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Chapter Text

I’ve always said that London’s police stations are like the city’s arteries—clogged, overworked, and occasionally prone to bursting at the seams. Whitechapel nick was no exception. Place was a squat Victorian pile of bricks that had seen more history than most museums cared to exhibit. Jack the Ripper had danced his merry jig not far from here, and if you’re a wizard the place still carried that echo. Hard to define, but the vestiga lingers like the faint stink of old blood under fresh paint. It was August, with the kind of sticky heat that made you wish for a proper British rain, and I was sweating in my long-sleeved shirt as I badged my way past the front desk.

Put that under one of the differences between me, Nightingale, and the Met. Uniform would have let me off with short sleeves. Nightingale would have shown up in a three-piece suit, tie tight to his neck. I considered Brooks Brothers a compromise and left the tie in the Asbo.

The call had come in that morning from DI Joseph Chandler himself.

“Grant,” he’d said, his voice clipped and precise, like he was reading from a script. “We’ve got a Falcon situation. Elderly gent slinging spells in holding. Thought you might want to... handle it.”

‘Falcon’ was the private and semi-official police code for anything that smelled of magic, vestigia, or the sort of weirdness that made normal coppers reach for the aspirin. It was also the word that meant I was heading out from my air-conditioned office in the ‘tech workroom’ to the off-smelling linoleum halls of a regular nick.

I’d grabbed my kit bag and driven over.

At least I hadn’t needed the stab vest. Most of my brother (and sister) police don’t hate me that badly. Yet.

The desk sergeant, a burly Sikh with a beard that could hide contraband, nodded me through without a word.

Whitechapel had that atmosphere: efficient, but haunted. Rumors of curses floated around the Met like bad coffee. Whispers of unsolved cases piling up, suspects dropping dead or vanishing into thin air. Detective Inspector Chandler ran a tight ship, but even he couldn’t scrub away the ghosts.

I was escorted up a flight of stairs that creaked like old bones, past walls plastered with faded posters about knife crime and domestic abuse hotlines. Chandler’s office was at the end of a corridor, door ajar, the hum of fluorescent lights buzzing like angry wasps. I knocked once and pushed in.

“DI Chandler,” I said, stepping into the room. It was impeccably tidy. All the files were stacked at perfect right angles, the desk calendar showed no doodles, and between the phone and the pen holder sat a hand sanitizer bottle that looked like it got more action than the coffee machine. Chandler himself was a tall, lean man in his forties, with sharp features and eyes that missed nothing. He stood up, smoothing his tie, and I could see him brace himself for the pain of extended a hand.

I shook my head. “Sorry, I don’t shake hands.”

Wizards don’t, you see. Too much risk of accidental magia transfer, or worse, a glamour slipping through. It’s one of those Folly rules Nightingale drills into you early on.

Chandler dropped his arm immediately, a flicker of relief crossing his face. “Oh, thank you.”

His OCD was legendary in the Met. A germaphobe extraordinaire, the kind who’d alphabetize his socks if given half a chance. We had slightly crossed paths before. Our nick had come in on a couple of overlapping cases involving river spirits and dodgy artifacts smuggled through the docks. He was solid, Chandler. Methodical to a fault, which to the Met was no fault, with a dry wit that snuck up on you. We got along, in that way coppers do when they know the other chap knows the job’s bollocks half the time but he’s still going to sack up and get work done.

“Have a seat, Grant,” he said, gesturing to the chair opposite his desk.

I sat, noting the faint scent of lemon disinfectant. No dust bunnies here; Chandler probably waged war on them daily. My mom would have approved.

“So, what’s the story?” I asked, leaning back. “Your message mentioned spells in holding. Sounds like my kind of party.”

Chandler sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. He slid a thin file across the desk. It was nothing special. Just a thin fold of manilla with photos, second pages of carbon paper reports, the usual detris collected early in any investigation. The top image showed an old man, wizened and frail. At first glance he was your standard pensioner. IC1 by the record. By my guess? Old London gammon, with a shock of white hair and damn sharp eyes for his age.

I flipped through the arrest photos. We don’t always have those in low-risk cases but clearly someone had been through. Caldwell looked like he’d stepped out of a sepia postcard. Shabby track pants and a faded black tee shirt showing off wrinkled skin, but his posture was ‘yes, sergeant’ straight, like he was holding onto dignity with both hands.

“Reginald Arthur Caldwell”, Chandler continued. Goes by Ray. Ninety-nine years old, if you can believe it. We picked him up this morning after workers dug up a body in his backyard.”

Well, yes, I nodded with due appreciation. That would earn one a proper going over.

“Should have done it five days back, as soon as London Power found the corpse, but?” He gave me the look that said ‘priorities’ and also ‘paperwork happens’.

I accepted this. Bodies were always showing up in London, and if they fell into that annoying area between evident archeology and obviously suspicious? Well, they got totted off to the morgue, where the pathologist was generally overbooked. Four days was better turn around than many cases started with.

“Once she had a look at the body? The case came to us. Whitechapel address. Man lives in an unrestored two-up-two-down. Not an incomer. Owner since 1932, resident since one day after demob.”

“In the frame, then?”

“The pathologist best guess dates the remains from the forties. Crushed skull, by the way. Suspicious but not impossible, given the general date.”

Again true. London builders were still stumbling over bodies from the war bombings. I had enough interest in architecture to sympathize.

Chandler pushed over another print out. “Evidence unit found some potential ID in the grave. Not confirmed yet, and there are two different potential documents that conflict so we are still waiting on that.”

That raised my eyebrow. “Identity crisis in the grave?”

“Quite. Some odd things about the clothing too.” Chandler tapped the file. “As said, the first thought was bomb victim. WWII blitz hit the neighbors hard. Houses on both sides were flattened on. But from the weapon traces the pathologist says murder.”

I took a moment to scan the report. Oh hello! It was our old friend, Mr. Blunt Object. Plus a matching item had been found in the grave. It was identified as a plumber’s wrench. Classic Walworth Stillson model, noted by serial number as produced post war and by the pathologist (rather cheekily) as ‘Still in working condition. Classic English craftsmanship.’

“I sent an officer around to chat with Mr. Caldwell. D.S. Ray Miles.”

As one does – although I didn’t quite say that. The man across was a Detective Inspector and I, for all the power of Newton, was a mere constable.

“He took two social workers in tow, given the potential suspects age.”

Again, as any sensible officer did. For a chav you called armed backup, but for anyone that ancient the danger was going to be stroking out the poor dearie and getting Standards and Practices on your arse.

“And?” I prompted, figuring it was time I put some effort into the conversation. Just to show willing.

“Caldwell clams up, not a word. So D.S. Miles arrests him on suspicion.”

“And that’s when the fun starts?”

Chandler nodded grimly. “He comes in quiet as a mouse. No problem with photo. No objection with fingerprints. I have him put in our most comfortable holding cell, the one we save for underage detainees waiting for their parents. D.S. Miles even brings him a cup of tea.”

Clearly Chandler was rehearsing for his S&P review. But yes, that was very gentle handling.

“Then the lights start flickering. Next thing, he’s popping off these... werelights, you call them? Little balls of glow. He’s shooting them at the fixtures. Modern LEDs, processors fried to a crisp. Cells go dark one by one. He mimed an explosion with his hands, a rare bit of animation. “Looks rather Falcon, what?”

Looks right out of our latest ‘be alert’ memo, I didn’t say.

“We tried moving him to interrogation” Chandler continued, “but he zapped the camera in there straight off. Recording gear’s toast. We even lost the tea-maker in the hall. The worst of it is that he’s still not talking. Not a peep about the body, his past, nothing.”

“And you’re sure it’s magic? Not some gadget up his sleeve?”

“Positive. My lads saw it clear as day. No tricks, no wires.” He hesitated. “Also… the air in there feels... off. Thick, like walking through fog.”

I nodded. Not something most coppers would report – or notice. Might be a tie-in there with his other… quirks. I’d have to suggest Chandler for ‘advance training’ when this was over. But that was Nightingale’s problem.

For now? Vestigia was the magical residue left by spells, emotions, history. It clings to places like cigarette smoke to curtains. Everything had it, but magic had it stronger.

I mentioned that.

“Whitechapel’s got layers of odd energy. Buchanen calls it Ripper vibes.” Chandler leaned forward, elbows on the desk—careful not to touch the edges. “Look, Grant, we’re out of our depth. Whitechapel has enough trouble closing cases without suspects expiring mysteriously. Our solve rate is abysmal on the weird ones. People talk about a curse. Not just the locals but…” He made the gesture which meant ‘higher up’. “Then there is the fact that at his age? Even if this Caldwell did bash someone’s skull in back in the forties I’m not going to get the Crown prosecutor to charge. If by some madness he did? What jury’s going to convict a centenarian?” Chandler threw up his hands. Something I’d never seen actually happen. “But at the same time we can’t just let him go.”

“How do you deal with it when Gandalf hits the pension age?” I quipped, glancing at the photo again. “Gandalf? More like Yoda on a bad day. But if he’s slinging werelights at ninety-nine, he’s got more juice than half the hedge-witches we’ve busted.”

Chandler cracked a thin smile. “Precisely. And social services are breathing down my neck. He’s frail, but competent. Licensed under the Fraudulent Mediums Act since 1951, believe it or not. On the day the body was found he was out reading tarot at a senior center.”

“A nutter.”

“A legally competent nutter. We can’t hold him on mental incapacity. Do you think you could...?”

“Take custody?” I finished.

It made sense. If Caldwell kept flinging lux he’d risk hyperthaumaturgical degradation. HTD was the magical equivalent of frying your brain with too much current. At his age, one bad forma and he’d be a vegetable. Or worse.

“Probably for the best,” I agreed. “If he keeps on like that, he’s going to fry his synapses. Plus, at ninety-nine? Like you said, no chance of conviction even if he did murder someone.”

“This is going to tank our solve rates.” Chandler rubbed his temples. “The Folly’s equipped for this sort of thing, right? Special cells, dampeners, something to keep him not destroying public property?”

“We’ve got a containment setup in the basement. Everything there is old-school. Plus we have.” I considered my wording. “We have non-coercive and fully safe Falcon methods to prevent custodial injury.”

There. That was a repeatable-under-oath way of saying that we had ways to control the ‘stuff we don’t put in reports.’

I stood up. “Thank you for calling us, sir. Consider this a Falcon inquiry now.”

Meaning I was taking the problem off of his plate.

“Thank God,” Chandler exhaled, standing as well. “Or thank whatever deity you wizards pray to. I’ll arrange the transfer. Ambulance, naturally. Poor practice to risk having him keel over in a squad car. And Grant?” He paused. “I owe you one.”

We didn’t shake on it, of course. I just nodded and headed out; file tucked under my arm.

As I passed the holding cells I noted that the corridor was dimmer than it should be. There were a couple of lights out. Was that courtesy of Caldwell’s light show? I closed my eyes, reaching out with that inner sense Nightingale calls the “wizard’s third eye.” Vestiga hit me faint but clear: old smoke, the kind my dad used to puff on his trumpet breaks, mixed with a sharp tang of sweat. It smelled like fear in a cramped room.

I shook it off. Time to collect our possibly murderous Merlin.

XOXOXO

The ambulance arrived within the minutes, blue lights off, no sirens. Chandler had known what he wanted and what he would get. There was a reason he had been tipped as a high flyer.
Two paramedics, both looking bemused, wheeled Caldwell out on a gurney. He was strapped in gently, IV drip dangling, but his eyes were alert, scanning everything. Frail, yes. You could see his bones like bird wings under papery skin. But he was compliant. Not a word as they loaded him up.

I handed my own keys to a duty constable with the address to the Folly. Given what his boss had dumped on me? I could steal a few hours of police time from him.

I rode shotgun in the back, keeping an eye on our new prisoner.

“You comfortable, Mr. Caldwell?” I asked, more to test the waters than anything. He glanced at me but said nothing.

Cockney stubborn or geas? I’d leave that to my boss.

Chapter Text

The Folly's front door swung open with that familiar groan, like an old butler protesting the intrusion. I'd always thought of the place as a living entity. Bricks and mortar, yes, but buildings get infused with their history. Which, yes, but I thought that about architecture before I ever learned about magic. Now? The Folly had centuries of magic, all the variations from Newton’s so-careful mathematics to the Romantics sweeps of emotion to Victorian university sorts adding Hebrew or Coptic to the Latin that united all their scholarship.

But maybe that was just me. Like I’ve mentioned, I have a thing for architecture.

As the paramedics wheeled Ray Caldwell across the threshold I braced for the usual tingle. There was always that subtle zap from the wards reminding you that this wasn't just any posh townhouse. Nightingale’s predecessors had layered them thick, generations of intricate forma woven around and under the stone, designed to sniff out threats magical or otherwise. The door wards could make your teeth ache if you weren't welcome. This time? Nothing. Well, not nothing exactly. The wards rippled as we crossed, a familiar soft hum vibrating through the soles of my shoes. Not the prickly warning they gave to outsiders, mind you. They got the kind that sets your hairs on end like static before a storm. This was more like a polite nod: ‘Ah, one of us. Carry on.’ Odd, that. The Folly didn't roll out the red carpet for just anyone with a spark of magic. Hedge-witches got a cursory pat-down, river gods a full-body scan that left them grumbling about privacy. But Ray Caldwell? Smooth as silk, like he'd flashed a membership card at the door.

In a way maybe he had.

"Easy now," I murmured to our guest as the paramedics maneuvered the gurney down the hallway toward the basement stairs. They were good at their job. The only mark of our passing was the squeak of wheels on the parquet floor.

The air in the Folly was cooler than outside. It had that eternal scent of old books and polish. Molly, our resident housekeeper and unknowable force of nature, materialized from the kitchen archway. She was... unique. Molly was part Edwardian maid, all terrifying efficiency.

Molly had her eyes fixed on Ray with an intensity that could curdle milk. Her lips were pursed in what might have been concern. I hoped it was. The alternative was calculation. Possibly the calculation of what was for dinner. Really, he was too old and scrawny. Even if I didn’t have strong moral objections I’d have to advise against impromptu cannibalism.

"He's got to go in the containment cell," I announced, leading the way. The basement setup was a fully authorized and compliant holding facility. It was also our magical equivalent of a Faraday cage. The walls were lined with iron bands that Nightingale had forged and I had etched with runes. I wasn’t sure they were entirely HHS approved, not given the way my stomach clenched when I walked past, but they did prevent hostile magic. It was safer for everyone, especially an old codger prone to slinging lux like confetti.

We descended the stairs. I felt the first stirrings of old forma.Faint echoes clung to the air, remnants of past experiments gone wrong. Or right, depending on your perspective. Ray had been quiet on the ride over but as we approached the cell door something changed. His face started to twitch. Not just a tic, like he'd had a mini-stroke or was fighting off a sneeze. No. This was full-on ripples, skin undulating like a horror movie mask melting under hot lights. Waves distorted his features: nose lengthening, cheeks hollowing, then snapping back. It was subtle at first, but building, like a glitch in a CGI effect.

"Hold up," I snapped, hand shooting out to stop the paramedics. They froze, the lead man’s eyebrows climbing into his hairline. "Change of plans. Guest room on the second floor."

The medic at the other end of the stretcher blinked. "You sure?”

"Positive." I kept my voice level, but my mind was racing. I'd seen face-shifting magic before, the kind that warped reality like a bad Photoshop job. It brought back memories I'd rather leave buried. Lesley May, bleeding on the pavement, her face ruined beyond repair. Glamour was the technical term. The same nasty bit of work Mr. Punch had pulled, that malevolent spirit of riot and mayhem who'd left scars on more than one life.

Casually probing magic on this level could kill, unravel the victim like a pulled thread. No way was I risking that in the dampener cell. No way was I risking that at all.

Ray's twitching eased as we reversed course, heading back up. He didn't protest, just lay there with that enigmatic half-smile, like he knew something I didn't. Well, he did.

Molly took the lead.

Sensible. She knew the Folly.

We followed her to a second-floor guest room. It was a faded chamber with a four-poster bed that looked like it hadn't seen use since the Blitz. It was, however, meticulously clean. I was never sure if Molly had always kept things that way. Unlikely, given that there was only one of her and the house was huge. I attributed the current state to my mother’s ever-judgmental standards and the Nightingale’s current habit of inviting the entire murder squad in on cases. On the other hand, magic was magic.

We got him settled and the paramedics dismissed with polite efficiency, forms signed, goodbyes muttered.

The room chosen was straight out of a period drama. The heavy velvet curtains blocked the afternoon sun, leaving the wallpaper bleached only in spots where a century of light had found a way in. Over the fireplace a mirror showed black flecks of missing silver but not a single finger mark. The furniture had that yellow glow of rubbed beeswax.

Molly bustled about, plumping pillows and smoothing sheets with a fervor that bordered on fanatical.

Ray settled in with a sigh, propping himself up against the headboard. His hands, veined and spotted with age, trembled slightly as he accepted a cup of tea. Earl Grey, steaming, with a plate of cucumber sandwiches that appeared from nowhere.

"Thank you, dearie," Ray Caldwell whispered. He patted Molly's hand weakly, and to my shock, she didn't recoil. Instead, her expression softened. Just a fraction, like ice cracking on a pond, but still?

She hissed at me when I lingered too close. Clearly, Ray was 'one of her gentlemen’, the wizards she deemed worthy of her care. Whether that was because she'd glimpsed him in the Folly's pre-war heyday (Molly had been here since before 1900, unageing and enigmatic) or simply recognized the Newtonian spark in him, I couldn't say.

She didn't talk so asking was pointless.

I backed off, giving them space.

Ray nibbled a sandwich, seeming content, but when I tried a casual "So, Mr. Caldwell, care to chat about those werelights?" he clammed up tighter than an oyster. No words, just a twitch of the lips and a distant gaze out the window. At least he wasn't shooting out the lights anymore. Small mercies.

Leaving Molly to fuss, I headed downstairs to the coach house. That was my domain. I had made my ‘Tech Cave’ a safe place where the modern world could operate without the Folly's chip-destructive tendencies. It held the HOLMES connected computer, an ever-depleting supply of Air-Wave police radios, and a fridge stocked with all the yummie things Molly refused to place in her kitchen.

I switched on the power and cracked a Monster. Irony much? But I needed the energy. There was just enough time to enter the transfer papers and start my report before I needed to brief Nightingale.

XOXOXO

D.I. Thomas Nightingale was in the library, surrounded by leather-bound tomes that smelled of memory.

He was my guv'nor (I refused to say ‘master’) and the last officially sanctioned wizard in England. Last until me, anyway. Or me and Lesley and Abigail and… forget it. He was as he was.

Nightingale looked up from his paper. He still read the Times in printed form. I held off on objections as we needed the newsprint for Toby.

"Peter," he said, carefully folding back a corner "I take it our guest has arrived?"

OK. So DI Chandler had called ahead. Which was procedure, so no point in being irked that the man had blown my surprise.

"Yes.” I dropped into the armchair opposite, recounting the transfer: Chandler's relief, the wards' welcome, the facial glitch.

Nightingale had the courtesy not to ask me if I was sure. He knew I knew what I knew.

"It's a glamour, boss. Has to be. Twitched like a bad special effect near the dampener."

Nightingale's brow furrowed, a rare crack in his composure. "Glamour? Deeply unethical, even by pre-war standards.” He steepled his fingers, gaze distant. "And a geas, perhaps? That would explain the silence on certain matters."

So DI Chandler had given all the details. Well, you had to expect that. They were on a same rank level, and the seniors backed each other up.

As for Nightingale's suggestion? I’d read up on compulsion spells after our encounter with the Lacey twins. Irish lore twisted into Newtonian forma, forcing obedience or silence. Nasty stuff. It could drive you mad if poked wrong.

Then again, maybe the codger was just smart enough and stubborn enough to bet on outlasting us. Would make a defense barrister proud. For the record? Normally that doesn’t work. Policemen may sometimes have short tempers but the police service is legendary for the patience that can be applied to the recalcitrant arrestees.

" Such spells tend to be fleeting, but at his age..." Nightingale trailed off. "Casterbrook alumni, you said?”
I handed over the file so he would know what little I did. Which wasn’t much beyond his name. Over the summer Abigail had managed to enter the more basic records into what I laughably called our ‘database’.

“Class of '38.” Nightingale glanced over several rows of class photos. “I remember a few from that era. Our last real graduating class before the war swallowed so many. Good lads, most of them. But Caldwell?”

“Would ’38 have been after your time?” I asked.

“Somewhat. I knew most of the lads, but from war service. Not all of them well.” He considered a bit longer. “Perhaps he was one of the quieter sorts.”

"Quiet?” I scoffed. “The man's been slinging werelights like party favors back in Whitechapel. Chandler was about ready to call in an exorcist."

That wasn’t exactly unassuming.

“Perhaps I simply missed meeting him.” Nightingale continued without hearing me. ”He may not have continued with the arts after graduation. Some did retire their staves, especially those who wanted other careers or who had responsibilities to family estates.”

I didn’t think there could have been much of an estate. Not if he’d been living in a slum practically from the day after graduation. Or make that a couple of years, but who was counting.

Nightingale nodded at that. “Some, and I hate to say this, simply left because they had no strong talent for the craft.”

“DI Chandler might differ.”

Nightingale chuckled, a dry sound. "Werelights are the basics, Peter. The first spell and identifying mark of a Newtonian practitioner. That need not mean he has actual skill.” He stood, straightening his jacket. "We'll need Walid to look the man over. Confirm the HTD levels. And Peter? Tread carefully. If there's a glamour, probing it could unravel more than we bargain for. Lives have been lost to less."

"Understood." Hyperthaumaturgical degradation, known as HTD, was no joke. Magic burned out the brain like an overclocked CPU, leading to aneurysms or worse. At ninety-nine, Ray was a walking risk.

"He's cozy upstairs now. Molly's taken a shine to him. Let me point out that he has tea and we currently do not."

Nightingale raised an eyebrow. "High praise indeed.”

As he returned to his book, I lingered, my mind pawing through the few facts I had. Aged wizards were a rarity in our line of work. Nightingale was the exception, his clock ticking backward since the sixties. But Ray? He was going the full Gandalf route: ancient, creaky, one foot in the grave. Made you wonder how he got this far. Magic burned your brain out if you weren't careful.

Could that explain why his magic was so weak? No. Because it wasn’t. Not by the technical sense that counted for THD. Lux was a simple forma but it still took power.

I headed back upstairs to check on our guest. Molly had departed, leaving a tray with fresh scones. If it was her version of a welcome basket it was one I had never merited.

The old man was dozing, but his eyes fluttered open as I entered. I pulled up a chair, keeping it casual.

"Feeling better?"

A nod, but no words. I reached out with my senses, probing for vestigia. The room hummed faintly: old pipe smoke again, mixed with the same desperation. A flash hit me. It was not a vision exactly, but an impression. London in the cold times. Rubble-strewn streets, ration books, old clothes and many hungers. A young man. No, wait, he felt strangely mis-aged even then. The pain of being hunched over books in a cramped room. Had that been his experience of Casterbrook?

The impression faded, leaving me blinking.

A knock at the door interrupted my thoughts. Dr. Abdul Haqq Walid, our go-to pathologist and the world's only expert on magical forensics, poked his head in. Bespectacled, with ginger hair and a penchant for plaid, Walid was the calm in our storm.

"Peter. Thomas said you had a patient?"

"Unfortunately. Meet Ray Caldwell. Evident geas with a strong potential of glamour complications."

That last was a fair warning that he couldn’t rely on the symptoms he observed.

Walid approached the bed with his usual gentle efficiency. "Mr. Caldwell, I'm Dr. Walid. May I examine you?"

Ray nodded, making no protest as Walid checked vitals.

“Pulse thready but steady,” Walid muttered. He shone a light for pupillary response. “Eyes clear despite age. You’re a lucky man if you still don’t need glasses. Most of my patients have me scheduling cataract surgery but yours are as clear as a teenager.”

He pulled out a portable EEG modified for magical readings. "Breathe normally," Walid instructed, attaching sensors. “This should not be uncomfortable.”

The machine beeped softly, graphs spiking. Walid frowned.

"Severe HTD, as suspected. Neural degradation advanced. Synapses firing erratically. But no immediate danger. You are stable, Mr. Caldwell. Remarkably so for your age."

"Any sign of the glamour?" I asked, keeping my voice low.

Walid slanted the pen light across the older man’s face. "Subtle distortions in the refraction. It's holding, but fragile. Like scar tissue over a wound."

Walid packed up, still speaking primarily to Ray. "Rest, Mr. Caldwell. We'll do our best for you."

Ray managed a weak smile. "Thanks," he rasped, but only to Molly, who'd reappeared by his bed. To us? Silence. He sipped, eyes distant, as if the weight of secrets pressed him down.

Walid and I stepped out into the hallway. "He's a puzzle, Peter. You say the wards accepted him outright, which suggests pure Newtonian practice. But that glamour. I’m not the expert but by my guess it's old. Plus you say there’s a geas binding his tongue?"

"Damned magic," I muttered. "Who'd do that to an old man?"

Walid shrugged. "History's full of evil. Some is put on us, some we bring on ourselves. Not a doctor’s problem. We’re just here to fix the disasters." He clapped my shoulder. "Call if he worsens. And Peter? Don't poke the bear."

As evening fell, the Folly settled into its rhythms: Molly clattering in the kitchen, Nightingale listening to the radio in the atrium, Abigail working on her Latin lessons. I stepped upstairs to watch as Ray dozed. His face was smooth now, no twitches. Even so my sense of foreboding lingered. This case was Falcon through and through; magic tangled with murder, history haunting the present, and Whitechapel's curse in the mix.

I had a bad feeling things were about to get weirder.

Chapter Text

Whitechapel in the morning light was no oil painting. Actually, this part of Whitechapel was depressing at any time of day. The streets were a mishmash of Victorian brickwork scarred by post-war rebuilds, graffiti tags competing with cheaply printed signs for halal butchers and vape shops. It was the kind of neighborhood where history didn't so much whisper as shout at you from the shadows. Locals gave Jack the Ripper tours every hour on the hour, and on their own produced enough unsolved cases to make even a hard man check for curses.

Not, by the way, a place even coppers safely left their rides.

I hopped off the Tube at Whitechapel station, the air thick with the smell of frying onions from a nearby kebab van, and made my way down the narrow lanes toward Ray Caldwell's address. The clouds were out, but it felt grudging, like London was still hungover from the previous day's heat.

I'd sent a formal request to DI Chandler last night. Not that he was the sort to get his back up, especially since this was a favor to him, but there were still formalities to be observed. He’d evidently forwarded the duty to DC Emerson Kent. Kent had responded in turn, confirming a time convenient for them meet me at the crime site.

Crime site such as it was. London Power waits for no dead man and as soon as the yard had been released their work crew had backfilled and moved on. Normally this would have put my back well up, but they had been told it was a dead bomb victim from WWII. Which? Figure it for half right.

Also I wasn’t much interested in the yard.

DC Kent was a bright young man at Whitechapel nick, street-smart and cynical as a fox. We'd worked together once or twice on Falcon-adjacent stuff, the kind where mundane crime bled into the weird. He was Chandler’s best, proving the Detective Inspector was sincere about backing up Falcon unit.

The residence proper was a two-up-two-down relic of Victorian working-class oppression squeezed between a derelict lot and a row of post-Blitz flats. To my eye those last looked like they'd been slapped up in a hurry and were now just as eager to come down. Nothing, and no one, who could possibly have been a tenant back in the time of our crime. Not that I’d expect there to be, not even in the gentle countryside. Eighty years was… well, it was your nan’s life time, and babes in arms make very poor witnesses.

From the outside I took in paint peeling from the door, windows grimy with years of London rain, and a front planter that was more trash than weeds. Showing just how depressed the neighborhood was. In my childhood it would have been lush and green. Also filled with weed.

Crime scene tape fluttered lazily across the front. A uniformed PC stood guard with the bored expression of someone who'd rather be anywhere else. Good news for him. He’d be relived once I’d gone over the place.

DI Chandler flashed his badge and I ducked under the tape, testing the door with a gloved hand.

Vestigia check first. Always. That was a rule that Thomas Nightingale had drummed into me. I didn’t think our suspect had the power to build ‘dog battery’ trap but I’d been wrong about wizards before.

I closed my eyes, reaching out. Pipe smoke again, and again the sour sweat. All weak. All old.

I stepped inside.

Nothing happened. Deo Gratia.
DI Chandler started to follow which? No. Now that I saw the area? Not at all a good plan. You don’t say that to a superior officer so…

“Actually, sir?” I did my best to block the doorway without coming across as a vaudeville mime.

“Yes?” He clearly was not pleased.

“Well, sir. I do notice that there are two crime sites.” He said nothing so I added “this house and the body site over there.” I pointed across the barren back yard. “Perhaps it would be more efficient to handle them separately?”

“Non…. OH!” He had taken one step into the front room and fallen back like it was a plague site. “Good idea, Grant. I’ll take that part then head back to the office.”

“Thank you, sir.”

He claimed the front door officer and headed off across the brown but still reasonably clean grass.

Kent followed me into the first room.

“Grant," he said, sipping his take-away coffee. "This place is a bloody tip. Makes my nan's attic look like a museum."

"Thus your governors rapid exit”, I replied, stepping over a stack of yellowed paper bags piled by the door. It was indeed a hoarder's paradise. Or nightmare, depending on your tolerance for clutter.
I took in the infinite array of utter crap.

Shelves bowed under the weight of occult junk. I spotted tarot decks half-wrapped in faded silk, crystal balls gathering dust, alchemical doodads that looked like they'd been nicked from a steampunk convention. Books sat on every flat surface. That, at least, was normal. What was very odd was that no one, no one who knew anything, could call them ‘wizard’s books.’ I scanned what I could. Crowley's ‘Magick in Theory and Practice’ rubbed spines with Gardner's pagan tomes and Dian Fortune's esoteric ramblings. Over the fireplace sat pyramids made of wrapper foil, astrological charts pinned with the names of purported demons, and a Ouija board that had seen better days. No wonder Ray had a license under the Mediums Act. This was fortune-telling central.

I picked up a paperback copy of "The Book of Thoth," flipping through pages annotated in shaky handwriting. No real magic here. This was just the woo-woo stuff that promised enlightenment but delivered headaches. But underneath it all, that hum persisted of genuine forma.

Kent nudged a dried-up Cup-of-Raman with his boot. "Room’s like a a bin man’s collection. Belongs in a horror movie. You guys? You really use this stuff?"

I set the book down, shaking my head. "No. This is all showbiz. Smoke and mirrors for the punters.” Which may or may not have labeled the man in question. “Real magic's more... scientific.”

“Good. If I have to put this crap in my report I'm turning in my badge."

I chuckled. "Nah. Use this and we’d scare the tourists. But for all the tat real magic has been done here. Stuff that leaves signs. Afraid it’s going to take time to check it all out properly."

We moved through the house methodically, Kent taking notes while I scanned for anything Falcon-worthy.

The kitchen was a time capsule. The man lived on oatmeal. He had one cold tap over a chipped sink, linoleum worn through to the boards, and an outhouse visible through the back window. No indoor loo. How had the old man managed?

There was one pan in the sink. Not dirty, thankfully. If it had been I would have had to decide between washing it out or coming back to swarms of roaches. The bathtub (traditionally placed in the kitchen with a drain into the yard) was usably clean. My mother would have sent me running for bleach but it wasn’t a trash bin. Point in the old man’s favor. The place wasn’t a drug den.

Up the treacherously steep stairs lurked two more rooms crammed with more junk. The one with a bed was set up like a medieval armory. Swords and knives were mounted on the walls. Probably one of them had been used to carve the symbols etched into the bedposts. Those felt fake but set my teeth on edge anyway. Bad memories.

The other room, even smaller, held a couch and a ‘conjuring circle’. Cold dead and fake. I tested it. Not that it would have been of much ceremonial use given the sheer quantity of crap impinging on the radius.

"How can the council let a man live like this?" I muttered, staring down at the outhouse.

I'd grown up poor; living in council housing, mum cleaning offices till her hands cracked, dad dipping in and out of heroin like it was a hobby. Even so we'd always had a flushing loo. Basics, you know?

"Not their problem," Kent sighed, stomping a spider. "Or maybe always their problem, but nothing they can do about it. This isn't a council flat. It's the man's own property."

"Seriously?"

"Paperwork says it's his. Caldwell pays his rates, pays his poll tax - back when that was a thing - even pays his BBC license. Man's an upstanding citizen if you don't count the body in the backyard."

I nodded, filing that away. A Casterbrook graduate living in a slum like this? Didn't add up. Those lads were middle-class sorts who expected middle-class lives. Ray had scraped by on fortune-telling and the old age pension. Odd.

I gave that a harder thought.

Before I had come over DI Chandler had emailed what background his people could compile. It wasn’t much, or more accurately it was a long recitation of ‘not much’. Man hadn’t been invisible, just not worth taking a look at. Which? For a wizard being too normal was strange.

A Casterbrook graduate would have expected to be an officer, while this Caldwell fellow had been a truck driver who only rose to the rank of Corporal. A Casterbrook graduate would have expected a white-collar job after the war, while this Caldwell did casual labor between fortune telling gigs, not even qualifying for a commercial driving license. A Casterbrook graduate would read Latin, but all of the books in the Caldwell house were in English.

We were midway through cataloging the closets when the front door banged open.

Hostile voices filtered in. Locals, by the sound. Whitechapel folk were against the police on principle. Plus they defended their own, which Caldwell was and Kent and I very much were not.

A group clustered outside. I took in a couple of grizzled pensioners in flat caps, a mum with a pram glaring daggers, and one very ragged, skinny teenager pushing to the front. He was built of elbows and attitude, Oxfam clothes hanging off him like they'd been borrowed from a scarecrow. His eyes burned with defiance.

"Oi, rozzers!" he snapped, barging past the PC at the door before Kent could intervene. "What’s filth doing in Master Ray's house? Got no right, yeah?"

Kent stepped forward, hand on his radio. "Easy there, son. This is a crime scene. Back off.”

The kid planted himself in the living room, arms crossed. Up close, he was maybe sixteen. Malnourished, with bruises fading on his knuckles. That could be street fights or worse.

"Don’t see no warrant."

I held up a hand to Kent, who looked ready to cuff him. "Easy, mate. DC Peter Grant, Met Police. This is DC Kent. And you are...?"

"Alpertonious," he spat, like it was a challenge.

“Last name?”

"That's enough for your sort. I don't give no last name to the rozzers. Got the right to stay silent, don't I?"

Kent snorted. "Alpertonious? Sounds like a knockoff superhero. You're trespassing, kid. And those knives on the wall? Bit sus for a scrote like you. Think I'll be taking you in. Knife crimes, maybe. Or just for being a chav."

The kid's eyes narrowed, but he didn't back down. "Trespassing? This is Master Ray's place! I'm his apprentice. I got a key and everything.”

"Apprentice?” That pinged my Falcon radar. "Apprentice, eh? What job we talking about?"

Alpertonious puffed up, chest out. "Master Ray's a great and powerful wizard. He can summon fire from nothing. Proves he's the real deal."

Kent rolled his eyes. "Wizard? Pull the other one. This ain't Hogwarts."

To prove his point, or maybe out of sheer bravado, Alpertonious muttered something under his breath. His hands twisted in a crude forma. A faint glow flickered in his palm.

His lux was weak as a dying match, sputtering and dim, but it was real. Newtonian forma. No question.

Vestigia flared briefly, stale shandy and a pop like a sparkler on Bonfire Night.

Kent blinked, tea forgotten. "What the?"

I was impressed. Impressed and worried. Untrained practitioners were like roadside IED’s. One wrong inflection and boom.

"That's the real deal," I said, more to Kent than the kid. "Werelight. Basic, but legit."

Alpertonious smirked. "See? Master Ray taught me. He's don’t do nothing wrong, I tell ya. That body was probably some war thing. Blitz rubbish."

Kent recovered, scowling. "Doesn't change the trespassing. Or the knives. Come on, kid. Hands behind your back."

"Hold up," I interjected. One because I didn’t much like that type of policing, but second because I had the proverbial bigger stick. Or stave. Time to assert some wizardly authority.

I formed my own werelight. I made it a proper one, bright and steady, hovering like a mini sun. "By the Forms and Wisdoms and by the Livery of the Society of the Wise, I command you to stand down and cooperate."

The kid's eyes widened. The glow in his hand flickering out. But obedience? Not so much.

"Forms and what? You ain't my Master. Bugger off."

Kent laughed outright. "Senior wizard card didn't work, eh? Told ya. Easier to arrest him for the knives."

I dimmed my light, switching to banter mode. Pop culture refs usually worked on teens. "Look, Alpertonious. Cool name, by the way, like a Doctor Who villain. If you're really Ray's apprentice, prove it. Come back with us to see him. He's at our place, safe. We can chat proper."

The kid hesitated, defiance cracking. "He's... alright? Ain't nobody hurting him?"

"Swear on my stave. I left him drinking tea and eating kippers.” I held up my hand. “Not a word of a lie. Wizard’s Oath.”

“No obligation?”

Ah, so he had learned at least that much.

I considered the point. No way he’d believe me if I said anything was free.

“One. You gotta tell me. Why 'Alpertonious'? And what's the deal with home? You look like you've been roughing it."

"Alright, kid.” Kent stepped back. “No cuffs. But you have to make a statement."

He shuffled, glancing away.

“He can do that at our nick.”

"Fine.” The kid grabbed a jacket off the floor, which I suppose did prove that he lived here. “But only after I see Master Ray."

We wrapped the search. We had found nothing murderous, just endless junk. Alpertonious locked the place and I headed out, kid in tow. Locals dispersed, muttering.

XOXOXO

Snippets came out as Chuck and I took the Elizabeth Line back. That was his real name, Chuck Perkins, but he hated it. Him mum was…gone. Probably dead but he didn’t know that for sure. His dad was a bastard, beat him black and blue. He ran away. He got beat worse. Eventually he crashed with Ray, who fed him and taught him the ‘arts.’

From the scattered recitation he had been a good student. What Ray taught was mostly woo-woo, but there would be no convincing Chuck. That werelight had hooked him.

Alpertonious. I made a note, figuring that using the preferred name would get more cooperation.

"Master Ray's my family now. Only one what cares."

As we stepped up to the Folly, I caught Ray peeking from the window. His eyes lit up seeing Alpertonious. A frail hand waved.

When we made it up to Ray’s room, the old man was seated in a lounge chair. He perked up at Alpertonious, smiled even, but still wouldn't speak. Not a word.

Chapter Text

I anticipated meeting DI Joseph Chandler later to go over the full autopsy report on the backyard body, but first, I needed to dig deeper into Ray’s situation. The Folly’s library should have been my next stop, but I paused outside Ray’s room, catching Molly’s eye as she swept in with a tray of black pudding and eggs.

She hissed at me, a sharp sound like a kettle boiling over, and I raised my hands in surrender.

“Alright, alright,” I said, backing off. “Just keep him comfy, yeah?”

She didn’t reply. She never did. Maybe her glare softened as she turned back to Ray, adjusting his blanket with a gentleness that was frankly unnerving. Molly, maternal? Wonders never ceased.

The Folly's guest room was starting to feel like a stage set for a period drama gone wrong. We had the four-poster bed overwhelming Ray Caldwell’s frail weight, and Molly flitting about like a silent, disapproving director. The curtains were open. Morning light filtered through the diamond-paned windows, casting long shadows across the Persian rug underfoot.

Ray was propped up against a pile of pillows, looking marginally less like death warmed over. Dr. Abdul Haqq Walid had been in earlier. Severe hyperthaumaturgical degradation was progressing, but he was stable for now. I watched him jab a fork into Molly’s breakfast offering with a steadiness that belied his ninety-nine years.

He’d even murmured another “Ta sweetie” to her, although the second I tried asking about the werelights or the body in his backyard, his lips twitched and sealed shut. Geas, definitely. The kind of magical gag order that made you wonder who’d been cruel enough to bind an old codger like that.

Alpertonious (Chuck Perkins, though he’d sooner spit than answer to it) was in the breakfast room with a plate of Molly’s overly-full-English and strict instructions not to touch anything else. The kid was all chav bravado and half-baked magic. I’d need to deal with social services at some point but tight now the Ray’s face had lit up at seeing the kid suggested a bond worth probing. Family, Chuck had called it. Found family, maybe. There was the kind you build when the world’s kicked you in the teeth.

Downstairs, the library shelves towered to the ceiling, crammed with Newtonian texts, practitioners’’ journals, and the occasional Victorian novel Nightingale read for nostalgia. I was after the Casterbrook records. What little Abigail had computerized confirmed he was class of ’38, but Nightingale’s vague recollection of ‘quiet sort, didn’t stay with the arts’ didn’t add up with a man slinging werelights at ninety-nine.

I pulled a blue-bound ledger from the shelf, its pages brittle and yellowed, and flipped to the end of the 1930s. He was, for a shock, not hard to find. Reginald Arthur Caldwell; sworn wizard, middling grades, no notable achievements. Birding Club Secretary for one year, which probably wasn’t actionable to anything but I figured got him bullied by the rugby crew. A footnote involving school fees mentioned he’d inherited a small income and a Whitechapel property. One guess what that was. Even in the pre-war years that place would have been nothing posh. Maybe enough to scrape by. The school ledger implied it was a rental. Fair enough. No mention of what Caldwell did post-graduation, which was odd. Most Casterbrook lads went into national service; Folly, military, or some colonial posting. Not fortune-telling in a slum. Plus in 1938 he wouldn’t have had much choice. That was nearly the war years.

I was mulling who I could action when my phone buzzed. Text from Chandler: Autopsy report’s in. Meet me at Whitechapel, 11 AM. Bring your wizard hat.

I smirked. Chandler’s dry humor was growing on me.

I pocketed the phone and headed out, but not before swinging by to check on Chuck. He was sprawled on a couch, crumbs on his hoodie, flipping through one of my old sci-fi paperbacks.

“Oi, don’t get jam on that,” I said, nodding at the book. “It’s a first edition.”

He snorted. “Rubbish, innit? Aliens and lasers. Master Ray’s stuff’s better.”

“Crystals and pyramids? That’s not magic, mate. It’s performance art for the gullible.”

He gave me a two-finger salute. “Just be looking after Master Ray, yeah? He’s proper good, you know. Took me in when no one else would.”

“I hear you,” I said, softening. “We’re figuring it out.”

I tossed the kid one of the bulk-purchased limited-minute pay-as-you go phones I kept as loaners. Necessary when magic would fry too many good devices. “Stay put. I’m off to Whitechapel. You watch your old man and call me if he gets worse, ok?”

That, I had faith he would do.

XOXOXO

Whitechapel nick was its usual hive of activity when I arrived. Chandler was in his office, desk as pristine as ever, but his tie was slightly askew. I spotted it as a sign of stress.

He waved me in, skipping the handshake ritual.

“Grant,” he said, sliding a file across the desk. “Pathologist’s report. Not pretty.”

I flipped it open. The body from Ray’s backyard was male, likely late-twenties at time of death, and as we already knew his skull had been crushed by a single heavy blow. DNA was back on the wrench and we had our murder weapon. Not that anyone had held any doubts.

His clothing dated to the mid 1940’s. One threadbare suit of Utility cut. One woolen vest which was not, and had probably been purchased outside of Great Britian. Style suggested pre-war. From the fabric the suggestion was Ireland. Thread analysis suggested the buttons had been replaced at least once. Was that poverty or just the make-do-and-mend era? Two well-worn shoes of excellent quality. They had been re-soled, also probably not in Great Britian. Cufflinks and tie tack of base metal now rusted beyond specific recognition. Not a rich dude, then. Socks, shirt, and underwear were gone to putrefaction but had once existed. No indication they were anything other than a match for the timeline. No hat.

The victim had two conflicting IDs. One pocket had held an Irish National Identity Card for Barnaby O’Malley, issued 1943. Now confirmed as not a forgery. War records were actually quite good and O’Malley had been on the roles. The pathologist’s office had also found fragments of an empty ration book, definitely Irish and by what ink survived probably in the same name.

In his wallet the man had seven pounds in then-contemporary bills and a driver’s license issued in Henley-on-Thames for for one Reginald Arthur Caldwell. It was dated 1939. Those came in booklet form and didn’t include a photo. Fortunately there was also the remnant of a Public Service Card, and those did come with photos. The result was grainy, but the face did match Ray’s, making allowance for age. Both documents had also been confirmed as probably not forgeries. At least not modern ones.

Another interesting conflict, given that the OSC went only to civilian officials, and Ray Caldwell had spent his war in the army.

Two IDs, one body,” I said, tapping the file. “Either someone was playing fast and loose with identity, or we’ve got a mix-up.”

I wondered if it would be worth putting out a call for coworkers of either of these names. Not the bosses. Those would be dead. Was there any chance of a contemporary survivor? Younger co-worker? I made a note and set the thought aside.

Chandler rubbed his temples. “The war muddies it. Bombings, deserters, missing persons. Whitechapel’s files from the forties are a mess. Half the population was displaced, the other half were buying counterfeit ration coupons, and any number of pre-war records were lost in the Blitz. We’ve got dozens of missing person reports from that era. Most of them are solved when the bodies turn up years later identified as bomb victims. This one’s murder, no question. And” he gave me a sharp glare, “your man’s not talking.”

“Not a peep,” I confirmed. “Geas. Magical compulsion to keep quiet. Plus, his face did this... twitch thing near our dampener cell. Glamour, maybe.”

Chandler’s eyes narrowed. “Like your Mr. Punch business?”

“You heard about that?”

“Everyone heard about that. Not officially but…”

But coppers gossiped worse than grannies.

“This one’s on your books now. Falcon inquiry.” He exhaled, visibly relieved. “I’m quite glad of that, truth be told, because if he dropped dead in my cells social services would have my head. Ninety-nine years old, for God’s sake. The man should be in care, but he’s licensed, pays his taxes. He’s competent, legally. One can’t touch him for that.”

I nodded, glancing at the file again. “I’ll action it from here on.”

“I can give you local support. I’ve got a bit of spare budget.”

I thanked him for that. Sincerely. He had evidence people to sort the house and the Folly did not.

“Anything else on the body proper?” I asked.

“Pathologist’s running DNA, but it’s degraded. Crossed finger time.”

Not that there would be any matches that far back but they might get a racial profile. The art was getting good.

“Anything on your end?” he pressed.

“Precious little so far. Got a kid who might prove useful. Not a witness. He’s Caldwell’s so-called apprentice. Chuck Perkins.” A thought hit me. “That’s something you might handle on this end. Kid is evidently a run away. Be useful to know away from just what.”

“Understood.” Chandler uncapped a fountain pen. “Give me the spelling on that.”

I did, adding “Calls himself Alpertonious.”

Chandler snorted. “Sounds like a handful.” He stood up, meaning our time was over. “Keep me posted, Grant. And... thanks. I don’t fancy explaining fried cameras to the super.”

XOXOXO

Back at the Folly, I found Alpertonious-not-Chuck in the kitchen. He was demolishing a plate of Molly’s ginger biscuits. She hovered nearby, not hissing for once, which was a minor miracle. The kid looked up from his phone, crumbs on his chin.

“Any news on Master Ray?” I asked.

“He’s resting” The kid gestured upward with a can of Red Bull. ”Doc says he’s tired but hanging in.”

“You want to tell me more about this apprenticeship? What’s he taught you, besides that werelight?”

“Major stuff!” Alpertonious checked me out, eyes guarded. “I know all the symbols and affiliations and can chart the damones of the seasons and I can name over one-hundred angels and their sigils and attributes. Plus I’ve memorized the Major Pentacles of the Elements and I’ve copied out my own Arbatel and most of the Ars Notoria".

“Tarot, runes, how to talk to spirits?” I asked.

“I’ve got the gift, yeah? Master Ray showed me the light trick first day I met him, and it only took like a week to do it back. I got real power over fire spirits.”

“Spirits?” I raised an eyebrow. “No spirits here, mate. That’s all nonsense.”

He bristled. “So you say. Master Ray says I’m his legacy. Gonna carry on his work.”

I softened, remembering my own days as the new kid, fumbling with forma under Nightingale’s hawk-like gaze.

“Alright, legacy. Just… you’ve gotta be careful. Magic’s not a game. Fry your brain, and you’re done. Stick around, maybe I’ll show you some proper forms.”

His eyes lit up, but he played it cool. “Maybe. If you ain’t a rubbish teacher.”

“Cheeky sod,” I said, grinning. Then, just to be a shit back, I said “Exspecta dum viginti paginas Latinae linguae interpretandas habeas.”

He stuck out his tounge. “Cum illo accentu, Latina mea iam melior est quam tua.”

“I didn’t know Master Ray spoke Latin.”

If he did, that would be another important clue.

“He don’t, but I got the internet, don’t I?”

Which was me put in my place.

I asked to see his books. Turns out that was why he had pick up his jacket. He had two spiral bound half-size notebooks of the type one got at a Pound store three to a pack. One was a pretty fair copy of the ‘Isagoge’ and the other had most of the Seals of Solmon meticulously sketched out. It was bollocks, of course, but I was impressed by his work ethic.

XOXOXO

Molly slid a thermos my way. It was proper builders. I took it as a peace offering. Chuck was growing on me. All attitude and no filter, like my cousin Abigail on a bad day. Maybe I could keep him from blowing himself up.

I headed over to the Tech Cave. Evidence had boxed up and delivered the few bits of material that, in their very professional opinion, were not utter tosh.

As I sifted through more of Ray’s junk a stack of yearly diaries caught my eye. They were all those twelve-page calendar things people used to use to organize appointments. Probably how he kept track of his work.

I sorted the lot, starting with this year just to check for reliability. Yes. He had recorded his appointment at the senior center. By the notes he had read from one to three in the afternoon and earned thirty-six pounds and eleven pence. I wasn’t sure how that worked out per unit. Did fake mediums charge by the card or the client? Either way it was poverty wages.

I sorted the remaining years in reverse order.

Yes. The base of the heap was a free advertising calendar labeled 1946. Only the last pages were filled. Scrawled entries had dates from just after the war. It seemed like it hadn’t taken our guy long to take up his side gig.

I did the material version of fast forward. What the heck had been going on in 1947?

Thank you, Mr. Diary. Ray had come home and moved in and found a local job. He’d noted his starting day plus the name and address. Damn useful if the place had been an ongoing concern. Which – quick search – it was not. Pity. He’d listed events at a few bars I knew from history. Mostly police history since they’d been raided back in the bad old days before the Met became multi-cultural and LGBTect friendly. Interesting. Mildly. More interesting were the reference to a ‘Mike’ who had moved in sometimes around the new year.

Mike fixed the kitchen. Pipe from work they won’t miss. Mike found a shovel. Neighbors gone so they won’t miss it. Two shilling for Mike to buy a new tarp. Mike helped with the problem. In the garden now. Heavy work, but done. Mike no worries. He’s with me.

Mike-no-last-name. Ray’s lover, maybe? Pity. Hard to action another biography search with just one name. Even so, the man mattered. No mention of a body, but the subtext screamed cover-up. I set it aside for evidence. A potential second suspect? The one who’d swung the wrench? Maybe, if he was a plumber. I made an action note. If he was drinking in those bars there was a fair chance he had been arrested at least once. Files could probably produce a photo.

I actioned Ray’s name for the same question. If he was drinking with Mike we might have a contemporary arrest photo for him as well. Hadn’t come up on the first search but old records were only partially on line. Someone might not have made a connection.

Maybe have someone go over seventy years of tell-your-future appointments and track the customers? Long shot but possible. The marks would be retired, or likely dead, but clubs and businesses lasted longer. If they paid by check they might have address files for one or both.

Useless long shots.

My mind turned to the glamour. If it was holding Ray together, probing it could kill him. But if it hid the truth, we needed answers.

XOXOXO

Upstairs Ray was awake. Alpertonious perched on the bed’s edge, regaling him with tales of some show he’d seen online. Ray smiled faintly, but his eyes were distant, lips tightening when I mentioned the house.

“Your place is safe,” I assured him. “But we need to talk about the body, Ray. Help me out.”

Silence. The geas held firm.

As the kid chattered on, Ray’s hand reached for his, frail fingers squeezing tight. Family, indeed. This case was a tangle. Magic, murder, and a boy who needed saving. I could feel Whitechapel watching, waiting for me to dig deeper.

Chapter Text

The notebook from Ray’s house was burning a hole in my evidence bag. Metaphorically, that is. its cryptic reference to “Mike” and “the garden” nagging at me like a splinter. We should have everything we needed to solve this. We had the body, we had the crime scene, and we most certainly had the suspect. Ray Caldwell was upstairs, tucked into the guest room, while Chuck (who was still insisting on “Alpertonious”) was in the mundane library burning bandwith on Candy Crush.

The kid was a problem for later. Right now, I needed answers. In the way of that was the glamour and geas keeping Ray silent.

Thomas Nightingale was back from a side case. Some hedge-witch in Camden had been causing a ruckus with misfired love charms. Magic. Fraud if it didn’t work. Trouble if it did.

He was in the library, as usual, listening to BBC on the radio. His bespoke jacket hung neatly on a chair, shirtsleeves rolled up, revealing forearms that looked too strong for a man who’d been born before the Great War. The backward-aging thing still threw me. He was pushing a century, but you’d peg him for forty on a good day.

“Peter,” he said, clicking off the music. “I trust our guest hasn’t set fire to anything?”

“Not yet,” I replied, dropping into the armchair opposite. “He’s got Molly wrapped around his finger, which is frankly scarier.”

Nightingale’s lips twitched. “Molly has a soft spot for practitioners, however eccentric. What’s the latest on Mr. Caldwell?”

I laid out the evidence bag, sliding the calendar across the table. “Found this at his place. Dates from what we think is the time of the murder. Mentions a ‘Mike’ helping with the garden. Normally not suspicious but if there was ever a vegetable in that plot I’ll eat Molly’s goat curry.” Even with my love of spice that was a death dare. “Only open space is the same spot where the body turned up.”

“Probative,” he agreed.

“Plus Ray’s face did that twitch thing again when I mentioned the house. Glamour’s holding, but it’s fragile. Geas too. He talks to Molly and I’d bet he talks to the boy for all that he clams up tighter than a bank vault when I push on the murder.”

“My first guess, back when I learned police work, would have been that some spiv robbed the gentleman for … well, for whatever reason you pick.”

I pointed out that the service had evolved beyond that. Also? “Dead man still had seven pounds. That good money back then?”

I thought it was, although my grasp of comparative economics was not flawless.

“A fair week’s wage.”

First thought was I’d seen men killed for less, but … no. That might serve for a crime of impulse but it wouldn’t pay for the labor of burial. Also, whoever had buried our man had left the wallet.

“Second guess?” I asked.

“Domestic gone bad?”

That could put a body in the back yard but it still didn’t explain leaving the money. Or, you know, staying in the house. Unless the dead man was Mike, which – no. Not in the time line. Plus, although we keep this quiet, wizards know other tricks for disposing of uncomfortable corpses.

Nightingale leaned forward, flipping through the notebook’s faded pages. His fingers paused on the entry about Mike, brow furrowing. “A glamour of this complexity, sustained for decades, is no small feat. Some of the Masters at Casterbrook taught such spells, though they were deemed doubtfully ethical even then. The geas is in some ways worse. Compulsion of that order risks eroding the mind over time. Whoever cast these was either desperate or ruthless.”

“Or both,” I said, thinking of the body with two IDs. “The corpse had a driver’s license for Reginald Arthur Caldwell, same as our Ray, but he also had an Irish ration book for a Barnaby O’Malley. I’ll take a long bet on identity swap, magical style. Like a Doctor Who body-swap episode, but with higher stakes.”

Nightingale raised an eyebrow. “Your metaphors remain colorful. Are you are suggesting that Mr. O’Malley somehow replaced Caldwell? You have the problem of our guest’s presence here. An identity swap would not explain the wards’ acceptance.”

“They would if one wizard swapped with another,” I countered. “The wards recognize Newtonian training, not faces. If our current Caldwell studied the Forms and Wisdoms, at Casterbrook or anywhere, he’d pass muster glamour or no.”

“True. But then you would need a hypothetical third character. We do not list a Barnaby O’Malley as a wizard.”

Which was rather a set-back, because the same facts that made me doubt the current Ray would apply to any other Casterbrook graduate. Not poor enough, not desperate enough, not educated enough, not foolish enough to risk suicide by magic.

“Could it be Albert Woodville-Gentle’s work?” I asked, testing a theory. Woodville-Gentle, later known as the Faceless Man (version one), had been a dodgy Oxford scholar in the late ’30s, teaching magic to a select few before going full dark side. He had turned people into animals so could he have turned people into other people? So to speak. If anyone could fool a ward it would be him. “Timeline fits. If Caldwell went to Oxford after Casterbrook? Perhaps, say, ’39, he would’ve crossed paths with Woodville-Gentle. There is the chance he learned some nasty tricks.”

Nightingale’s expression darkened. “Possible, but unlikely. Woodville-Gentle was selective. He wouldn’t waste time on an untalented student. Our Mr. Caldwell, by your account, knows only one spell. Hardly the makings of a prodigy.”

“Unless we don’t have the real Caldwell,” I said, the pieces clicking. “What if someone else took his place? It’s not someone Caldwell replacing someone O’Malley, it’s someone else passing himself off as our Caldwell. Wacked the guy, glamoured up, went to war in his stead? Got fucked over somehow when he didn’t get… whatever. The real Caldwell could be our backyard body.”

Nightingale leaned back, steepling his fingers. “A bold hypothesis. But the magic doesn’t lie. Wards confirm the man upstairs is a practitioner.”

“Barely a practitioner.” I thought some more. “Alpertonious just told me he picked up lux in a week. That’s from the least informed wizard I’ve ever met.”

Nightengale considered the point. One week was a very sharp learning curve. Of course, the kid might have been lying. Then again, Lesley May had picked up the arts almost that fast. Probably Abigail had managed as well. If Casterbrook Caldwell had been focused and Ray upstairs had been determined? Could have worked.

I could see where he reached the same conclusion I had.

“We’ll need to test the glamour carefully. Probing it could trigger hyperthaumaturgical degradation, especially at his age.”

“His brain’s already bad,” I said. “Walid’s worried he’s one bad spell away from a stroke. But we can’t let this slide.” I hated to think evil of the gaffer upstairs, but there is no statute of limitation on murder. “DI Chandler’s polite, but I can feel his worry about Whitechapel’s stats.”

As if summoned by his name, my phone buzzed. Speak of the devil.

“Grant, I’m outside. Can we talk?”

I glanced at Nightingale. “DI Chandler’s here.”

“Invite him in,” Nightingale said. “But keep him away from the library. His tendencies might not survive the clutter.”

I smirked and headed downstairs. The Detective Inspector was at the front gate, looking like he’d rather be anywhere else. His suit was pristine, but his eyes darted nervously, no doubt calculating the germs lurking in the Folly’s ancient brickwork.

I buzzed him in, keeping my distance. No handshake nonsense.

“Grant,” he said, voice clipped. “I don’t usually make house calls, but this case is driving me up the wall.”

We settled in the atrium, where Molly had left a tray of tea, Earl Grey, bags set in the side bowl, plus cream and sugar on the side. Chandler eyed it warily but took a cup, holding it like it might bite.

I put out the papers I had found, carefully flat in plastic sleeves. That was good evidence practice, but also just to keep down the OCD. Plastic gloves, plastic sleeve, and I’d spread an extra napkin on the table just to protect the lot from crumpet crumbs.

Chandler took notes on all we had found and promised to have his people follow up on Mike. Apparently police records had survived well, so it was just lack of budget that kept the older misdemeanors off the HOLMES network. That and certain bar-busts had been de-prioritized out of mutual embarrassment.

I gave a passing moment of fellow-sympathy for whichever misfortunate constable would end up ‘weeding the pansy garden’. Ignoring the obvious injustices? All coppers knew such records were pure procedural pain. Arrestee’s gave phony names, beat cops often hadn’t bothered to write down what they did get, intake would toss half the catch out because it was easier than making up files, and most of the time the whole thing was an exercise in shake-down and CYA.

“Whitechapel’s cursed, you know,” he said, half-joking. “At least your suspects die mysteriously; mine just vanish into paperwork. No offense, but your lot make my job harder.”

“None taken,” I said, sipping my tea. “We’re not exactly thrilled about geriatric wizards zapping our tech either. Ray’s stable, but silent. Geas has him locked down. I would love to find this fellow Mike who did a bit of digging in the rear yard. I have the feeling his sudden horticulture is tied to the body.”

“Motive?”

“We’re thinking identity swap, maybe wartime shenanigans.”

“Not like it never happened.” Chandler’s jaw tightened. “If Caldwell is our man I need a confession, Grant. If he’s not, I need a statement against whoever it was. That’s the only way to end this case without a trial. A closed settlement is our only way out. A centenarian in the dock? The press would have a field day.”

“I hear you. We’re working on the magic angle. Nightingale’s sniffing around the glamour. He’s got the skill to crack the geas without killing him.” And then, it went unsaid, we would have our confession or a denial. At this point either would suffice.

Chandler nodded, setting his cup down precisely on its saucer. “Keep me posted. And... thanks for taking this off my hands. I owe you another one.”

“Careful,” I said, grinning. “Keep owing me, and I’ll have you mopping the Folly’s floors.”

He snorted, a rare break in his composure. He left. I figured probably to sanitize his hands the second he hit the street.

XOXOXO

Back upstairs, I found Ray awake, Molly fussing over him with a fresh blanket. The kid was there too, perched on a chair, regaling Ray with some tale about Whitechapel. The old man’s eyes crinkled with a faint smile, but when I entered, his lips twitched, that telltale sign of the geas clamping down.

At my nod Nightingale tried a forma.

No disaster. That was good.

I tried a gentle probe. “Ray, we found your notebook. Mentioned Mike and the garden. Wanna tell me about him? Your mate from back in the day?”

His hands trembled, clutching the blanket. “My property,” he rasped, voice thin as paper. “It’s mine, yes? Worked for it. Alpertonious... he’s got nowhere else. Boy needs a home.”

Well, that was something. Words even.

Chuck’s head snapped up, eyes fierce. “I ain’t going nowhere, Master Ray. Told ya, you’re family.”

I seized the moment. “Ray, we’ll look after Chuck. Alpertonious. I’ll take him on, teach him all I know. Wizard’s Oath.”

I figured I already had Abigail, Toby, the foxes. What was one more stray?

I leaned closer, keeping my voice soft. “Obligation for obligation. You’ve got to help us. That body in your yard. What happened?”

His face twitched again, harder this time, skin rippling like water disturbed by a stone. Molly hissed, shoving me back with surprising strength. “Alright, alright,” I said, hands up. “No pushing. But Ray, we’re trying to protect you – and your son.”

Ray’s eyes softened, fixed on the kid. “Good lad,” he whispered. “Deserves better than I had.”

Molly’s glare could’ve melted steel, but she didn’t stop me from sitting nearby. The room felt heavy, vestigia swirling: pipe smoke, fear, and now a new note. Ice sharp as a blade. I didn’t push further. The glamour was too fragile, and I wasn’t about to risk HTD turning Ray into a vegetable.

Nightingale’s presence calmed the room like a cool breeze. He studied Ray, hands tracing subtle forma in the air. I could feel him testing the glamour’s edges.

“Dark work,” he murmured to me on the way out. “Possibly Woodville-Gentle’s school, though not his handiwork. Too crude for him. But the geas is tight. I can soften it but I can’t make Caldwell talk. Not against his will.”

Chapter Text

The Folly’s coach house was my sanctuary, a place of modern tech where I could think without the weight of the main house’s history pressing down. Morning light streamed through the skylight, glinting off my laptops and the sampling kit I’d left scattered on the workbench. I was nursing a mug of builder’s tea, flipping through Ray Caldwell’s notebook again, its cryptic scribbles about “Mike” and “the garden” nagging at me like a tune I couldn’t place.

I was starting to suspect the truth was uglier than a simple wartime murder. Chuck Perkins (still stubbornly ‘Alpertonious’ to anyone who’d listen) was sprawled on my couch, fiddling with a crystal ball he’d nicked from Ray’s hoard.

He’d been at the Folly a full day now, and while Molly kept him fed, his restless energy was like a live wire in a puddle. So far Minecraft was keeping him busy, but in he was way ahead of my score and I was worried what would happen when the free play ran out. I’d promised to take him on as an apprentice, but first, I needed to sort out Ray’s mess. Then I needed to figure out if Chuck’s werelight was a fluke or a sign of real potential.

“Oi, put that down,” I said, nodding at the crystal ball. “It’s not a toy. You break it, Molly’ll have you scrubbing pots till Christmas.”

Chuck rolled his eyes but set it aside. “Ain’t magic, is it? So you say. Looks cool, though.”

“Cool doesn’t mean useful,” I said, leaning back in my chair. “Real magic’s about precision, not waving shiny things about. You want to learn, you start with the basics. Forma, control, no woo-woo.”

He perked up, eyes gleaming. “Like the werelight? You gonna teach me how to make one like yours?”

“Maybe,” I said, keeping it noncommittal. “But first, you tell me about Ray. What’s his deal? He ever talk about the war, or this Mike bloke?”

Chuck’s face shuttered, loyalty kicking in. “Master Ray don’t talk much about old times.”

“He’s got to say something.”

“Says I shouldn’t join the army. Not for nothing.”

Interesting career advice. Having considered it myself, and having picked Henderson as an equivalent, I could see both sides of the option. I didn’t comment. Just looked intersted. Fair trick to get people talking.

It worked on the kid.

“Said war sucked. He drove a truck. Went to Egypt, which sounds cool but there was fleas. Didn’t see much fighting except for being bombed a lot. Lost some mates. Bad stuff.” He rubbed the crystal nervously. “Mike... yeah. He mentioned him sometimes. Old mate, helped him settle after. Sounded proper close, like brothers, yeah?”

“Brothers,” I repeated, filing that away. Lovers, more likely, given the era’s discretion and the notebook’s tone. “Anything else? Earlier? He ever mention Casterbrook?”

“What’s that?”

“A school.”

Chuck shrugged. “Nah. He never went to no school. They didn’t have to back then. Not so much. One of the reasons he liked it when I learned shit.”

“Casterbrook is where most people learn lux .”

More like everyone, but I didn’t want to put the kids back up.
“Ray said he learned the light trick from some posh sort in a bar. Never went to no school, though. Not after he was eleven.”

That stopped me cold. Casterbrook was the Folly’s training ground. Every wizard worth their stave went through it in the ’30s. (Well, there or Germany, but Germany was a whole other bottle of poison. Plus the time was wrong and by the thirties there were no English exchange students. Plus this was not some Netflix spy show.) Ray’s file said class of ’38, but if he was denying it… I let it slide, not wanting to spook the kid. “Alright. Stay put, yeah? I’ve got work to do. And no magic near the computer.”

XOXOXO

I detoured upstairs to check on Ray. The guest room was dim, curtains drawn against the August heat. Molly had been in, leaving scones and tea.

Ray was awake, propped against pillows, looking frailer than ever but with a spark in his eyes. He smiled faintly as I entered, but his lips twitched when I mentioned the notebook. Maybe the geas. Maybe just pure cussedness.

“Morning, Ray,” I said, pulling up a chair. “Feeling chatty today?”

He shook his head, voice a rasp. “House is safe, yes? And the boy?”
“Alpertonious?” I said. “Safe as houses. He’s out back draining my soda supply. I’m looking after him. You heard me promise. But Ray, we need to talk about that body. Someone who pissed off Mike, maybe? Help me out, Ray.”

Molly hissed from the doorway.

I backed off, hands raised. “Alright, no pushing. Just… think about it. One answer and you can go home.”

XOXOXO

Nightingale was waiting in the library, a grim expression on his face. He’d been digging through old Folly records, cross-referencing with Oxford’s magical archives. A stack of ledgers sat on the table, one open to a list of Casterbrook graduates. “Peter,” he said, not looking up. “I’ve found something. Or rather, a disturbing lack of something. Reginald Arthur Caldwell is listed, yes. Class of ’38, as you said. But his record ends abruptly. No postings, no Folly assignments. Most of his peers joined the war effort—officers, intelligence, or our own operations. Caldwell… vanishes.”

“Vanishes?” I leaned over, scanning the page. “But he’s here now. He’s got the income, the Whitechapel house. And the wards let him in like he’s one of us.”

“Indeed.” Nightingale tapped a finger on the ledger. “Which suggests he’s a trained practitioner, but not the Caldwell from our records. I’ve also checked Oxford’s rolls. Young Caldwell had enrolled there in ’39 but did not attend. That is not unusual for young men who transferred to the services, but…”

I walked over to look at the faded script.

“There is no record of him in any military service,” Nightingale continued. “Not British, not American, not even the Free French. Nor was he in the Red Cross or any exempt agency. Nor was he a Bevin Boy.”

“Try this idea.” I gave Toby a scratch. Comfort for me more than the pup. “War’s coming, people get desperate. Maybe the real Caldwell paid someone to swap places, dodge the draft.”

Nightingale nodded. “Plausible. People certainly did that. Not sure how you’d get confirmation.”

Neither was I.

“What we need is a confession.”

I was starting to piece together a story that felt like a punch to the gut. Ray wasn’t Reginald Arthur Caldwell, Casterbrook class of ’38. He was someone else, glamoured up to steal a life, bound by magic to keep silent about it. (A classmate? A hedge-wizard? Some country wizard’s kid?) The body in the backyard? That was the real Caldwell, killed to protect the lie. Or killed for revenge? Or perhaps, if our self-study wizard had figured out the shape of the glamor, perhaps killed to protect life.

Thomas Nightingale paced by the fireplace, immaculate despite the August heat. He glanced occassionally at the yellowed Casterbrook ledger, his expression a mix of consideration and something darker. Regret, maybe, for the lost wizards of his era. He’d been at it for hours, cross-referencing names and dates, trying to pin down who Ray might really be. The wards had accepted him as a practitioner, but the glamour and geas were crude and unethical, the kind of magic the Folly had outlawed even before the Ettersberg horrors.

“Peter,” Nightingale said, closing the ledger with a soft thud. “The glamour’s fraying. He’s weakening. If we don’t act soon, hyperthaumaturgical degradation may claim him before we get answers.”

I nodded, setting the notebook aside. “Walid’s been clear. One wrong move, and Ray’s gone. But we need the truth. For the boys sake if nothing else.”

Nightingale’s lips twitched “There’s an ethical dilemma here. The spells used are deeply rooted, decades old, possibly cast with malicious intent. Forcing the truth could kill him.”

“If he is a murderer?”

“You would still insist it is not our purview to administer revenge.”

“I think, for the boy, he’d agree and help us.”

Nightingale picked up his cane. I knew that one. It was the stave he reserved for serious power work. “We must proceed with care.”

“Let’s do this.”

We headed upstairs to the guest room, where Ray lay propped against pillows, looking like a parchment sketch of a man. Dr. Wallid was in attendance. Molly hovered nearby, her eyes sharp with that eerie protectiveness she reserved for wizards.

Chuck (I still had a hard time with Alpertonious) sat cross-legged on the foot of the bed clutching a dog-eared tarot deck he’d brought from Ray’s house. The kid’s face was a storm of worry and defiance. His loyalty to Ray unshakable.

“Master Ray,” Chuck said, voice cracking. “These rozzers ain’t gonna hurt you, yeah?”

Ray’s eyes softened, his frail hand reaching for Chuck’s. “Good lad,” he rasped, voice like dry paper. “You’ll be fine. All mine… it’s yours. Keep the art alive.”

I exchanged a glance with Nightingale. That house, that Whitechapel hovel, was a key piece of the puzzle, tied to the real Caldwell’s inheritance. If Ray was an impostor, that property was stolen, along with the life. I knelt beside the bed, keeping my tone gentle. “Ray, we’re trying to help. The body in your yard? Mike’s involved, isn’t he? Tell us what happened and we’ll do our best for you.”

“Oath?”

“Oath.”

His lips twitched, the glamour rippling faintly across his face—nose elongating, cheeks hollowing, then snapping back. The geas was fighting, clamping his tongue. Nightingale stepped forward, hands tracing a delicate forma. Scindere vincula, a spell to loosen bindings. His voice was low, almost a chant, as he wove the magic. The air thickened, vestigia.

Ray’s eyes widened, his breath hitching. “Got to get things right.”

“Easy,” I said, glancing at Walid. No red flags yet. “Ray, you’re safe. Just let it go.”

Nightingale’s spell tightened, a soft glow pulsing from his hands. The geas cracked. Not vanished but fractured like ice under a boot.

Ray gasped, words spilling out in a rush. “Bert… Bert Crapper. That’s me. Not Caldwell. Never was.”

“Bert, why the swap? Why’d Caldwell do it?”

His face twitched, but the words came easier now. “He was scared. War coming, wizards dying. He found me. I was a street kid, no place to live, nothing to lose. Probably going to die anyway. He promised me magic, money, the house. Said I’d be him, have his life. Glamour made me look right, geas kept me silent.”

“You disagreed?” It was only formally a question, but I needed to ask on the record.

“Agreed to swap. Didn’t agree to turn back.”

“Why?”

“Learned. In Egypt. Good place for it. Never had much talent but I could read. I could listen. Figured out what the face spell was, what it would do. Knew it’d kill me to take it off. When he showed up I guessed he had always planned to come back after, reclaim it all. Didn’t care what happened to me.”

I leaned closer, heart pounding. “The real Caldwell? The body in the yard?”

Ray nodded, eyes distant. “Mike. My friend. Lover. He protected me. Always.”

“That day?”

“Caldwell tried a spell. Compulsion. I had a little charm but… nothing like him. But not a coward. I fought him, I did.”

“With a wrench?”

“Mike had the wrench. One swing. Bang. No more compulsion.”

Well yes. That would do it. Not that I would put that statement on the record.

“Buried him out back. Self-defense, I swear. Never wanted to kill.”

Chuck’s jaw dropped, the tarot deck slipping from his hands.

“Master Ray… you ain’t Caldwell?”

“No, lad,” Ray whispered. “Just Bert. A poor boy pretending to be someone else. Geas kept me quiet. It hurt to speak. But you. You can be real. My legacy. All yours now.”

Ray – make that Bert – fell back exhausted.

“So now we know.” Nightingale paused the spell, his expression grim. “The glamour’s still lethal, Peter. Removing it fully would kill him. The geas is weaker now. He can speak. Still we must tread lightly.”

Walid checked the EEG, frowning. “He’s stable, but barely. Neural damage is extensive. If we push further, we risk a cascade.”

I nodded, turning back to the old man. “Your choice.”

Man should have at least one. One in a lifetime.

He looked at Nightingale. “Do it.”

The room felt heavier, vestigia swirling like a storm. A sudden flare erupted. Ray’s glamour was destabilizing, sending out a pulse of magic. The air shimmered, and for a moment, I saw ghosts. wartime London, bombs falling, rations clutched tight, a man digging in a dark yard. A young boy who looked nothing like the man before me. The images flickered, fading as I threw up a shield forma to contain the surge.

Chuck yelped, diving under the bed.

“Steady,” Nightingale said, reinforcing the shield. The flare subsided, leaving the room quiet again, but the man in the bed was changed. Still ancient, but with a new face. I thought he would have been handsome if he had ever been himself.

“Bert,” I said, keeping my voice calm. “You survived the war, made a life. Why the woo-woo stuff? Crowley, pyramids, all that?”

He managed a weak smile. “Wanted the magic. Tried so hard. Bastard only taught me the werelight. No power. Just a flit to impress the punters. Kept me going. Taught lads like Alpertonious. Gave ’em hope. All I had.”

Chuck crawled out, eyes wide. “You’re still my Master. Don’t matter what you’re called.”

I put a hand on the kid’s shoulder. “He’s right, Bert. You did good by him.”

I waited while they hugged.

“We need to close this. DI Chandler’s coming to take your statement. You tell him everything, we’ll make sure Chuck’s sorted. Deal?”

Bert nodded, exhausted. “Deal. House to the boy. And… you teach him proper, yeah?”

“Promise,” I said, glancing at Nightingale.

“But mate?” I gave him a squeeze. “You’ve gotta ditch ‘Alpertonious.’ I ain’t introducing you to the murder team with that.”

Chuck grinned, a spark of his old bravado. “Fine. Call me… Alex. Sounds wizardly, yeah?”

“Better,” I said, ruffling his hair. Molly hissed, but it was half-hearted.

XOXOXO

Chandler arrived half an hour later, looking like he’d sanitized his soul before stepping into the Folly.

We had a recorder on the bedside table. Old-school, no tech to fry. Bert, propped up, gave his full confession: the swap in ’39, the glamour and geas, surviving Egypt, learning odd bits. Then the trip home. Making a life in Whitechapel. Real Caldwell showing up, expecting to take it all back. Mike’s fatal wrench swing. Self-defense, he insisted, and the details matched. Fear, not malice.

Chandler listened, his face a mask of professional calm, but I caught the relief in his eyes. A confession, even without a trial, was better than another Whitechapel ghost.

“Sign here,” Chandler said, sliding a statement form to Bert.

“Not yet. Thing to do.”

First, Bert insisted on a will. It was a scrawl on Folly stationery but legal. Everything he had to “Alex Perkins aka Chuck Perkins.” Then, with the whole company watching I administered the apprentice oath, the same one I’d taken under Nightingale. “By the Forms and Wisdoms of Newtonian Praxis…”

“I never got that,” he whispered. “Love you, lad.” Bert’s eyes glistened, a sad smile crossing his face. “Guess I’m ready now.”

Nightingale stepped forward, hands moving in a final forma to fully lift the geas. The air crackled, vestigia flaring once more. It felt less violent this time, but heavier with release.

Bert’s face rippled, the glamour dissolving. For a brief moment, I saw his true form: Bert Crapper, age thirteen, a street kid’s features frozen in time.

Then HTD took hold.

His breath slowed. His eyes closed peacefully. The EEG flatlined, and Walid shook his head.

“He’s gone,” he said softly. “Peaceful, at least.”

Chuck - Alpertonious – Alex – was clutching Bert’s hand, tears streaking his face. “He was my family.”

“I know,” I said, my own throat tight. “And you were his. I respect that. Promise.”

We watched, a wizard’s vigil, as Bert’s body withered and dissolved. Dust to dust.

Chandler sighed, clicking off the recorder. “No body for autopsy now. Magical dissolution, I presume?”

“You have the confession. That’s better than usual.”

“We have no chance of getting a conviction. Not with that ex parte statement.”

“But you can charge the dead man with assault without ABH and attempted kidnapping. Down charge the death to accidental in consideration of self-defense. Then all you have is unlawful burial. Put it in your misdemeanor statistics and ask the judge to wave the fine on account of Bert’s age and poverty.”

“And his being deceased?”

“I’d write ‘and prior honorable military service’. Looks better on paper.”

Chandler managed a wry smile. “You’ve got a knack for loopholes, Grant.”

“Wizard privilege,” I said, trying to lighten the mood. “You’re welcome.”

Nightingale stood by the window, gazing out at the darkening sky. “Another lost soul from the war,” he murmured. “So many never came back. We failed them, Peter.”

“Not this time,” I said. “Bert got to tell his truth. And Alex? He’s ours now.” The room fell silent, the Thames’s whispers faint in the distance. Bert Crapper’s life, stolen and reclaimed, was over. For Alex the story was just beginning.”

Chapter Text

The Folly’s atrium was bathed in the soft glow of evening, the chandeliers casting flickering patterns across the polished parquet floor. The air carried the usual mix of old magic and a faint whiff of Molly’s latest culinary experiment. It was something involving rosemary and a worrying hint of brimstone. Outside, London hummed with its usual chaos: electric cabs zipping through Russell Square, smart lights flickering under the strain of the city’s latent vestigia.

It was two days since Bert Crapper (Ray Caldwell no more) had passed.

The confession he’d given to DI Chandler had answered our questions, but true to Whitechapel’s cursed luck, there had been no body left for the coroner. Magical dissolution, Walid called it. His body had been held here by pure force of Caldwell’s spell, perhaps for decades beyond Bert’s natural life, and like all such creations of fairie dissolved as the magia faded.

I was left with ash and echoes. No conviction, no closure, just another ghost for the station’s stats.

Also, uncomfortably, with a grudging respect for actual-Caldwell. He was a coward and a cad, but clearly one hell of a determined wizard. Which just went to show… who the fuck knows what. Mostly that you couldn’t tell about people. Reg had the power. Bert had the drive. I had… just plain luck, really. In another world I’d have been an architect. In a different other world I’d have maybe been been driving Bert’s truck. (Because unlike Bert my councilors had been very clear on the idea that national service was the place for broke young men who needed to learn some impulse control.) As for Chuck-now-Alex? An abused teen could end in a nice foster home or a nasty jail cell, or - improbably - in a secret wizard’s hidden den or in… wherever he and we were going from here. Again to quote my honored father … who the fuck knows.

Bert’s story was a tragedy wrapped in a con. Would have made a fair teen pulp. A street kid glamoured into a wizard’s life, bound by a geas to keep silent, surviving a war only to kill to protect his stolen identity. Only thing missing was the dragon and the romantic lead. Kid was cleaning up decent. I figured he’d get the girl in time.

I was sprawled in the library, a mug of coffee cooling on the table, surrounded by the detritus of the case: Bert’s calendars, Casterbrook ledgers, and the stack of Chandler’s potential files looking for the still-missing Mike. He was dead, of course, but we needed name and history finish the case.

Nightingale entered wearing a cashmere cardigan that made him look like a history professor on sabbatical. He carried a thin file with the stamp of the Met’s evidence lab.

“Peter,” he said, settling into the armchair opposite. “I ordered a deep search of all records. Bert Crapper’s name appears nowhere. He was a ghost, even before the glamour.”

I nodded, sipping my coffee. “Makes sense. Street kid, no papers, perfect for a swap. The real Caldwell played a dirty game. Promised a desperate kid a fairy tale, then plotted to snatch it back once the risk was past. Probably he knew the removal would be lethal. Maybe he didn’t know and didn’t care.”

“Or he didn’t count on a child in a man’s body surviving the war?” Nightingale helped himself to his own cup.

“Didn’t count on Mike’s wrench.”

I was less certain that R. A. Caldwell had wanted to go back to his own life. Poverty in a slum? Would have been worse in the immediate post-war. I made a quick note to action O’Malley. See what he had been up to. Ireland at the time had also been… difficult. Maybe Caldwell’s new life hadn’t been working out for him.

I mentally tracked the options. “Probably he planned Bert’s death all along. Or at least that night. Too much risk to let the kid live and talk. Normal people wouldn’t believe the story but if it got back to the Folly?”

“I’d have looked into it.”

“Even if there wasn’t a crime?” Because magic was one of those hazy things. We were still trying to set exact procedures and definitions as to what was an offense and what was just ‘action against the Agreements’. Nightingale had been comfortable in tossing most of the problems under ‘Disruption of the King’s Peace’ but I was not.

“Draft dodging is.”

“If you could prove it.” Which, no. Not even now when at least there was plastic surgery and it would have been harder back in the ‘rational post-war’. “I was thinking more that pulling dodgy spells would ruin Reginald Arthur Caldwell’s reputation. Get him tossed out of the wizard club.”

“A grim business,” Nightingale said, his voice heavy. “The war bred desperation. Wizards were not immune. Bert’s survival, his persistence… remarkable, in its way.”

“Remarkable’s one word for it,” I said, flipping through the notebook. “He built a life on lies. Not just his identity. All the fortune-telling, fake grimoires, teaching kids like Alex nonsense. But the thing is? He believed it. He was trying so damn hard. And that werelight? Real enough to fool everyone, including himself.”

Nightingale’s lips twitched. “And now we have young Alex. His potential is raw, but promising. You’ve taken on quite the menagerie, Peter.”

I groaned. “Don’t remind me. Abigail’s already texting me about ‘mentoring’ him. Says he needs a proper school, not my crash course in forma.”

Nightingale raised an eyebrow. “St. Paul’s, perhaps? Or there’s always Eton if he prefers to leave the city. It’s a fine path to Oxford, and these times favor university. Cambridge for the traditionalists, of course.”

I snorted. “A public boy’s school? Kid would start a riot before lunch.”

That got me the look of ‘this is a problem how?” School standards must have been seriously different in his day. But whatever my bosses’ delusions I knew there was no way I could palm the Alex off without breaking his trust for life.

“I went to a comprehensive.” I said. “Abigail too. On average, the Folly’s gone working class. Alex should stick with locals. Abigail can keep him in line. Kid’s not even going to school now, just a runaway. But he’s resigned to it.”

“Peter,” Nightingale cautioned, pouring a glass of brandy from a decanter that probably cost more than my car. “You’ve already taken on a great deal. Alex is no small responsibility.”

“Tell me about it,” I said, accepting a glass. “Beverly is going to drown me when I tell her our first kid is going to be older than her sisters. But magic doesn’t care about your postcode or your pedigree.”

“Wise,” Nightingale said. “But however little magic cares about pedigree , discipline is essential. He’ll need it, if he’s to avoid Bert’s mistakes.”

I’d actually thought Alex was a pretty good student. Not A-level yet, but his languages were well better than mine.

“Bert didn’t do so bad. Street kid to wizard.”

“Even if most of it was a lie?’

Before I could reply, my phone buzzed. Chandler, right on cue.

“Grant, I’m at Whitechapel. We’ve found something you’ll want to see.”

“Shall I come down? Or do you need my boss.”

“No need to travel. I’m just calling to share a bit of evidence that I suspect will wrap this up neatly.”

“Really? That would be a blessing. All we really have was the the rambling of a legal ghost.”

“Ghosts are Whitechapel’s specialty.” He actually sounded happy. Not his usual mode. “DC Kent’s dug up more on the house. We can send it over by messenger but I thought you’d want to hear it sooner.”

Maybe. The Folly lawyers had tracked down the real estate registration. It was confirmed the house had been in the Caldwell name since the ’30s. I tried to say all that politely but still…

“What you did not know is that DC Kent went through every scrap in that hovel and found a note from one R.A. Caldwell promising the property to one Bert Crapper, aka your Ray Caldwell, in 1939. Doesn’t give a reason beyond ‘services rendered’ but given long possession?”

Right. A judge would probably uphold the transfer.

“I’d call it a clean title, legally.” Chandler practically gloated at his favorite minion’s success.

“That is good news”, Nightingale cut in.

“Now it’s willed to young Alex, as I understand? No problems with that?”

“Not that I foresee.”

“Any plans?

That was a question for me. “Refurbish it. Make it livable for Alex. Rent it out until he’s old enough to decide if he wants to live there.”

It was not the best neighborhood, no, but like I said London property was impossible. The Whitechapel house brought a new meaning to the term a fixer-upper, but with some Folly funds (Nightingale had a knack for “liberating” budgets from obscure accounts) we could make it nice. Hire a decent architect and a good contractor? (Both of whom we had on record from our own repairs.) Put the bathroom inside as it should be. Maybe add on a bit. Place would price out like a small country mansion.

“Think he will?”

“He’s got what? Two years?” I ran some fast math. “Then it’s college which is what? Three years? Four? After that he’ll need a place of his own.”

Chandler raised an eyebrow. “A magical house in Whitechapel?

“It’s not like we’ll all want to pile into the Folly like some council stack.” I mean, I liked maid service and I was still itching for a house in a leafy burb. Probably Beverly’s.

“Won’t help my stats if he attracts more weirdness.”

I considered that Chandler attracted the weirdness all on his own. Not that I would dare say as much to a senior officer.

Thomas Nightingale laughed “We’ll do our best to be good neighbors.”

Kent broke in on the line. “One more thing. I dug up an old police report from 1950.”

“Mike?” I asked hopefully.

“Nah bro. Got ten of those.” He sounded proud of the fact. “All dead, none with family, so we’re planning to just let Crown Prosecutor pick one.”

“Then what?” I couldn’t think of any other loose ends.

“Missing person for one Reginald Arthur Caldwell, reported by a cousin. Case went cold. No trace. That lets us tie the backyard body to the real Caldwell.”

And with a touch of finesse on the report it could be ‘case closed’. Blitz victim found and buried and the whole case buried with him. Worked for me.

“Cheers, Kent. Owe you a pint.”

“Make it two,” he said

XOXOXO

Mama Thames was moody tonight, her surface rippling under a bruised August sky, reflecting the sodium glow of London’s lights like a shattered mirror.

I stood on the Embankment near Blackfriars Bridge. The city hummed around me: tourists snapping selfies, and the distant wail of a siren cutting through the evening’s pulse. It was a week since Bert Crapper had slipped away. The case was closed, sort of, but Whitechapel’s cursed stats took another hit. Unsolved murder by persons unknown and attributed to the Blitz. Chandler was philosophical about it, or as philosophical as a man with OCD and a sinking solve rate could be.

Me? I had unfinished business with the river.

The Thames isn’t just water; it’s a genius loci, a living entity with a mind and a mood. Mama Thames, its reigning spirit, and her daughters - like the River Lea -held secrets older than the city itself.

I wasn’t here for a casual stroll. I needed answers, or at least a nudge in the right direction. The vestigia from Bert’s backyard still lingered in my senses: pipe smoke, fear, the weight of a stolen life buried in mud.

They’d been quiet about Bert’s case, too quiet.

The river knew something, and I was damn well going to ask.

I murmured a greeting, keeping it formal: “Mother Thames, Lady of the River, I seek your counsel.”

No response, but the water stirred, a soft ripple that wasn’t from the wind.

I tried again, adding her daughter: “Lea, sister of the tide, you watch Whitechapel. Talk to me.”

A breeze carried a chuckle, low and liquid, like water over stones. The air shimmered, and there she was; Mama Thames, or at least her presence. Her form was fluid. One minute she was a regal Nigerian woman in flowing robes, then a ripple of current, her eyes gleaming up like river pebbles. Beside her, fainter but no less potent, was her daughter Lea. Her current carried East London grit, her essence absorbed from the narrower, scrappier river that wound through Whitechapel.

“Peter Grant,” Mama Thames said, her voice rich with amusement and authority. “You come demanding answers, yet you bring no offering. Bold, for a wizard.”

I grinned, patting my pockets. “Left my sacrificial goat at home. I’ve got a Mars bar. That do?”

Lea snorted, her form flickering like a streetlight in the rain. “Cheeky sod. What’s fussing you? Your old man’s case is done, innit? Bert’s gone. Truth’s out.”

“Not quite,” I said, leaning closer to the railing. The river’s chill seeped into my bones. “You knew about Bert Crapper, didn’t you? Him and the real Caldwell, the glamour, the murder. You felt it in Whitechapel, in your waters. Why didn’t you say anything? I’m supposed to keep the agreements. My job to protect magic from unethical bastards like the real Caldwell. You could’ve given me a heads-up.”

Mama Thames’s laughter rolled like a tide. “Oh, child. People hurt people all the time. That’s a people problem, not mine. The river sees, but it don’t flood unless it suits. Bert was one of yours. His pain was yours.”

Lea’s voice cut in, sharper. “Whitechapel’s full of ghosts, Peter. Always has been. Ripper, bombs, bodies in backyards. We feel ’em all, but we don’t play copper. You lot sorted it. What more you want?”

I sighed, running a hand through my hair. “Answers, maybe? Bert was a victim. Glamoured, geased, sent to war for a coward. And the Folly missed it. Nightingale let things slip back then, didn’t he? War was chaos, sure, but how many other dodges like this are out there? How many magical crimes we don’t know about?”

The river stirred, waves lapping harder against the Embankment. Mama Thames’s presence grew heavier, her voice a low rumble. “War breaks many things, wizard. Men, magic, promises. The past is a deep current, not easily stirred. You seek my secrets? Look to your own house first.”

Lea’s form flickered, her tone softer now. “Check the Folly’s records, Peter. Bert wasn’t the only one who bent the rules to survive. Not the only one who didn’t survive.”

I nodded, the pieces clicking. Ettersberg, the Folly’s great disaster, had gutted the wizarding ranks in ’45. Survivors like Nightingale were stretched thin, oversight lax. A perfect storm for scams like Caldwell’s. Perfect for worse crimes like the Faceless Man.

“Right,” I said. “So we sack up. No more ghosts slipping through.”

Mama Thames’s silhouette shimmered, her voice warm now. “Good. You’re learning, Peter Grant. The demimonde trusts you to keep the balance. But don’t come crying to me every time the past bites. London’s bodies are never buried deep enough.”

With that, they were gone, the air settling, vestigia fading to a murmur. I stood there a moment, the Thames lapping quietly now, as if satisfied.

On my way back to the Folly my mind lingered on the archives. The records were a labyrinth, but if there were more Bert Crappers out there, we’d find them.

XOXOXO

Two weeks later, I took Alex to the Whitechapel house, now his by legal right.

There had been a bit of a squabble with social services. His bastard father had multiple cautions for neglect and several arrests for public drink but hadn’t quite been declared unfit. Mostly this was because the kid hadn’t been around to be placed into other custody. Now that money was on hand the senior Mr. Perkins was swearing better behavior and demanding family unification. Also he wanted control over the kid’s new trust fund. Might have worked but for Nightingale’s Little Crocodile allies knowing the sort of private investigators who could get tapes of the creep promising his bookie that his debts would be covered ‘as soon as they give back the brat’.

Hearing that in court had been a highlight , as had been the face of the cheap shyster on dad’s team when the opposition barrister walked in. I try not to ally with evil or lawyers, much less evil lawyers, but sometimes one must make exceptions.

When we walked up crime scene tape was gone, the backyard trench filled, but the vibe lingered. Likely it always would. Outside, the grounds were parkland green. Freshly replanted and now protected by iron railings, even the trash had been defeated. Inside the house was still a tip: candles, cheap grimoires, and that bloody Ouija board over the fire place.

Alex stood in the doorway, hands in his hoodie pockets, looking smaller than his bravado suggested. “It’s mine,” he said, voice soft. “Master Ray really meant it.”

“Yeah,” I said, clapping his shoulder. “He wanted you to have a home. We’ll pack up the junk, fix the loo, make it yours. But no more bollocks, alright? You’re a Newtonian now.”

“Don’t know about that.” He grinned, a spark of his old fire returning. “I’m earning my Red Bull by reading cards on the break times. Getting a reputation.”

I’d sympathize, given how I’d had to work for the extras. Then again, I hadn’t gone through my local comprehensive with an inherited private income. Nor, as I looked around and realized that the brickwork was rather well done, a London house. The money wasn’t much. You couldn’t live on a thousand pounds a year. It was, however, enough cans of Monster to assure the kid wouldn’t sleep until he was thirty.

“Get the wrong reputation if you’re not careful.” And wasn’t that just what none of us needed? Half the demimonde would riot if they thought the Folly was poaching on their turf The other half would probably sign up for readings. Just because one was supernatural didn’t mean one wasn’t also superstitious. “Plus you don’t want to know what the fae will do if you guess wrong.”

He did not look impressed.

“Tell you what. You drop this stuff and I’ll introduce you to Nicole up north. She’s known real unicorns.”

Alex considered my offer for far longer than I was comfortable with.

“Deal.” He said at last. ”But I’m keeping my tarot deck. For him.”

“Fair enough,” I said. “Just don’t start charging punters for readings.”

He grinned. “Not until I get a license.”

The kids past would never be buried deep enough. The river was right. We all had ghosts. We all had secrets. But we also had magic.

The city was ours to protect. One spell at a time.