CHAPTER 4

"And even his own son could not recognise him?" Masbath asked in amazement as he shifted the weight of the books he was holding.

"No," Ichabod replied, nimbly dodging the two small children who were running carelessly along the street, partaking in a snowball fight. The box in his hand contained a number of new chemicals and it would be a tragedy for them to be broken when he was so close to getting them safely home.

"So how did you identify him?" Masbath continued, frowning, not being able to think of an appropriate method amongst the catalogue of ones he had already studied under the former constable's tutelage.

"Stomach contents," Ichabod explained brightly, "An autopsy showed that the corpse in question had recently eaten pheasant. It was simple enough to discover where he had taken his last known meal and find out what he ordered." He looked ponderous a moment, and when he spoke again it was more to himself than Masbath, "Of course there was always the possibility that that was sheer coincidence, or that the restaurant proprietor was duplicitous for some reason, but then the deceased's mistress confirmed his identity."

"How?" Masbath immediately asked, having been hanging upon his every word. He was so eager to learn precisely all the ins and outs of Ichabod's work, it seemed as if he spent most his life asking questions. His mentor had encouraged him however, saying it was far better to ask than to be ignorant.

Ichabod suddenly looked very uncomfortable, his cheeks flushing a faint rouge. "Well," he stuttered, "She...managed to confirm certain...physical attributes that his son was not privy to....". To his great relief they reached the door to their home before the boy had a chance to inquire as to the exact details

"Ah, we're here," he said with a thankful sigh, "We'd better get inside quickly and clean up for dinner."

Ichabod swiftly undid the lock and stepped indoors, a rather confused Masbath following him.

It was Ichabod turn to give in to confusion however when they were not greeting by the familiar warm smells of cooking. It was very unlike Katrina to leave dinner until so late of a night.

Going to investigate the reason for her lateness he was ambushed by Mary as he tried to enter the sitting room.

Hearing his startled cry and knowing of his delicate nerves, the girl immediately looked contrite.

"Oh, I'm sorry, sir," she said in clear distress, "I didn't mean to alarm you."

"That's quite all right, Mary," he replied, having a little difficulty in swallowing the lump that had jumped into his throat, "Although I would like to know what has gotten into you."

Mary had once been a flower seller in a nearby market who Katrina had grown fond of. When she discovered that the girl was being forced to leave her home, as she could no longer afford the rent, she had offered her a job in the Crane household with a generous wage. The girl now came along of a day to help with the cooking, cleaning and shopping. Ichabod had always found her quiet, calm and sensible. Which suited his erratic nerves just fine. Her sudden agitation was most worrying.

"It's Ms Katrina," she said in concern, "She's been in such a state all afternoon, sir. I didn't know what to do."

"Katrina?" Ichabod asked, his complexion greying slightly as a hundred dreadful possibilities instantly came to mind, "What's wrong? What happened?" He pushed past her, going into the sitting room and scanning for his wife.

"She's upstairs, sir," Mary said, following him, "In the study. I don't know what's the matter. She said she received a letter. Some bad news."

"Bad news?" he pondered aloud.

"She's been in a terrible state, sir," Mary added with a worried shake of her head, "I've never seen her so put out."

Ichabod felt more than a little nauseous and allowed himself to just breathe for a moment before springing into action. He handed Masbath the box he was still clutching, "Take these up to the laboratory. Be careful now."

"Yes, sir," the boy replied, clearly just as concerned as he was.

Ichabod gave his shoulder a reassuring squeeze, bringing a slight smile to the young man's face. He knew that they were the only family the boy had. He cared about them a great deal and even the thought that one of them might be in distress was painful to him. He just hoped it wasn't as bad as the boy feared.

"Mary, see what you can do about dinner," Ichabod instructed as he walked to the door, "There's no sense in us going hungry."

"Yes, sir," she said with a nod.

As he left, he heard Masbath offer the girl his assistance.

Hurrying up the stairs, his boots clonked hard on the wood as he made his way to the study. Giving the door a small perfunctory knock, he entered without waiting to be asked to do so.

He found Katrina sitting at the desk, working by the light of a candle that had almost burnt itself out. Around her were a number of screwed up pieces of paper, obviously discarded drafts of whatever she was attempting to compose. Her head was resting on one hand, the other hovering over the paper, pen held firmly as if she could will the words out of it by force. She seemed to not have heard his entrance.

He crossed quickly and crouched beside her, laying his hand gently on her arm to get her attention. With an almost mournful sigh she turned her large eyes on him.

He'd never seen her look so sorrowful. He'd never seen her eyes without their wonderful sparkle of vibrant passion and he instantly hated its absence.

"What's happened?" he asked softly, moving his grip down to her own hand and stroking it in a comforting matter.

She said nothing. Simply reached into a pocket of her dress and produced a letter, handing it over for him to read.

A frown creased his brow as he took it, standing to relieve the cramping that had already begun in his legs. Unfolding the paper with his delicate fingers, he quickly read it.

When he finished his face remained an expressionless mask. He could see Katrina watching him, waiting for a response. He wasn't entirely sure what she expected. Probably a few hysterics and then a bout of fainting. But in reality he felt more horror than anything. And since he was certain that was not what she needed to see, he tried to show nothing at all.

He took a moment to compose himself, playing Mr Jeffries' words over in his mind: 'It was as if some great hand had come down without warning and plucked the Carrigan family from where they stood.' Just a little more than a year ago he would have scoffed at such fanciful talk. Dismissed them as the ravings of a superstitious mind that had been shocked into becoming blinded to the scientific truth. But since his experiences in Sleepy Hollow he had been dealt an abject lesson in being too hasty to dismiss the seemingly ridiculous. The detective in him was already forming theories and modes of investigations. Glancing back at Katrina however, his cold, calculating mind instantly gave way to his heart.

"I'm sorry," he whispered quietly.

Katrina tried to smile in thanks but it looked so false, it only served to make her look all the sadder. Quietly she stood and moved to the window, opening it fully despite the chill it let in. She welcomed the coldness. It caressed her head that had been aching painfully for hours - although this was probably more to do with her squinting in the failing light than her present concerns.

"I'm not the one who needs your pity," she finally said, starring out at the world below. The children who had nearly bowled Ichabod over had moved their game into the street that stretched out before her. Their giggling and laughing almost made her smile. But then she remembered the missing children and the smile faded before it arrived. She'd known those families. The essence of Sleepy Hollow was like that - everyone knew everybody else. She recalled seeing Mrs Carrigan after her third child had been born. She'd commented on how sweet the baby girl was and Mrs Carrigan had gleamed like any proud new mother. And now something terrible had happened to them.

Katrina sighed heavily and Ichabod stepped up behind her.

"What will you do?" he asked, concerned for her state of mind.

She glanced over her shoulder at the dozen or so discarded letters. She hadn't been able to think of anything worthwhile to say or any meaningful advice to give. The people of Sleepy Hollow had always looked up to her father. They had trusted him as their unofficial leader, confidante and voice. Now she felt it was her duty to take that role and she had no idea of how to do it.

But she did know that she couldn't do it from so far away.

A sudden decisiveness over took her and she turned sharply, "I must pack."

Ichabod gripped her shoulders, his strength surprising her. "Pack?" he inquired.

She gazed at him levelly, her determination reasserting itself to the full, "I have to go. I'm my father's daughter. It's my duty."

Ichabod closed his eyes in a silent plea for a moment. Then he took a deep breath and made a firm choice, "Then I'm going with you. Perhaps I can discover what happened."

Katrina did smile this time and she threw her arms round his neck, burying her head under his chin. Ichabod wrapped his arms around her slender form and stroked her back in comfort.

"Thank you," she whispered softly, feeling such a sense of relief at his words. He was a very clever man and a good investigator. The best there had ever been as far as she was concerned. If anyone could discover what had happened to those families it was Ichabod Crane, of that she had no doubt.

Besides, she would feel far better with him around.

"No need," he returned, rocking her gently from side to side, "I would cross heaven and hell for you."

She laughed very slightly, "From what I remember we got rather close to hell in our last adventure. You didn't like it that much."

He gave her a wane smile. She was right of course. He hadn't exactly been the pinnacle of bravery nor confidence during his Sleepy Hollow investigation. The number of times he had fainted dead away after a particularly traumatic event was rather embarrassing....And the way he had behaved the morning after Phillipse's murder, blathering on like an idiot....It made him shudder to think what a fool he had made of himself.

Yet the heartening thing was that he had not let his fears defeat him as he perhaps would have expected them to. He had faced them and come out with a stubborn determination of his own. That he had persevered to the conclusion of the case was a personal as well as a professional triumph. He had never felt much pride in his own achievements until then and the success had done him the world of good.

"Yes," he finally said, admitting Katrina was fair in her teasing, "But every cloud has a silver lining."

She pulled away slightly to look at him in curiosity, "There was a silver lining to nearly being decapitated and shot?"

He reached out gently and brushed a stray strand of hair from her face. Even considering all that personal and professional gain he still valued one thing a million times higher than the rest.

"There was you," he replied solemnly, "You saved me."

And in more ways than he ever believed she could know. Her presence had given him confidence that had boosted him into action when he may have given up, saving his career. Her willingness to listen to the dark stories of his childhood had saved his mind and his sanity. Her gift of a book had saved his life. And her presence had saved him from the loneliness he feared would be his only constant companion.

Her smile was warm and knowing, as if she could read his thoughts after all.

"We saved each other."

Not knowing how to respond to that, he dipped his head forward and kissed her tenderly, praying that the decision to return would not be a terrible mistake.