Fun with London geography in this chapter. I only lived there for a few months and the East End was not exactly my stomping grounds, but I'm relatively sure I've got it mapped out correctly for my purposes. All of the churches named are real and they were all chosen for very specific reasons. I mention, for example, that Msgr. Garnet had at one time been assigned to St. Mary's in Chelsea. While this isn't a plot point, St. Mary's is, in reality, famous in the diocese for its music. So, what better place for a budding liturgist to be assigned?

I hope you continue to enjoy the story. I'm certainly enjoying writing it. Please review, critiques are welcome!

Breaking the news about Monsignor Garnet to the archbishop had gone just as bad as Emma had expected. The two had gone to seminary together and had practically known each other since childhood. He hadn't taken it particularly well. They weren't quite old enough to be in that age group where the death of peers became routine. Emma did not tell him the precise circumstances of the murder, but knew she would have to rather sooner than she hoped. There could be no open casket and she would have to explain why it wasn't possible when Monsignor Garnet had asked for an open casket wake in his will. Perhaps she could come up with some excuse for why the casket would have to be closed before the day. Blaming the autopsy seemed the best escape route at the moment.

The day after her conversation with the archbishop, Emma had been informed that she was to be elevated to director of the Liturgy Office. It was not a promotion she'd been looking for and she was not convinced it shouldn't have gone to her colleague and former fellow assistant, Father Andrew Ward. He was older and had more experience, but she had the higher degree. It was, possibly, the first time in her life that her doctorate had trumped experience. It did little to comfort her.

As a result of this promotion, Emma's workload doubled at a time when those who worked in liturgy were entering one of the busiest times of year. If she wasn't answering questions about what color vestments Father was supposed to wear on All Souls (an annual headache), she was preparing for the onslaught of Advent and Christmastide. This was all in addition to planning the funeral for a popular, some might say beloved, priest who had spent his entire clerical life working in liturgy. This, of course, translated into an expectation that the funeral would be a triumph of liturgical excellence. Emma wasn't sure she was up to task of crafting a singularly transcendent spiritual experience for the mourners. It certainly didn't help that it had been unexpected. Things might have been different had something with a little more warning befallen him.

Emma grimaced and threw her pen down on her desk. She admonished herself for thinking of Monsignor Garnet's murder as an inconvenience. The photos of his remains flashed in her mind once more, as they had done regularly since she saw them three days previous. She closed her eyes tightly and pressed the heels of her hands into her eye sockets. Sleep would have to find her soon if she was going to make it through Christmas. Emma wondered if seeing images like that every day affected the detectives working on the case. Surely they were made of stronger stuff if they had chosen a career like that. Though she wondered about the detective inspector. She pulled his card out of her wallet. Joseph Chandler, that was it. He had seemed out of place.

As she thought back to her initial observations of the anxious detective, she remembered the conversation they'd had before she left. Chandler had seemed concerned when she told him that there were forty canonized martyrs. Surely he didn't think someone was going to try and replicate them all. Emma, of course, knew the story of Thomas Garnet, but other than having the same surname, she rather doubted there was any relation to William Garnet. And if there was, it certainly wasn't a direct lineage to either Thomas or his uncle Henry.

Her mobile ringing and vibrating across her desk jolted her out of her thoughts.

"Dr. Emma Parker," she said, putting the phone to her ear.

"Hello, this is DI Chandler," Chandler said, as if alerted to the direction of her thoughts. His voice really was quite pleasant.

"Yes, what can I do for you, detective inspector?" Emma asked, wondering if that was the proper title for him. It seemed like a mouthful. Was it just "detective"? Or was that a demotion?

"Joe," Chandler offered, neatly solving her dilemma even as he created one for himself. She had said to call her Emma, surely it was just good manners to offer the same. Or so he told himself. "I wanted to ask what may sound like an odd question. Do you know of any relation between Monsignor Garnet and the martyr, Thomas Garnet?"

Emma nearly dropped the phone. That was just…weird.

"Not that I know of," she began, her voice shaking slightly. The timing of his question had been eerie. "If there is, it would have to be a distant relation. Thomas Garnet, obviously, had no children."

There was silence on the line.

"J – Joe?" She ventured, not pleased that she stumbled over his name. It wasn't exactly a tongue twister.

"Yes, I'm here," he said, his voice distant, as if he were in thought. "Can you think of any reason why someone would think Monsignor Garnet was guilty of treason? Not that you think he was – but that – that is to say, could someone who wasn't entirely rational come to that conclusion?"

"Someone who isn't entirely rational could come to any conclusion with little cause for doing so," Emma said flatly. "I know this isn't my area, but I would caution against drawing too much out of this martyr connection. You said yourself you didn't know how he –"

"We do," Chandler interrupted. "Hanged, drawn, and quartered. Just like you said."

Emma let out a shaky breath.

"Okay, well, I would still be wary," she continued. "There are similarities, but the differences are also very great. And if someone wanted to recreate the executions, wouldn't they go after Jesuits? I know their reputation as papists has greatly changed since the seventeenth century, but if this person is just killing priests with the same last names, you would have to put half the priests in the country under protection. There's no logic to it."

"I thought we agreed it wasn't entirely rational," said Chandler lightly. Emma could almost swear it sounded like he was smiling. Was this how detectives flirted? She shook her head. Surely not.

"But there has to be something, some kind of motivation," Emma insisted, not wanting to think about the possibilities. "I mean, the assistant director's last name is Ward, should I tell him to watch his back?"

"It mightn't be a bad idea," Chandler responded honestly.

"You must be joking."

There was a pause on the other end.

"I thought you were the assistant director," said Chandler finally. Was he losing his touch? He was sure she'd said she was one of two assistant directors.

"Oh," said Emma, clearly embarrassed. "I was, um, promoted to director."

"Oh, congratulations," Chandler said enthusiastically, sounding genuinely pleased for her.

Emma didn't know how to respond. She should be proud of her accomplishments. There weren't very many women serving such high posts in the Catholic Church, and certainly not single laywomen. But she hated the circumstances under which it had happened. Had Monsignor Garnet retired and she'd then been promoted, her reaction would have consisted of the pride and elation expected of her. Not like this, though.

"Or is it not such a happy occasion?" Chandler inquired further, seeming to detect her feelings on the matter.

Emma sighed.

"The promotion is…tainted," she said sadly. "It's not that this wasn't what I wanted eventually, ages from now, it's just…"

"Not like this," said Chandler, echoing verbatim her own thoughts.

She paused for a moment before forging ahead.

"Joe, can I ask you a question?" She sounded uncertain, very unlike what he imagined to be her normal authoritative manner.

"Yes, of course," he answered.

"How do you sleep at night?" Emma asked in a small voice.

Chandler knew immediately what she meant. He'd been asked before, but he never had an answer ready. Not an honest one, anyway. He usually ended up deflecting, trying to assure the victim or the family that it would get better. He was tempted to take that escape.

"With difficulty," he said, surprising even himself with the almost brutal honesty of his answer. "Are you…having difficulties?"

Emma sighed again. She quirked her mouth before finally answering.

"Those photos, I can't not see them," she said, her breath hitching. "Any time I'm not focused on what I'm doing, I see them. I can't – I mean, you saw the real thing. I only saw photos. I should be able to deal with this."

"No one should have to deal with this," said Chandler in a soft voice. "None of us is an expert in this. We all have our own mechanisms, but it never goes away."

"What is your mechanism?" Emma asked, knowing full well it was a deeply personal question.

"Order," came Chandler's short reply.

Emma only hummed in response.

"You're not surprised," he said knowingly, slightly embarrassed that his habits were so obvious.

"I'm sorry to say I'm not," Emma admitted. "But I can see how it would help. I am…particular, in my own way."

Chandler was more than pleasantly surprised by her answer. Everyone had different words for it – his team's descriptions were more colorful than most – so it wasn't entirely common to find someone using the same euphemism. He disliked terms like "condition" or "compulsion." Particular at least made it sound like a choice, even if he was fully aware that personal choice had very little to do with much of what he did.

"Sometimes it's little more than organized chaos, but there are little things I will always do a certain way," she further explained. "There is, at least, the illusion of order. But I'm not, you know, checking my locks fifty times a day or anything."

Chandler flinched. He had gotten better recently, but there were some days…

"If I were in a different job, I might not have developed quite so many particularities," said Chandler, not knowing why he felt the need to defend himself. "There is a lot to…to keep at bay."

"Why do you do it, then?" She asked.

"I was born into it," Chandler answered simply.

"Yes, but, surely you could have gone into something else," Emma countered, wondering why he would continue to inflict the experience upon himself.

"There was nothing else for me," he responded. "There still isn't, though my initial career trajectory for myself did not involve much time on the street. It's grown on me. It is…fulfilling."

"I suppose that's all anyone can ask," said Emma thoughtfully. "Sometimes I wish my career weren't quite so fulfilling, but this is all I ever wanted to do."

"And what is it, exactly, that you do?" Chandler asked, seizing the opportunity to both shift the conversation away from his own shortcomings and to alleviate his confusion as to her job. He didn't like the feeling.

Emma laughed in response.

"You would be surprised how often I'm asked that question even by practicing Catholics," she said. "We are, essentially, a resource for every diocese and parish in the country. We offer training for those involved in liturgy, guidance on liturgical rubrics, physical resources like sheet music, training manuals; anything to do with the worship life of the Catholic Church in England and Wales, to speak broadly."

"Oh, is that all?" Chandler said with a laugh, though he was impressed with the scope of her duties.

"And I have my own work, of course," Emma added. "Publishing, lectures, and so on. Glamorous life in the ivory tower and all. The hours are endless, but I cannot begin to imagine doing what you do. Are all of you in counseling or something?"

Chandler cleared his throat uncomfortably, Morgan's face surfacing clearly in his mind's eye. She couldn't have known.

"Oh, I'm sorry, that was – I mean, that's none of my business," Emma said hurriedly, mistaking his reaction for offense. She barreled on, trying to move past the social blunder, "If, um, you would like to see the result of my work, you are welcome to attend Monsignor Garnet's funeral. Would that be useful? Would the killer be tempted to go? That's a – that's a thing, isn't it? Or have I seen one too many episodes of Law & Order?"

Emma was rambling again. She pressed the side of her fist against her forehead and closed her eyes tightly. One day she would grow out of that.

"It has been known to happen," Chandler started, finding himself rather charmed by her babbling. At least he wasn't the only one with nervous habits. "Usually when there is a personal relationship between the killer and the victim, which does not seem to be the case here."

Emma huffed in response.

"With respect, you don't know what the case is here," she said, not meaning to sound quite as judgmental as it came out. "What I mean is that you don't know if the killer is actually trying to replicate the executions for political or theological reasons or if it was more personal than that."

Chandler had to concede that she made a very good point. He drew a breath to tell her as much, but was interrupted by a knock on his door.

"One moment, please," he told Emma before covering the receiver with his hand. "Yes?"

The door opened to admit Miles.

"I looked into Garnet's background," he started before being cut off by Chandler pointing one rigid finger in the air and pressing the phone against his chest. Miles nodded his understanding and Chandler put the phone back to his ear.

"Emma, could I phone you back later?" Chandler asked, looking pointedly at Miles, who responded with mouthing her name suggestively. Chandler scowled at him.

"Oh, yes, of course," said answered, only just realizing how long they'd been talking. "Though you needn't do so if you don't have any more questions for me."

She slapped a hand against her forehead and frowned. She was trying to not waste his time, not make him feel like she didn't want to talk to him.

"The funeral?" He asked, remembering that he hadn't yet given her an answer.

"Yes, yes, of course," she repeated. Her vocabulary shrank dramatically when she was thrown off balance. "The time has not yet been definitively set, but it will be on the 6th – that's, em, next week –" She trailed off, looking at the calendar on her laptop, "Wednesday."

"You'll call when you have more details?" He asked, trying, rather unsuccessfully, not to sound too eager.

"Certainly," Emma responded, trying, for her part, not to sound too pleased with herself.

There was an awkward moment of silence on both ends of the line.

"Erm, well, I shall talk to you later then," Emma said at last.

"Yes, speak to you later," Chandler answered before ending the call and placing his phone back in its place on his desk.

"Is that who you've been on the phone with this whole time?" Miles said immediately.

"It wasn't – what do you mean, 'this whole time'?" Chandler asked, irritated by Miles' surveillance. Miles opened his mouth to tell him exactly how long he'd been on the phone, but Chandler interrupted him. "You had something to tell me?"

Miles' mouth snapped shut. He smirked and rolled his eyes before looking at his notes.

"Yeah, there's nothin' there," he answered, clearly frustrated by his lack of answers. "No criminal history, no moving from parish to parish. They sent him to Rome, he came back when he was done, worked at St. Mary's in Chelsea, and then got transferred to Westminster Cathedral before ending up at the Liturgy Office. Real fast track. No rumors, no whispers, nothing."

Chandler sighed and rubbed more Tiger Balm on his temples. He glanced at the pot; he was running low. That would have to be remedied quickly.

"That's good news for Emma, but it doesn't do much to help us," said Chandler. "The only real good news is that if the killer is trying to reenact the executions on significant dates, the next one shouldn't happen until the 29th of November. It gives us some time, at least."

"Yeah," said Miles sarcastically. "So we can focus our attention on the nutters who come out for Halloween. Bloody holiday should have stayed in America where it belongs."

Chandler had to agree, to a point. He was sure it was all well and good for the children who got to wear fancy dress and be given sweets, but it was an absolute nightmare for law enforcement. There usually weren't many terribly violent crimes; rather, there were countless petty misdemeanors that did nothing but waste the time of all involved.

Taking a deep, steadying breath, Chandler stood. He put his phone in his pocket and his watch back on his wrist. Rapping his knuckles on the desk once, he stepped around to the door, gesturing for Miles to precede him. Once out in the incident room, he called the attention of his team as he approached the whiteboard.

"We found the remains here," Chandler started, tapping his finger on the map. "On Lukin Street, in the churchyard of St. Mary & St. Michael's. Ed is looking into the historical significance of that location."

Chandler glanced at the scant information on the board before speaking again.

"Who's spoken to Garnet's secretary? Did he have reason to be in the area?" Chandler asked, picking up a marker.

"I did, sir," Mansell spoke up, flipping through a notepad. "According to her, he had a dinner appointment with the priest at Tower Hill. He was there on time, nothing unusual. Left just after dark."

Chandler began to write, but soon realized the significance of the location. He turned his head slowly to look over his shoulder at Mansell.

"Tower Hill?" He asked, his voice insistent. "Is that the name of the parish or the church?"

Questioning looks were exchanged amongst the detectives. No one had thought to check.

Chandler huffed in frustration, slapped the marker back in the tray, and fished his phone out of his pocket. He quickly typed in "Tower Hill parish church." The search results sent a chill down his spine.

"Oh my God," he said in a low voice, staring at his phone.

"What is it?" Miles spoke up, moving toward his boss.

"Tower Hill is the parish," replied Chandler, still looking down at the screen.

"And the church?" Miles pressed.

Chandler looked up at the eager, anxious faces of his team.

"The English Martyrs."