The what?" Sid said.

"A secret German occult organization started after the Great War," Father Brown replied. "It pretended to research German antiquities. But some of its members helped form the Nazi Party and its philosophy. And the others studied what they called a "deeper reality"--a realm where they could harness supernatural relics with the right materials or tools."

Prentiss nodded. "Contrary to rumors, Hitler isn't interested in black magic or the occult. He cut off the Society from the Nazi Party, and it dissolved early in the 1920s."

"But it actually didn't," Sullivan interjected.

"Pretending they don't exist is an excellent way to hide," Father Brown said. "As well, rumor and conjecture can build a fearsome reputation. It also makes sense Spalding is allied with them in some way."

"St. Clair was supposed to make this into an aerial weapon?" Sullivan asked.

Prentiss nodded reluctantly. "It needed a special aircraft. We worked cross-Atlantic with St Clair until a few months ago. He's in town to test it."

"When did you finish the weapon? And how powerful is it?"

"It's not done yet. It works under controlled clear-air conditions," Prentiss replied. "But it can't cut through any dust, fog, or atmospheric disturbance. Once we solve that problem--and see how its craft flies--"

"Where were you going to test this thing?" I interjected.

“Some isolated forest far from anywhere. What does it matter?”

“Because Spalding apparently has other plans,” Sullivan replied, his face tense.

“It’s a good bet he has a Thule Society relic that will solve your air-interference problem. When did you suspect something was wrong?” Father Brown asked.

“From too many lab accidents. Technicians injured for life …or dead. The costs became astronomical, even with government funding. We were under an insane deadline, and everyone was feeling the pressure.” Prentiss looked at us earnestly. “You don’t understand. With this, we can deter the Nazis from attacking Britain--and destroy their armament factories. Cutting corners was the only way to get this done. When Spalding's foundation offered to make up the rest of the expenses, I had no choice."

“Where is this weapon now?” Father Brown inquired.

"It was at airfield outside of Marylebone. But it--and Linvale--vanished two days ago. His lab was cleared out, everything. But I did find a piece of his schematics."

We drove onto the Abbey grounds. The main building was dark, but a window or two were lit in what looked like monks' quarters. A sweet piping sound drifted through the air. It sounded like a slightly-damaged flute, and the player occasionally hit a wrong note--or three.

Prentiss did his best approximation of a smile. “Brother Berwin practicing for Matins service. It’s a hard piece--the fingering is apparently very tricky.”

He directed us to the front of a little guest house a short distance away. It wasn't until he unlocked its door and clicked on an electric lantern that we saw the house was actually one dimly-lit room . . . totally lined with mirrors.

Prentiss closed the door. "These are all church-sourced mirrors--or they've been backed with silver."

Father Brown frowned. "This is a psychomanteum?"

"Correct."

"A room with a mirror used to contact the dead," Father Brown explained to us.

"This works in the reverse--it shuts out anything supernatural trying to get in. Amplified with a little electricity, of course." He indicated a compact generator the size of a hatbox humming away quietly in the room's center."

"So, you're covered the science and supernatural aspects?" Father Brown said.

Prentiss gave his version of a smile. "I always cover all possibilities, Father."

Lady Felicia looked puzzled. "But you just let us walk in."

"If any of you were . . . not what you seem, the holy ground alone would have burned you alive. The minute pieces of mirror built into the outside walls would do the same. And if you were powerful enough to push your way in, these mirrors would have instantly dissipated you."

There was a brief silence. "Good to know," I said.

Prentiss unfurled blueprints on a desk. They were written in German, but had English translations marked above each word. He pointed to a large rectangle, which contained what looked like a piece of plumber's pipe. Inside was a crystalline rod with a glass tube spiraled around it. The tube contained what looked like same-size particles.

"When the pipe--a flash tube--lights up, it amplifies the energy inside the rod. The atoms produce photons, which multiply thanks to the mirrors on each end of the rod. When they become too numerous, they pass through one of the mirrors, creating a beam than will burn anything."

He indicated a block that contained the entire set up. "This is Linvale's addition--a hollowed-out limestone casing. It's heavy, so it took special recalibration to keep the plane nose level during flight. Which is where St. Clair came in."

"A curious choice of material,” Father Brown mused.

“And this is what I found in Linvale’s lab,” Prentiss put a torn schematic scrap on the blueprint. But its rod was made of dense chiseled material--and the particles inside were uneven in size.

Sullivan leaned closer. “Are those different for a reason?"

“I can’t explain it.” Prentiss frowned. “Atoms and protons move faster, but they don’t change size. Linvale theorized there would be some expansion, but that doesn’t make sense. Not given the proposed power wattage.”

“Unless he had another power source in mind,” Father Brown said, his face darkening.

"Meaning what?"

“Linvale was a Thule member. Perhaps one of the relics they found can increase particle light and heat. There are certain crystals that could do the trick—“

The sound of the flute grew louder, interrupting him. It sounded like Brother Berwin was just outside. Suddenly, the mirrors' faces shivered, rippling across the walls like a suddenly-disturbed pool.

In the dim light, Prentiss’s face was ghastly. He shoved the blueprints into Father Brown’s hands, then motioned towards the door. “Go. Now."

As we reached shelter in a thicket of trees, the music became deafening. Prentiss turned up the volume on his generator. He moved with great effort, as if underwater, his face twisted. A high piercing sound reverberated through the night, but couldn't drown out the gleeful mad piping. Intensified by the mirrors, the electric lamp light turned blindingly white.

Father Brown started towards it, his eyes mesmerized by the light--and whatever else he was seeing. "I can help him. I--"

"No!" Lady Felicia exclaimed. It took her, Sid, and me to hold him back, for he was surprisingly strong.

The guest house door slammed. The house was so bright, its walls were translucent, turning it into an unholy shadow box. Prentiss was frozen in its center. His shadow elongated, his wrenching screams echoing even over the music. Bones and skin crackled as his body folded upon itself. painting the walls with blood. The light imploded. Its shock waves were so strong they knocked us flat, crumpling the tree foliage into twisted ash.

Suddenly all was silent, dark. As I unsteadily stood up, several monks hurried over from the abbey. Father Brown rose, his face hard. Crucifix in hand, he was ahead of us before we could stop him.

As he flung the guest house door open, the lantern was still glowing on the desk. Nothing was disturbed; it was as if Prentiss just stepped out. But the mirrors were black, opaque--reflecting nothing, not even light. There was a faint sound, like someone keening, but it trailed off into a last whispered scream.

Sullivan tried to enter, but Father Brown stopped him with an urgent "No!" Crossing himself hastily, he let the monks in. They went still, too stunned to speak--or even pray.

"Where'd Prentiss go?" Sid asked.

Father Brown headed towards the car. "We have to leave." He indicated the monks. "What they need to do, we can't witness."

"But Prentiss--" I whispered.

"Gone into whatever netherworld Spalding sent him." Father Brown crossed himself again.

Sid slid into the driver's seat, his hands shaking as he turned the ignition. Lady Felicia was silent, as still as a bird who had just collided with a window. Sullivan leaned back, his face remote, refusing to meet anyone's gaze.

"Wait--what about the weapon," I exclaimed as we drove away.

Father Brown pressed his lips together. "I've made a mistake. The eclipse in the sketch--I thought it was showing the moon's halfway point. But it was showing a second eclipse." A look of pained concentration crossed his face." We need to find out when that is. As for the weapon--we must find it. But until we know what relic Spalding is powering it with, we shouldn't go near it. "

"What?"

"Now see here, Father--"

"And let Spalding take it?" Sullivan grated. "That's the only leverage we have."

"Enough," he said, and we went still, stunned by his anger. "We don't know what he's arming it with--and it's a good bet it's something we'll need protection for."

"As well--" he looked us over, his voice softening somewhat, "we all need to rest and regroup," Outside, the dark was lightening into a murky dawn.

"If my guess is correct, we have another day or so before the second eclipse. And Spalding has suffered a set-back--he didn't deliver Prentiss at the proper time. Without another last sacrifice, this weapon won't have the power he needs. He'll need time to marshal his energies. He may have failed with Prentiss, but he can not afford to fail tomorrow night.

Lady Felicia's townhouse came into view, Bennett was on the front steps, his face impassive, but a closer look showed he was anything but calm underneath. "Telephone, Miss Dennison. A . . .Mr. Spalding."

There was a dead silence. "Thank you, Bennett," I said. As I walked to the phone. I took a deep breath. I picked up the receiver, not saying a word.

A resonant, very amused voice came over the line. Though it was soft, it penetrated the foyer so all could hear. "We're long overdue for a discussion, aren't we?"

The reciever felt clammy in my hand. "I don't make deals with creeps. I'm funny that way."

Father Brown motioned me to move the receiver closer to his ear, and began listening intently.

Spalding gave a low chuckle. "So ungrateful. My . . . distractions are the only things keeping the Chief Inspector from arresting all of you.  However, your aunt would applaud your caution."

My breath caught in my throat, but I didn't respond. Goading information out of me had to be the only reason he was calling, and rising to any bait would give him the advantage.

"Of course, I can't imagine what Sophie thinks of all this--"

"She wouldn't want me selling out to save her. My aunt wouldn't either, so there's that. Shouldn't you be looking for your ally? Or your missing toy?"

His laugh was bone-cold. "Alice can take care of herself. As you will all soon find out. And Sophie is a delightfully. . . enticing girl, so I won't hesitate to keep her alive just as she is. Never dying. Aware every second of her life that she has no control over it. Always liked my women obedient, you know. As for Firefall--even if you locate it, you can't destroy it. Or me. You'll find that out too . . ."

I slammed the receiver down, cracking it in two. My heart was racing, and it was all I could do to hold myself together, to not break down. I couldn't look at the others--or bear any sympathy. We'd bought some time, but it was time my sister didn't have. Dimly, I heard Lady Felicia call my name. But I was already running down the hall to my bedroom, driven by a desperate need to shut everything out, to be alone, to face a defeat I couldn't stop . . .

Chapter Text

    I slipped out of my clothes and staggered into the shower. Using half a bottle of bubble bath, I scrubbed ferociously, leaving a good foot of suds on the shower floor. Drying off quickly and wrapping a towel around my head, I was suddenly too tired to do anything. I pulled on a well-worn pajama top and underwear, taking refuge under the bed covers. The room was warm, thanks to a fire already burning in the fireplace.

    There was a light knock on the door. “Sheila? I don’t mean to disturb you, but are you all right?” Lady Felicia asked gently.

    “‘’m okay. Just need some rest.” My voice was raspy, as if I were calling from deep under a gravel pit.

    “Would you like something to eat?”

    Yep, I thought. Macaroni and cheese with ham at my aunt’s place on a bright Sunday afternoon. A summer ago, a lifetime ago. Before Sophie chose Oxford, before I saw her raving in my dreams—or before I ever heard of Harry Spalding.

    “I insist you have something. And I won’t let you alone until you do—“

    "Iced tea. With lots of sugar. Later. That’s fine,” I managed. As she left, I remembered that iced tea was unpardonable sacrilege to the English. Yet another mistake I’d made acting on impulse. Being reckless. Trying to outrun my mother’s impossible standards. And making home such a battleground, Sophie ran as far away as she could--straight into a hellish nightmare . . .

    My mind raced with past failures. The depression I'd barely stayed ahead of finally crashed on me. I stared at the ceiling, forcing myself to face the truth. I'd known since I was a kid I was sheltered because of my family's money--had lived with the guilt ever since. But I'd also been lucky enough to avoid consequences. I had been unjustly expelled from Howard University—my father’s alma mater--which brought me to the attention of a prominent Negro senator who got me the courier job. A fresh start. A chance to make my way outside the bourgeois society I was never ladylike, placating, or political enough for. But good fortune wasn’t going to get me and Sophie through this—I wasn’t sure even Father Brown’s brainpower could. As for faith ... I'd taken it for granted if I did the right thing, things would turn out fine. When I found out that meant breaking some rules, it was the rules that were usually wrong. Now there were no rules, no guarantees that even the right move could win here . . .

    Some time later, another knock woke me. “Miss Dennison?” Bennett asked. “Your … tea.”

    I almost smiled at the faint reproach in his voice. “Thank you. Please leave it by the door.”

    “Apologies, Miss Dennison,” Sullivan broke in, his tone officious as usual. “I have some questions for you.”

    I could fall apart, but the case still moved on. My hair was dry, so I tossed the towel on a chair. I was faced away from the door, lying on my stomach, covers up to my neck. I should have sat up, tried to look presentable, but I couldn't bring myself to move, much less care.

    “Fine,” I replied indifferently.

   A tray clinked down on the nightstand. It contained a frosty glass of iced tea, rich and dark, with slices of lemon and lime. "Thank you," I whispered.

   As the door closed, thirst pushed me to take a sip. The tea was way sweet and strong, but was nectar as far as I was concerned. Next to it was a plate of scones loaded with butter.

   Revived a little, I turned over. Sullivan’s gaze met mine. He wiped the glass condensation from his hand, dropping the napkin on the tray. His hair was damp, combed back—and he wore a soft linen shirt with canvas pants, probably borrowed from Lord Montague. He surveyed me impassively.

   “Again, I'm sorry. I’ll leave if you want me to—“

    “So long as you spare me the sympathetic soft soap, you can stay. I don't deserve it." I leaned back on the headboard and indicated a chaise next to the bed. He sat down as I polished off a scone. For a second, he looked so ill-at-ease that I felt a pang of remorse.

    With a weak smile, I said, “You’ve been a chauffeur, now you're a butler. You planning on quitting the force? Or did you just want to rattle Bennett’s ‘sensibilities’?”

   Sullivan’s mouth twitched. “I suspect it’s impossible to shock him. How do you feel?"

    "Like half of Times and Leiceister Squares ran over me. What did you want to know?”

    “Well, I …why iced tea?”

    My sardonic gaze lasted for several seconds. “Wow. Even for a weak excuse to see me, that one is shot full of holes and staggering past its grave.”

   “Well, I knew that a heroic “let’s go get Spalding” cheering-on-the-troops speech wouldn’t work.”

   “You’d be right about that,” To stave off my gloom, I raised my glass. "Wow. Lady Felicia's cook is pulling out all the stops."

   “Actually... I made the tea."

   “You’re kidding. Very nice. It's right good. I wouldn’t think you’d ‘get’ iced tea. I thought the English see it as sacrilege to the Right Honorable East India Tea Company’s memory—“

   "I can see where it would have its advantages,” he replied, with a hint of amusement. “And you haven’t answered my question.”

   I didn't say anything.

  “Happier times, I suppose,”

    “Yes,” For some reason I just had to fill the silence. “My grandmother tossed a guy in the Mississippi River for messing up her wedding punch. She’d turned his proposal down. The night before the big day, he poured sugar into the tea barrels when it was still warm—then sealed the barrels. It fermented, and got some people sick. My gran went after him in her wedding dress and pushed him off a dock. He’s lucky he got picked up by a steamboat. And she was lucky the sheriff and the man’s father thought the guy got what was coming to him.”

   Sullivan blinked. "That's . . .interesting."

   "My family takes iced tea very seriously. Just one of those weird family deals--"

   "I must confess, I used a recipe book," he said, sounding a bit guilty. "Lady Felicia's cook refused to help."

   I shook my head. "Wow. You’re just Public Enemy Number One these days. Breaking the law right and left."

   He dropped his gaze. "A little too much. I should have gone after Alice as soon as we escaped the fire. Protocol--"

   "Nobody should play lone hero on this case. Alice is tricky enough, but Spalding . . . We each need someone to tell us what's real and what isn't—“

  "What's real ... yes." He stiffened his shoulders. "But there's no room for error here--and we're short on time. With people's lives at stake--"

   "I'd rather risk mistakes than do nothing. It's all any of us can do." And as I said it, I realized it was true. I had to run on my instincts. And my flaws. Being someone I wasn’t would help no one—even if what I was had put Sophie in this mess.

   He rose. "I should go--"

    "Only if you promise to get blind drunk, forget feeling guilty--then sleep it off." I gave his hand a quick shake. "I get the feeling Sid could help there a lot."

   "Sid’s asleep. I'm on duty—somewhat.” He grimaced. “And one mistake I learned not to make was to go past my limits.”

    The firelight flickered across his face, revealing a faint vulnerable look in his eyes. I couldn’t help but wonder exactly what his limits were.

    Still holding his hand, I touched his collar. "Well, you better find your tie if you are on duty."

    Sullivan glanced in the mirror. "Oh. I guess I should--"

    "Not a problem," I held his gaze steadily. He frowned slightly in confusion--then went still, looking into my eyes. I pulled him to me, my lips taking his, drawing in his scent, his skin warm and yielding.

    "Wait--" he said, coming up for air. "Are you…? You shouldn't--"

    “Shouldn’t what? I murmured. "You kiss pretty good, Inspector. But I'm not about to faint because of that. Or much else, by now.”

    Looking concerned—and a little embarrassed—Sullivan put a hand on my chest. "I won't take advantage of you like this--"

    I sighed in exasperation. "You're right. Because I have to be what, hysterical? That doesn't make either of us sound good." I gave him a challenging smile. "Come to think of it, you’re right. I’d have to be crazy to expect you to break any more rules—“

    He went still, but didn’t let me go. His body tensed. I tipped my head to one side, smiling a little more, never breaking his gaze. Suddenly, he covered my mouth with his own, our breaths mingling, his lips moving over mine. My hands tangled in his hair. His kiss were deliberate, concentrated, as if he was registering every move, every taste. I responded hungrily, undoing his shirt front as his hands slipped down my shoulders and he put one knee on the bed. He gave a shudder as his lips trailed down my throat, increasing the heat between us. Suddenly I stopped.

    “Sullivan—“

    He murmured something, his breath warm.

    “Wait. You’re right, we shouldn’t.”

   He drew back, looking confused. “I … don’t…”

   “This isn’t fair to you. This crazy case, your … freelancing, the strain…”

    His mouth quirked. “So, you think I’m losing the plot.”

    “Yes … no… I mean…”

    “Or that I might get hurt? Or I don’t know what I want?”

    I couldn’t say anything.

    He raised an eyebrow, a slight uncertainty in his tone. “Unless you think I’m not very good at . . . this."

    A blush warmed my cheeks. “I wouldn’t say that.”

    “I’m extremely glad to hear it.”  He tilted my head up, drawing close again. “Past time I identified myself properly—Thomas William Edgar Sullivan. Though I prefer Will. It’s certainly better than Edgar. Anything is.”

    “No argument there,” I muttered. Suddenly, what he said, what he was trusting me with, registered. “Whoa. What—?"

    Unable to move, I gazed into his eyes. He nodded slightly, then took my mouth with his. It was slow, deep; as if we didn’t need to think or breathe. My hands moved under his shirt, across his shoulders, and he let himself fall on the bed, his arms drawing tight around me . . .

    Somewhere, far off in the distance, a hammering noise sounded. Sid crashed into the room. “Quick! Father Brown’s found something! Alice’s child! You have to— Oi!”

    He stood there, a sheepish look on his face. “Sorry. I did knock. The door was open a bit, though.”

    There was an awful silence. “Er…thanks, Sid.” I said.

    “Didn’t mean to be rude. You can come later, I guess . . .oh.” He turned red.

    “Yes, thank you Carter,” Sullivan replied, his voice drier than mummy dust. “We’ll be there."

    I gave him a hopeless smile as Sid speedily departed. "Right-ho. Guess we should go nail that Spalding blighter forthwith, eh, chaps?"

    Sullivan looked aghast. "I don't sound anything like that."   

    "Mercifully, no."

    He smiled a little as he stood up, his regret mirroring mine. "Indeed." Straightening his shirt, he went outside as I hastily dressed. Pulling on a cardigan set over tweed pants, I was either going to be underdressed for a lot of formal occasions or running out of clothes very soon.

    The library was bright and busy. Lady Felicia was deep in conversation on the phone, the cord twirled around her slim form. Father Brown broke his concentration on a marked Thames map, looking positively delighted when we entered. Sid was staring quizzically at the anagram board. Most of its guesses were crossed out and replaced with Per artem, realitas mutator.

    "I see you made progress, Father," Sullivan said, his expression baffled.

    Father Brown smiled. "Yes. 'Through art, reality is changed.'"

    "And that means...?" 

    "I have a feeling--I can't explain it--that this is a message from Sophie, not Spalding. She's the only one who can answer that question."

    "How is she?" My voice quavered a little as my depression tried to creep back.

     Father Brown's eyes were grave. "Dr. Chantraty put her into twilight sleep as soon as I told him what was happening. It's a combination of drugs that put her deep into unconsciousness, relaxes her nerves, and makes her insensitive to pain. Out of Spalding's reach, as it were. But she has to remain asleep for about two hours to prevent any kind of permanent damage."

    "Can we communicate with her at all? She might know the key to all this--"

    "Not until the hours are up. And even then, Dr. Chantraty doesn't know if she could. This procedure can affect memory. Even if she could respond, she may not be able to tell us what she meant."

    Lady Felicia squeezed my hand. I blinked back an inconvenient tear. "I'm going anyway. I need to be with her--"

   "I think we can stop Spalding before then," Father Brown continued. "He most likely will make his move tonight."

    "But you aren't sure."

   "No. But I ask you to hear me out before you decide."

    "Fine," I replied reluctantly.

    “The news has been saying this weather pattern is unusual. The fog is concentrated around London, but the sky above is clear. No moon. Perfect conditions just before midnight. I think Spalding is controlling this fog. Is that a reasonable conclusion?" Everyone nodded.

    He slid a British periodical--"Discovery: The Magazine of Scientific Progress”--across the table. It was opened to an article: “Unusual Solar Eclipse Effects," its conclusions underlined.

    “'Darkness and cold'?' I read. "That's not strange at night--"

    Sullivan frowned as he looked over my shoulder. “'Confused Animals?'”

    I shuddered as I recalled the Zoo disaster. "He's already covered that."

    “'Scrambled Radio Waves,'' Sullivan continued. "'Ham radio operators report eclipses interfere with the ionosphere, causing major signal disruptions—and unique patterns. The exact cause has yet to be determined.’ This doesn't make sense--

    “Spalding isn't waiting for a second eclipse," Father Brown explained. "He's going to initiate an event that happens during an eclipse."

    We all looked stunned. “Like what?” Sid asked.

    “Prentiss was murdered using sound. I think Spalding recorded those disruptive signals during the eclipse; enhanced them; tried them on Prentiss . . . and will use them on Marylebone’s inhabitants."

    "As if his Flying Death Jalopy wasn't enough," I muttered.

    "He needs a very high mortality rate this time to make up for his failure."

     Sid tapped on the Thames map. “Friends been keeping an eye out for any strange freight getting moved around Marylebone. Some new high-powered broadcast equipment was delivered to the BBC’s new telly station there yesterday—“

    "That's hardly unusual--" Sullivan broke in.

    "But it only has radio frequencies."

    "Well, that makes sense," I replied reasonably. "Televisions are expensive. Most people can't afford them. I guess the BBC is hedging their bets until they catch on--"

     “Spalding's signals will go through the radio. Everyone has one. And everyone tunes in during an emergency broadcast--or what sounds like one. And if Prentiss is any example of what will happen--" Father Brown didn't need to finish that thought.

    "We had a bit more luck," Sid said. "At least two people saw the Dark Echo docked here--" he pointed out an inlet some miles outside the city. "There's a small airport just up the road."

    "Reliable sources?" Sullivan asked drily.

   Sid gave a sarcastic shrug. "Dunno. I know their names and where they live, but I forgot to ask for their official IDs--"

    "I also heard something odd during Spalding's call that might confirm this," Father Brown interjected.

    We exchanged puzzled glances. "I swear, I didn't hear anything but him being smarmy scum," I said. "As usual."

     He sat back in his chair, that unnerving faraway look he'd had at the Abbey crossing his face. "I heard sounds you’d get on a boat—wind snapping through sails, deck creaking, wheel spinning, seagulls, An airplane landing nearby. A song--it sounded like it was from a West End musical. Alice calling--and a little girl answering. And before you say I was hearing things--"

    "A song?"

    In a falsetto slightly off-key, Father Brown began to sing.

   "Reckless enchantment.

  "You've got a clutch on me

   "Reckless enchantment

   "Never set me free..."

  "No other smile like sunlight

   "Or eyes like a song

   "Can make me forget

  "When nothing was wrong . . ." He broke off, looking slightly embarrassed.

   I grimaced--and not just because Father Brown couldn't carry a tune in a bucket. "A clutch on me? Eyes like a song?"

    "Yes, it scans very poorly. I doubt Ivor Novello--or anyone good--wrote this."

   "But what does it mean?" Sullivan said impatiently.

    A cough from Lady Felicia made us look her way. She was holding a hand over the receiver. "Oh, I remember that show. Just dreadful. Monty apologized for taking me. Thank goodness he didn't have money in it."

   "I take it it was called 'Reckless Enchantment."

   She nodded. "It was a disaster across the board. Lost all its investments. The theater that held it went bankrupt. A real tragedy, for it had been in the producer's family for years. He killed himself soon after."

   "What was his name?"

   "Simon Deardon. And the theater was The Lux-- " She returned to her phone call. "Yes, still here . . ."

   "Been closed for years," Sid interrupted. "Not much left of it now."

   Sullivan fixed him with a cynical gaze. "And how do you know this?"

   Sid raised an eyebrow. "Never been there myself. But I heard it was a good place to . . ."practice". And it furnished a lot of people's flats once the Depression hit."

   "So why is Spalding throwing us these very handy bread crumbs?" I asked.

   "The theater might just be a place of refuge now," Father Brown mused. "It's midway between the airfield--and the St. Clairs' townhouse."

   "You're saying Alice is hiding out there?"

   Father Brown nodded. "With her daughter, yes."

   Lady Felicia hung up the phone and came over, slightly breathless. "You were right. Talked to a doctor friend of mine. Alice had a difficult delivery--the doctors had to do a cesarean."

   "Which requires the use of a medical chainsaw," Father Brown interrupted.

   "The doctors did everything to save the baby, but no luck. She died in a private clinic here in London--and the funeral was family-only."

    "I'm betting that she didn't die--Alice has hidden her here all these years even from her own husband," Father Brown's face darkened. "Someone like Charles St. Clair would never abide imperfection. Bad enough the child was a girl, but that she wasn't healthy and perfect--"

    "And Alice is still suffering from the trauma," I said. "You think she made a deal with Spalding--"

    "To kill whom he wanted in exchange for healing her daughter. Perhaps."

   "Which is why her murders have been so . . . messy."

    Father Brown shook his head, his expression weighted with sorrow. ”Such agony--"

   “Not very nice for her victims either," Sullivan said repressively. "But our priority has to be Firefall. It's a good bet she's too far gone for you to save her, Father--even if she’s wounded, betrayed, or ready to turn on Spalding."

    "But her child--"

   "A lot more children are going to die if we don't stop this," Mrs. McCarthy stood in the doorway. Her voice softened as she looked at Father Brown. "You always hope for the best. But risking yourself--and everyone else--to rescue her soul . . . it's just too dangerous."

   Something was still nagging at me, but I put it aside for a moment. To cut the tension in the room, I asked, "So, Firefall is at this airfield?"

   Father Brown blinked. "Oh ... yes." He indicated a huge yellowed book opened in front of him.

   Sid smiled, "Your museum friend working overtime again?”

   “Indeed. I found what we need protecting from.”

   The illustration was of a ball of light with a faint red cast. “It’s called ‘Ararum.’ Latin for bitter. A very old, very rare defense. It intensifies heat—and repels anything pure. There's only one specimen in existence, and it makes sense it would be one of Thule's first acquisitions. Linvale most likely reinforced it--and the airfield—with it. We need a vehicle of blessed cast iron to drain its power—and leave Firefall open to attack.”

   “Hmm, something like a tank," Sid observed. "Not easy to come by..." But his eyes had that familiar crafty glint.

   “Wait,” I said. “If we destroy the Dark Echo--or what's on it--that could get rid of what's holding Spalding here, right?"

   “We can’t be sure,” Sullivan replied.

    "And Spalding most certainly will launch Firefall whether he’s alive or not," Father Brown added.

     "But . . ." I faltered for a moment, but kept going. “But these clues--how do we know they aren't another trap?" I gazed into Father Brown’s eyes. “And are you sure you're not being . . . affected by what happened at the Abbey?”

     Sid straightened up abruptly. “Meaning what?”

    “Meaning he would have killed himself to save Prentiss if we hadn’t stopped him,” Sullivan said, his face grim with the memory.

    “He's right,” Lady Felicia said. “It took almost all of us to hold you back.”

    “That’s not going to be a problem,” Mrs. McCarthy replied firmly. “He’s protected.”

     “How?” I asked.

     “Never you mind. You just bring that horrible Spalding to book.”

      Sullivan glanced at me with a slight smile. “I like Mrs. McCarthy’s ‘rally the troops’ speech much better.”

     “I don’t want us to split up, but needs must," Father Brown said. "We have to destroy the BBC equipment--and Firefall."

     “Guess I’m taking the airfield then,” Sid noted cheerfully. “Always wanted to drive an 'Iron Betty'.”

     “I’ll go with you,” Father Brown replied. “I have no doubt the Inspector and Miss Dennison can do the BBC-”

     Suddenly, the hallway resounded with a whistle and sounds of heavy footsteps. Bennett’s voice rose, "Excuse me, gentleman—you can't just come in here—"

    "We most certainly can," a voice said triumphantly. A group of constables burst in, led by a jowly man in a nice suit. Sullivan gave a start, his lips tightening. The man smiled.

     "Taking a busman's holiday, Sullivan?" He looked at Father Brown.”You’ve given us quite the merry chase, so I hope you’ve had fun.” He raised his warrant card. “Chief Inspector Langham—and you are all under arrest.”