Chapter Two

What remains of the Museum Obscura is scattered all over the white linoleum floor of a large, rectangular corner room on the uppermost storey of the building. Not a single glass pane of the mullioned windows is intact. Every stand, table and shelf has been toppled or broken, and every display case smashed. Plaques, exhibit cards and artefacts – or fragments of artefacts – are sprinkled throughout the debris.

I take pains to avoid stepping on anything as I work my way over to the left side of the room, where Simon is kneeling over the supine form of the late Brother Mallory, carefully avoiding the reddish-brown stains on the floor around and beneath the body.

When I get closer, I can see that Brother Mallory bears lacerations and gouges of various lengths and widths all over his body, some of them deep enough to expose bone. His clothing is stained and crusted with blood. Of course I have seen the bodies of murder victims before, but this is one of the worst, and I cannot help but shudder a little and cringe in revulsion.

Simon puts his cane aside, removes his gloves and slips them into an inner coat pocket. He carefully lifts Brother Mallory's head – not an easy thing, since rigor mortis has set in – and examines it carefully. "Interesting," he mutters to himself, utterly absorbed in whatever thoughts his observations are conjuring up.

"'Interesting' is not the word I'd use, Simon," I say, frowning.

Simon looks up at me and raises an eyebrow. "Squeamish, Miss Bishop?"

I square my shoulders and lift my chin. "You know better than that, Simon. I simply lack your tolerance for the grisly and macabre."

"You should share it, by now. We have been working together for three years."

"Must I remind you that you only allowed me in on murder scenes for two of them?" I point out coolly.

"Must I remind you that we recently had a discussion about keeping one's mind on the present?" he returns in much the same tone.

"You were the one who brought up the past, not I."

"I told you not to do so, but I do not recall ever issuing a similar prohibition for myself."

I glare at him, to no effect. "Now you're splitting hairs…"

"A habit of the profession."

"And yet another practice that you permit yourself, but forbid me from engaging in."

"Hair-splitting is inappropriate for a lady, unless she does it while nagging her husband – and I am not your husband."

"Thank God."

"Indeed." Simon lets Mallory's head down, then lifts his right arm and examines it for a few moments. Once finished, he painstakingly replaces the limb, stands up, walks around to the other side of the body and kneels again to check his left arm. As he puts it back down, I hear footsteps just outside the door and turn to face it.

Brother Anselm is standing in the doorway bearing a basin and pitcher, with a towel over one arm. "The soap's in the bowl, Miss Bishop," he says. He does not look as grey-faced as he did when I last saw him. Perhaps he has grown more comfortable with the idea of a post-mortem examination, or – equally likely – he is simply trying very hard not to think about it. Probably the second, since something tells me that he is quite deliberately not looking in the direction of Simon and the late Brother Mallory.

I right one of the few intact tables in the room before approaching Brother Anselm. "Thank you," I say with a smile as he scurries in and arranges basin, pitcher, soap and towel on the tabletop.

Brother Anselm smiles back at me, sheepishly, and clasps his hands behind his back. "I'll be outside if you need anything else, Miss," he says. He bows quickly, backs up through the door and takes up a post beside it.

Simon quickly finishes his examination of the corpse and joins me at the table. I pour some water for him from the pitcher to wash and rinse his hands; then I pass him the towel.

"So, what did you find out?" I ask as he pulls down his sleeves and takes his gloves out of his pockets.

"There were no defensive wounds on his forearms," Simon informs me, "And there is a contusion on the back of his head." He tugs on his gloves and flexes his fingers.

I look at Brother Mallory's body, this time without so much of an adverse reaction. "So the thief knocked him out and then savaged him?"

Simon retrieves his cane and stands up. "Thieves, Emma. A single thief could not have destroyed the room so completely during the time in which the incident took place. And I do not think that Brother Mallory was knocked out intentionally. He fell – or was pushed – into that display case behind him there shortly after they entered." Simon indicates the fallen case with his cane. It does indeed look as if Mallory could have tripped backward and hit his head.

"He didn't even have time to run for the door," I observe. "I doubt Brother Mallory's death was quick – since the swelling from the blow had the minute or two it needed to develop, he probably bled to death. At least…that means he was not conscious when he died." This knowledge gives me some relief.

"It would seem so," Simon agrees. High praise, from him.

"All right. But it doesn't make sense."

"And it is only one of many little anomalies," Simon remarks. "The footmarks are the first oddity I noticed here. Most of the ones I have found so far were made by the round-toed shoes that the monks wear – indeed I am given to understand that they are worn almost exclusively by the monks. There were also some prints from a woman's high-heeled boots, which are not exactly practical attire for a burglar. They probably belong to the woman we saw downstairs, and I have no doubt that Brother Anselm or the Cardinal could explain her presence here. I have found no other traces yet."

"The conditions for footmarks are not very good," I point out. "The weather has been very dry of late. There is little mud or dirt to adhere to people's shoes and leave good traces. Brother Anselm also told us that the monks came in here after the incident, and they might have obscured any traces left by the thieves." Simon's far more adept at looking for and interpreting footprints than I will ever be, but in the past three years I've learned a little of the technique myself.

"Perhaps, but I should have found at least one or two other traces by now. I may do so upon closer investigation. That isn't the only problem – as I said, there are many anomalies." By now Simon's every word and gesture crackles with the energy of professional enthusiasm. He only gets this close to excitement when he is well and truly puzzled. "How did the thieves enter through the window, do all of this in the little time allotted to them, and escape without being noticed at all? In broad daylight? And why, I wonder, did they take the trouble to destroy practically everything in this room, especially when the noise would alert anyone nearby to their activities?"

"What I'm wondering," I add, "is why they did that to Brother Mallory. The poor man…what a horrible way to…"

Simon shoots an irritated glance at me. "We are here to investigate his death, Emma, not to mourn it. His compatriots can take care of that."

I look quickly at the door, hoping that Brother Anselm did not hear him. Then I glare at my partner. "Have a care, Simon," I say in a low voice. "One of his 'compatriots' is standing right outside the door."

But he isn't listening to me. Instead he is moving slowly around the room, examining the debris and occasionally kneeling to inspect something on the floor. At one point he stops and absentmindedly passes his cane from his left hand to his right. Then he deliberately crosses his arms and lifts his left hand to his chin with fingers loosely curled and the tip of his thumb touching his lower lip – a gesture which I have privately dubbed his geste de pense. As the name implies, he makes this gesture while he is contemplating, puzzling over, studying or otherwise thinking about some object, though he does it at other times as well: for instance, when he is quite deliberately ignoring me, as he is doing now. "Hmm. Coal dust," I hear him mutter. "How did that get in here?"

Simon never pays me any attention when I speak of sympathy. But his lack of a reply has never discouraged me from pressing the issue, and it does not do so now. "Surely you must feel something for the victims of the crimes you investigate. You cannot…"

My partner whirls around and silences me with a look of utmost gravity. "I have spent fifteen years in this profession," he says in a low voice, "and during that time I have dealt with every vice of which man is capable. And I cannot, as a matter of necessity, allow what I see of those vices or their consequences affect me."

For a moment I can do naught but stare at him in dumb silence. "I'm sorry," I say in a strangled whisper.

After a short but almost unbearable silence Simon turns away muttering, "Do not try to elicit a response from me if you are not actually prepared to receive one."

You have never offered a response before, Simon. What was different this time?

I feel my cheeks colour with embarrassment, which becomes even more intense when I consider the possibility that Brother Anselm overheard our little exchange. I cannot tell which is worse – that a stranger may have heard me being set down, or that I so richly deserved it!

Fortunately, my sense of practicality is strong enough to overcome my feelings of self-pity. There's no point in dwelling on it: what's done is done. I shall do my duty and help my partner.

Though I do not know how I can help. Simon is still looking around the room, and I can tell by his countenance that he has not found any additional clues. At the moment he is simply going over everything for the second time.

Actually, not quite everything. I do not think he looked out the windows through which the thieves entered the room. They must have climbed the outer walls. Perhaps, by some slim chance, they left some trace of their passage that could provide us with information.

I stride up to one of the windows and carefully stick my head outside so that I can examine the wall. From here the view is quite lovely – the sunlight twinkles on the rippling water, which stretches to the far horizon like a silvery blanket, and several gargoyles circle lazily in the air. The height and the cool air coming off the sea combine to produce a strong, steady breeze, which nearly lifts my hat off my head. I clamp it down with my left hand and turn my eyes downward, away from the enchanting (but not useful) view of the water, so that I may scan the wall for something of use, though I know not what…

In the corner of my right eye I see something barrelling towards be at alarming speed. With an exclamation of surprise and fear I scramble backwards from the window and collide with Simon, who happened to be passing behind me. We both lose our balance, and for a fraction of a second I am sure that we will both end up in a heap on the floor. Fortunately Simon keeps his feet and grabs me by the shoulders to help me keep mine. The head of his cane, which he is still holding, digs uncomfortably into my shoulder.

Just outside a middle-sized gargoyle – a rake, I think – darts through the space that was occupied by my head and shoulders not a moment before. It lets out a high-pitched cry of frustration as it swoops upwards and away.

"Perhaps he disliked your hat?" Simon suggests facetiously as he releases his hold on my shoulders. I adjust that selfsame hat, which was knocked askew by the impact, and glare over my shoulder at him.

"Is everything all right?" Brother Anselm asks from the doorway. I step around Simon as I turn to face the young monk.

"Fine, thank you," I assure him. "I was looking out the window; one of the gargoyles flew close and startled me."

Brother Anselm looks relieved. "Oh. The ones around here are a bit bold sometimes…"

"And it seems they have recently become much bolder," Simon comments quietly. Both Brother Anselm and I look at him in puzzlement. I immediately recognize the light of revelation in Simon's eyes, and am able to make some sense of his cryptic remark. Brother Anselm is utterly confused.

"Would you care to explain?" I ask.

Simon turns to Brother Anselm. "Please inform His Eminence that I have finished my examination of the room," he says. Which means that the monks begin the work putting their comrade to rest. Brother Anselm nods solemnly and withdraws. I hear his footsteps receding as he walks down the hall.

"Simon," I begin as my partner starts walking back toward the door, "We mere mortals cannot match your deductive talent, as you well know." I lift my skirts a bit as I step over a fallen display table so that I can follow directly after him. "I am confused as to how a gargoyle's attempt to take off my head has anything to do with this case. Would you care to enlighten me?" I look at him expectantly as we step out into the corridor.

I receive a slight frown for my sarcasm, but I also receive an answer. "Though there were no footmarks from the intruders, I did find some residue from burned coal. Since they do not burn coal here, the residue could not have come from nearby. It may have come from a train station, but the context in which it is placed by other clues leads me to think that it came from the city rooftops, where…"

"Simon." I smile gently and hold up a forestalling hand. "You don't need to give me a lecture on coal smoke and soot. I know perfectly well where they come from." He sometimes gets carried away with his explanations; it's endearing, in a way, but mostly it's just frustrating.

At least Simon has enough grace to be only a little indignant at my interruption. "Very well. Brother Mallory's wounds are more consistent with claws than knives. Brother Anselm mentioned hearing screeches from this room," – he points at the Museum Obscura with his cane – "which could not have come from Brother Mallory, as he was knocked out early in the attack. What does that suggest to you?"

It takes me but a moment to put two and two together. "You mean gargoyles were responsible for that?" I ask, waving my hand at the wreckage of the Museum.

"That is exactly what I mean, yes. I had already suspected it, but you provided me with the final clue through creative use of your head."

I subject my partner to a stern look that, I hope, conveys to him my complete and utter lack of amusement. "That was a very poor joke, Simon."

"I do not make jokes," Simon responds nonchalantly.

"I can see why – you're not very good at…" And then a very nasty possibility occurs to me, causing my stomach to roll over with dread. "Oh, dear Lord…"

Simon frowns in puzzlement at me. "What is it?"

I step closer to him and put my hand on his arm – for support, for security, I know not what. "Simon, Miranda Cross can control gargoyles," I whisper. "We were never sure what happened to her! Perhaps she is responsible for this!" I have not told my partner about all the other things Miranda is capable of, but we both saw the gargoyles in her mansion when we foiled her scheme to hypnotize Partington's leading citizens: more to the point, we both saw them attack me, seemingly on command.

"The possibility of Miranda's involvement did indeed occur to me," Simon admits in a low voice. "I cannot think why she might have done this, but she is the most likely culprit."

Were I frozen in a block of ice I would not feel so deeply chilled as I do now. "What are we going to do?" I choke. Even when I had my powers I could offer no real resistance to Miranda Cross, and now that they are gone…

"The first thing you should do is loosen your hold on my arm," Simon answers.

With a start I realize that I am holding his arm in a tense, white-knuckled grip – probably hard enough to cause him no small amount of discomfort. I withdraw the offending hand and let it drop at my side.

"There. Now, I said that Miranda Cross is the most likely culprit, but we should not jump to conclusions. Nor should we go into hysterics," he adds, giving me a significant look.

"If you are attempting to rouse my ire in order to quell my fear, it isn't working," I say. "But thank you for trying."

At that moment I hear footsteps close by. Simon looks at something over my shoulder. I turn around to see Brother Anselm entering the hallway with a few other monks. Some are carrying brooms and buckets. The two at the tail end of the group are carrying a litter. All look decidedly grim.

Brother Anselm approaches us as his fellows enter the Museum Obscura. "His Eminence will see you shortly – but first there is someone he thinks you should speak to," he gestures for us to follow him, and it's the wooden steps once more for us – though this time we are going down instead of up. "Miss Romanelli was in the Museum a few minutes before the robbery…although, thank God, she left for the Vespers service and so was not there when it happened." So those were her footmarks in the Museum.

I suppose that Cardinal thinks that Miss Romanelli may have seen something useful, but I am puzzled as to why she did not speak to us when we first arrived. Perhaps she is timid and convinced that she can offer us no help. It would not be the first time Simon and I have come across a shy witness – and we have found that, often as not, such people actually do provide us with valuable clues. There is a second possible reason for her silence, hinted at by a certain coincidence that any person possessed of decent common sense would notice; Miss Romanelli's visit to the Museum Obscura took place shortly before the gargoyle attack. Though I am still strongly inclined to believe that Miranda Cross is responsible – and I think that Simon does as well, though he will not say it outright – this coincidence must still be considered and investigated.

Brother Anselm takes us to a small sitting room across from the Cardinal's office. The room and its furnishings are rather spare, but still comfortable. Sitting on one of the two couches flanking the long, low table in the room's centre is the woman I glimpsed in the Cardinal's office shortly after we first arrived. Now that I can see her better, I realize that she is younger than I first thought – in her late twenties, I believe. Her dress is of dark blue silk, but very conservative and unadorned. The only jewellery she wears is a gold signet ring on the third finger of her right hand, the device of which I cannot make out. On her lap rests a large black bag, which she clutches agitatedly in her gloved hands.

As Brother Anselm leaves us, Simon walks up to couch she is seated on – though he is standing at the nearer end of it, and she is at the far end – and looks at her with that particular satisfied expression he wears when one of his suspicions is confirmed. "Viscontessa Helena Romanelli," he says. "I thought I recognized you."

Wait…Viscontessa? And Simon's met her before? That is a mystery in itself – and I am even more intrigued by the Viscontessa's reaction. She remains seated instead of standing up to greet us, and she looks at Simon as if she wishes him to drop dead on the spot.

"I am not going by my title here," she says coldly. Though her accent is not strong, it is still recognizable – and, along with her name, marks her as a Calabrian. The Viscontessa turns her attention to me. "You are Emma Bishop, are you not? Mr. Archard's assistant?"

"Partner," Simon corrects before I do. In this moment I could forgive him for every sarcastic, snide, insensitive or offensive remark he has ever made to me, but this is certainly not the time to voice such sentiments – and I doubt he would really appreciate them if I did.

Although I already have reason to dislike Viscontessa…Miss Romanelli, I do not make a habit of meeting rudeness with more rudeness, especially upon making a first acquaintance – that's Simon's prerogative. I curtsey politely to Miss Romanelli. "Pleased to make your acquaintance," I lie smoothly.

Miss Romanelli purses her lips at me. "You must be a saint, to bear the company of a man such as this" – indicating Simon with a flick of her eyes – "for so long. Would that we all had your patience."

I must confess I have at times had similar thoughts myself, but I would never be so audacious as to voice them aloud – and this woman certainly has no right to do so!

Simon is unfazed by her backhanded compliment. "As charming as you ever were," he remarks as he walks around the low table to take a seat on the couch opposite Miss Romanelli's.

"I could say the same of you," she returns venomously.

I sit down next to Simon, unsure of whether I should see this exchange as more amusing or embarrassing.

"There is no need to be so vitriolic," Simon tells Miss Romanelli. "I am only going to ask you a few questions."

Miss Romanelli looks daggers at him. "I remember what happened the last time you asked me a few questions," she growls. Ah…now this is interesting!

Simon returns her glare in silence for a moment. Then he sighs. "Miss Romanelli, we both know that I dislike you, and you dislike me even more. We would rather not be in one another's company, but circumstances have brought us together. Let us therefore act in both our best interests, and try to keep our time spent on this exchange to an absolute minimum by getting this business over and done with." Pity. I was sure that Simon would continue the verbal duel for a while longer – it would have been quite a show, since Miss Romanelli appears to be as rude and acerbic as he is!

"Very well," Miss Romanelli answers resignedly. "Ask your questions."

That settled, Simon begins his inquiry, and Miss Romanelli cooperates with him fully – though her manner and her tone of voice make it obvious that she is hard pressed to behave towards him with even the smallest amount of decency. After a short while I take upon myself the job of questioning her, for I know what information Simon wants from her, and I guess that she will find talking to me more palatable than talking to my partner. Fortunately I am correct, and my attempt to cool her temper is successful, to a point.

Miss Romanelli tells us that she is writing a comprehensive history of the Church of the Epiphany, and came here to look into the archives. Cardinal Invictus – who is, as Brother Anselm said, her uncle – was kind enough to grant her the permissions she needed for her work. He also allowed her into the Museum Obscura so she could view some of the artefacts that have a significant bearing on the Church's history. These she sketched for illustrations to her account, though a condition of her admittance to the Museum is that she must say she got her pictures from the Church's books, and not from seeing the artefacts themselves.

She spent all the afternoon in the Museum Obscura, under the watchful eye of the sentry – Brother Mallory – and left when the bell rang for Vespers. In all the time she was in the Museum, she saw nothing she considered alarming or unusual. She learned of the incident when Brother Anselm ran into the cathedral to raise the alarm. The Cardinal dispatched Brother Anselm to us not ten minutes later, and asked Miss Romanelli to stay in case she might be of some help.

"Which I did, out of respect for my uncle and the trust he has seen fit to place in me," she concludes. "And that is all – unless you have any more questions?"

Simon rises from his seat. "That is all we have to ask, for the time being – though, unfortunately for both of us, I may have to speak to you again later."

I stand up as Miss Romanelli does. "I am staying at the Hotel Adelphi. If I am not there, I will be here." She is obviously reluctant to be giving him this information, since the last thing she wants is for us to bother her again, but she knows as we do that the Cardinal would have told us, had she not done so.

Simon takes a business card from his coat pocket and holds it out to her. "In the unlikely event you wish to contact us, please don't hesitate to do so. Thank you for your time." The way he says this makes it sound more like a parting shot than a polite expression of gratitude.

Miss Romanelli does not reply, at least not directly. She takes Simon's card without a nod or curtsey and slips it into her handbag, then turns on her heel and stalks out. As she departs she mutters a rather colourful epithet in her native tongue that almost sets my ears on fire and underscores it by slamming the door. I'm not exactly a stranger to foul language, but I hope I will never be closely acquainted with words like that.

Once she has let the door shut behind her, Simon looks quizzically at me. "What did she just say?" he asks.

I consider lying and saying that I did not quite catch it, but I made no attempt to conceal my shock at hearing it, so Simon would not believe me. "You don't want to know," I almost snap.

The corner of Simon's mouth curls up in an amused half-smile. "Have we been introduced?" he asks, obviously amused to see me so discomfited. But of course he wants to know. He always does.

Though I would not like to sully my tongue by repeating Miss Romanelli's parting words, I do not think Simon will give me any peace until I do. As I am trying to determine which is the lesser of two evils, it occurs to me that giving Simon the answer he seeks might cause him to regret his curiosity – that would be a sight to see! I gather my courage enough to whisper the offending phrase – translated, of course – in his ear.

The reaction is not at all what I expected. Simon assumes a contemplative expression and rubs his chin thoughtfully. "Hmm. I never really knew my mother, but I doubt very much that she…"

"Simon!"

He smiles at me – not with mocking amusement, but with real affection. "Emma, how could I possibly be offended by what that woman said after you did such an excellent job of being offended for me?" Simon lifts my hand and kisses it.

One of the odd things about Simon is that on those all-too-rare occasions where he displays good humour, I cannot help but share it, no matter how black my own mood may be. Though Miss Romanelli's unpleasantness is still fresh – and I am still uneasy about Miranda Cross – I cannot suppress a smile.

"You weren't really going to finish that sentence, were you?" I ask.

"Since you interrupted me, we shall never know."

"I can live with that. But I must know how you became acquainted with Miss Romanelli." I sit down on the couch again, grinning smugly at him. "All I know of your connexion to each other is what little I have heard these past fifteen minutes, and that she seems to share your belief that courtesy is overrated."

Simon rolls his eyes at me, but he obliges my request and sits down once more. "Though I am loath to cut short your amusement at my expense, I must inform you that you are mistaken; she does not behave that way to everybody…I know what you are thinking, Emma, and if you say it you will be shelving books in the library while I work on this case myself."

It is not clear whether this is a promise or an empty threat, but I decide it would not be prudent to take the risk of finding out for certain. I hold my tongue and listen attentively.

"Six years ago, I was called upon to investigate the death of Viscount Arturo Romanelli, the last male heir of his family. His mother and sister – and Cardinal Invictus, I suppose, though I did not know it at the time – were his only surviving relatives. It was his mother, now deceased, who engaged my services.

"Viscount Romanelli had been killed by a hired assassin, and his mother wanted me to find out who was responsible. I will not bother you with the details of the case. Suffice it say that, in the end, I found out that he had by devious and very elaborate means arranged for his own murder."

Simon and I have worked on some very strange cases together, but I have never before encountered the like of this. "His own…but why?"

"The Viscount had many very bad habits, among them compulsive gambling and excessive use of opium. The Romanelli family estate, which had already suffered misfortunes in his father's time, did not provide him with sufficient income to support his vices. His bad management of it only exacerbated the problem. The upshot of it was that Viscount Arturo had substantial debts which he could pay off only by selling or mortgaging most of his property."

"And he had kept this a secret from his mother and sister?" I ask.

"They knew of his activities, but not the extent of his debts. When I told them what had happened, they wanted to ensure that this scandal was never made public, and even after they paid for the Viscount's sins, they managed to get together an appreciable amount of money to…"

"…to try and buy your silence," I finish. "That is positively disgusting." We have of course been offered "hush money" – as Pete once put it – dozens of times in the past, but the idea of a client offering a bribe for that purpose is one I'd never conceived of before.

Simon nods. "They wanted me to say that I was unable to solve the case. Were it not for this I would have tried to protect their reputation somehow, but under the circumstances I did not think they deserved such consideration. I would not take their money, not even the regular fee for my services. Needless to say, we did not part on good terms. I said nothing of the bribe, but telling the police the truth about the Viscount's death was enough to ruin his family's reputation. And that, Miss Bishop, is a faithful narrative of all my dealings with the Romanellis."

"And she just behaved as if it were all your fault!"

"Judging from what I know of her and other nobles in general, I will make the charitable assumption that she has deluded herself into believing that it is indeed my fault," he says.

I shake my head. "I cannot believe the Cardinal would continue to associate himself with her, after what her brother did – though I suppose one cannot hold her accountable for that."

"Cardinal Invictus may truly believe in the concept of Christian forgiveness, which I do not even pretend to understand. Speaking of the Cardinal…." Simon gets to his feet. "He will want to hear what we have discovered thus far. Let's not keep him waiting."

We recount our findings to Cardinal Invictus and assure him that we will continue with our investigation into the robbery of the Museum Obscura and the murder of Brother Mallory. The Cardinal, much to my relief, does not express frustration at our limited success – not all the people who employ us are so patient or understanding. Although perhaps he can sympathize, since he is having trouble with his own investigation; the inventory list for the Museum Obscura is supposed to be in the back room of his office, but it was not in its accustomed place, and even a thorough search failed to turn it up. But he is sure to find it soon, and will contact us when he does.

After taking our leave of the Cardinal and waiting a short time in the vestibule while Brother Anselm fetches our carriage, we go back out into the stifling heat and embark on the ride back home.

There was a time when I regarded Partington's gargoyles the way most other people do, as a part of the scenery, a sometime nuisance, and a bit of a curiosity. But over the past few months the creatures have become in my eyes more and more ominous. What we have just seen is only a continuation of the trend. As the carriage begins moving, I watch the gargoyles circling overhead with a wary eye.

Soon after we get underway Simon's eyes take on a distant, unfocused look, which signals to me that his mind is fully engaged in the task of trying to puzzle out the gargoyle robbery case. I know what this means – once we get home, he's going to seal himself in the think tank. For the time being I have nobody to talk to, and nothing to take my mind off my worries over the possibility that Miranda Cross is breathing down our necks.

Simon does not notice when we pull up in front of the Residence, and I am forced to shake him out of his reverie. I thank Brother Anselm for taking us back home before I lead my partner inside.

He starts drifting again once he has hung up his coat and cloak in the closet just beyond the vestibule. I know that if I do not intervene he will skip supper – it would not be the first time he has gotten too absorbed in his thoughts to remember to eat – so I will not let him get away just yet.

"If you're going to shut yourself up in that horrible contraption all night," I say, pushing him in the direction of the kitchen, "At least don't do it on an empty stomach."

For a short time, Simon's urge to argue with me overcomes his desire to lose himself in speculation. "I do not recall ever giving you permission to nag me," he says irritably.

"Simon, I am not nagging you. On those occasions when your common sense goes on hiatus, I am obligated to stand in for it. That is what I am doing."

"I never gave you permission to stand in for my common sense, either. It amounts to the same thing."

"It does not matter whether you or anybody else gave me leave to do so. I shall continue nagging, or being the voice of common sense – however you choose to define it – until you eat something." I give him the sort of look that a governesses do when they issue their charges an ultimatum to behave or be punished. It's one of the few things that works on him, and then only if used sparingly.

My partner frowns at me, but he continues on the way to the kitchen without being pushed. After a moment he sighs resignedly. "Very well, I shall concede – but only so that I may have some peace."

Supper for both of us consists of, as usual, something that can be quickly and easily prepared from some of the contents of the icebox. Simon is content to treat food as a necessity to life and no more, so we do not have a cook. As for myself, this is just one of the many Things I Have Learned to Live With (or Without, as the case may be).

After we have finished, Simon leaves me to wash and put away the dishes – he usually takes care of his own from force of habit, but when he is in such a state as this he hasn't the patience or attention for it. I let him go – I can only delay the inevitable, after all, and I see no point in further antagonizing him by doing so. Only after he has left and I have finished putting the dishes away do I realize that I have forgotten to ask him if there is anything I can do out here in the world of the living to help with the case. But if I had he might have assigned me to shelving books in the library again, so it is probably just as well.

I cannot think of any useful task with which to occupy myself – save shelving books, which I shall put off doing again for as long as possible – so I find myself wandering about in the darkened halls of the Residence, as I occasionally do when I am alone and unsettled in my mind. Desperately I hope for something to distract me from my thoughts, or, better yet, something that will calm them.

The calm I do not find, but I get the distraction. As I pass through the great entrance hall I am startled by the ringing of the front-door bell. I scramble down the stairs to answer the door, wondering who the caller could possibly be this late in the evening. Perhaps it is Brother Anselm or another of the Epiphanic monks, come to give us a new piece of information on the case – perhaps the inventory book has been found.

But when I look through the peephole I see that the man standing outside is no monk. He is, however, familiar to me – and the moment I see him my heart freezes in terror for a moment, then tries to scramble up out of my throat. Though I have not seen him since I began working with Simon, his face is burned indelibly into my memory, and I have spoken with him many times over the past three years through rather…unconventional means. With a gasp I pull away from the peephole and flip myself around, so I am leaning back against the door. I close my eyes and take a few deep breaths, trying without much success to calm myself.

Danik's presence here should not come as so much of a shock to me. After all, I finished my assignment almost a month ago, and we have some unfinished business to attend to…