Chapter Three

Of Cars and Witchfinders

"For there is nothing hidden which will not be revealed, nor has anything been kept secret but that it should come to light."

-Mark 4:22

Fell had his own set of operatives at his disposal. Human operatives. As an angel, there were some things he just couldn't do or didn't understand. Human beings themselves happened to be one of them. After all, no one could understand humans better than other humans, so when in doubt, employ the mortals.

Fell's team wasn't a very sophisticated bunch. In fact sophisticated is probably the wrong word to describe them.1

The witchfinder army had been a large operation back in the old days, with many witchfinder sergeants and privates in its employ, back when accusing people of being witches or warlocks and burning them was more or less socially acceptable. Fell did not approve of lighting piles of wood under people on fire or poking them with pins, but he did approve of witch hunting. Searching out evil was his job after all, and Gabriel didn't seem to mind him working with humans, or at least those of a worthy cause.

As the sponsor of the army, Fell did have a say in what direction the witchfinder army's energies took. He could, for example, use them to find someone, use the army to be his eyes and ears when he didn't want Heaven to be leaning over his shoulder. He was about to use them now to trace Caudery. Not that Fell was entertaining any idea of Caudery being a witch, but he was incurably curious. Caudery could be mafia or in the employ of spies for all he knew.

Fell's imagination was rapidly expanding as he continued to read. He'd liked his crime novel so much that he'd read another, and then another after that. Slowly, his bookcases were beginning to overflow. It wasn't a far leap from crime to science fiction after that. He quickly gravitated towards science fiction and fantasy in general. As an angel, he happened to know some of it wasn't as far from reality as people thought. The spiritual world was in many ways much stranger than any galaxy of creatures the human brain could conjure up. Witches and spies were small things in comparison.

The witchfinder army itself was in actuality much smaller than Mr. Fell was led to believe. The records listed there being three-hundred and sixty-five witchfinders in its employ. Fell had noticed most of them had the name of Smith or Jones, but hadn't felt the need to question. He just paid Sergeant Shadwell the annual dues and everything went on smoothly.

Fell was standing by the telephone on his desk. He took a notebook from his pocket and dialed Shadwell's number. It rang twice.

"Hello?" said a breathy feminine voice. Fell recognized it as Shadwell's neighbor or secretary. He wasn't entirely sure what she did.

"Hello, Madame Tracey," said Fell. "Is Sergeant Shadwell there?"

"Ooooh! Just a moment, please, and I shall see." Her voice changed to a posh droll. Very unnecessary, Fell reflected.

"Cooie- Mr. Shadwell?" Fell heard after a faint knock.

Some murmured conversation with someone was followed by the loud bark of Shadwell, which could be clearly heard even without a telephone.

"E'way with yeh, brazen women!"

Fell pursed his lips disapprovingly. There was really no need for that kind of language, no matter what Madame Tracey did for a living. 2

Madame Tracey didn't seem to mind and handed over the phone with a soft murmur of "Oh, Mr. Shadwell."

"Jezebel," Shadwell grumbled before speaking into the telephone receiver. "Aye?"

"Sergeant Shadwell? It's me."

"Eh? Who be it?"

"Me, Mr. Fell. Your sponsor."

"Oh, aye. Yes. What 'ill yeh have, yer honor?"

Very unnecessary title, Fell reflected.

"I was very sorry to hear about the demise of Private Milk Bottle," Fell said seriously.

"Aye," Shadwell replied, his voice softening. "He was a brave chap. Taken unawares, he was. Very sudden."

"A rather shocking way to die," Fell agreed, playing along with the sergeant. He might be an angel, but that doesn't mean he was entirely clueless. He knew what Shadwell was about.

"Very brave chap," Shadwell coughed. It was a rattly chronic cough, the kind most smokers have.

"You should really take care of that cough," Fell said.

Fell had met Shadwell in person twice and the sergeant had given Fell the impression of being a very prolific smoker, and a very unclean person in general. Fell had tried to not touch anything in Shadwell's flat or even breath. Fell had no objection to a little dust or dirt, but when you couldn't tell if you were standing in someone's flat or a gravel pit, there was a problem. The sergeant didn't seem to mind, or even care. Perhaps that was what living alone did for men over the age of fifty.

"The extra twenty pounds were greatly appreciated as well," Shadwell continued when he got his breath.

"Oh good."

Fell smiled, even though he was talking into a corded desk telephone. He imagined the twenty had quickly disappeared into the form of cigarettes.

"What ken I do for yer honor?" Shadwell asked.

"Well," Fell lowered his voice. "There's someone I would like you to trace, Sergeant Shadwell."

"Oh, aye?"

"Yes, and if you could be very subtle about how you go about it, I would really appreciate it. Secretive, you know."

"Oh aye, of course yer honor."

There was a rustling of paper as Fell assumed Shadwell was finding a pencil and a pad of paper.

"Ready," Shadwell said.

Fell looked around to make sure the bookshop really was empty. "Right. So the name is Anthony J. Caudery. He drives a 1934 Bentley sports car, black and silver gray. The plate number is-" Fell fumbled with his notebook. "- C. He lives in London, but I'm not sure where. That's part of your job, Shadwell."

"Mmm, aye. Witch, is he?"

"I don't know. That's where your lot come in, sergeant. I need all you can find on him."

"I'll put me best men on it, sor. Caudery, you said. What's the J for?"

"Pardon?"

"What does the J stand for? Judas? Or Jereb, eh?"

"I really have no idea," said Fell, flustered. "It's just a J."3

"Be too much to suppose it's Jezebel," said Shadwell to himself.

"Excuse me?"

"Eh, oh nothing, sor. I'll be on it. See what devious secrets be unearthed. The truth can not outrun the army, yer honor."

"Excellent, sergeant. Thank you very much, dear boy. You'll hear from me very soon. Tickety-boo."

Fell hung up his end and didn't hear Shadwell grumble "Great southern pansy" under his breath.

If Fell felt any slight tug of dishonesty about spying on Caudery behind his back, he needn't have. For in less than half an hour, Sergeant Shadwell had another call. This time it was Caudery himself and he called in person. The witchfinder army was in his pay as well, and for almost the same reasons as Fell, though Caudery did endeavor to convince himself it was with evil intentions. He failed heroically.

Shadwell was having a cup of tea when Madame Tracey tapped on the door.

"Oh, Mr. Shadwell! You have a visitor. Hello, dear!"

She waved at a young man seated at a table completely covered by piles of newspapers. This was the only other living member of the army; one Newton Pulsifer, joined eight days ago, on a Thursday. So far his witch hunting had been confined to hunting through the newspapers armed with a pair of rusty scissors.

Newt gave Madame Tracey a weary smile. He'd been sitting and cutting all morning.

Shadwell looked up at the lady hovering in his doorway with a frown. "What'll yeh be want'n now, harlot?"

Madame Tracey blushed under her makeup. "A visitor for you," she said with a pleased smile.

"Well, show 'em in then."

Madame Tracey stepped aside and Caudery appeared, all in black except for his shirt, chain necklace and the striking snakeskin boots on his feet.

Shadwell immediately pushed back his chair and stood. Something about the rake-thin man in dark glasses made Shadwell nervous. It might have been the slicked hair or the suit, but more likely it was because Shadwell had never seen his eyes. You can't trust a man when you can't see where he's looking, Shadwell believed. Nevertheless, Caudery paid well and the sergeant wasn't going to argue with pound notes. And Caudery always paid in cash.

Caudery tipped his head in a quick nod towards Shadwell. "Sergeant Shadwell," he said slowly, drawing out each word.

"Ah, Mr. Caudery, yer honor." Shadwell bowed.

Madame Tracey was still hovering. "I'll leave you be," she said sweetly. "Would you be wanting any tea, dear?"

This was directed at Caudery, whom she was smiling up at from under her long false eyelashes. She had a soft spot for the tall, mysterious type, and Caudery fit the description perfectly. Caudery felt a little uncomfortable at her close proximity. Anything closer than three feet to him was close and Madame Tracey was almost touching him.

"Mr. Caudery won't be need'n tea from yeh, Jezebel," Shadwell recovered his voice. "Out with yeh!"

"Well, I'll see you later then." Madame Tracey smiled at Shadwell and glanced again at Caudery and shut the door quietly after herself.

Caudery took in the room, making mental notes to never let the inside of Bentley reach such a state of filth. The hundreds of newspapers were not of a concern. It was more everything else. The ceiling may have been white fifty years ago. The walls were a color which bore an uncanny resemblance to cigarette smoke. Every other surface had the look of having never heard of the word clean. He didn't dare imagine what the inside of the sergeant's refrigerator looked like.4

Caudery kept his hands in his pockets and avoided walking on the carpet.

"It's a pleasure, yer honor," Shadwell said, pulling out a chair and removing the papers on it. "The annual dues aren't ready 'til the week after next. Still have the ledger to finish."

"I know," Caudery replied. He remained standing. "I have something else for you."

"Oh?" The sergeant looked over his teacup with suspicious interest.

"Nothing you won't be able to handle," Caudery assured him. "London, Soho. There's a bookshop on a crossroads. Old secondhand kind. Owner by the name of A. Z. Fell. I need you to keep an eye on him."

Shadwell's eyebrows went up. He nodded without replying right away. He was trying to figure out how he could have two requests, exactly the same, from two completely different people who didn't know each other to have him spy on them for them. If he had been a man with a sense of humor, Sergeant Shadwell would have laughed. As it was, he took a sip of tea and noticed young Newt eyeing Mr. Caudery while cutting up the front page of the Times.

"Oh, Mr. Caudery, this 'ere is the newest recruit of the witchfinder army. May I present Private Pulsifer, Mr. Caudery. On yer feet, laddie!"

Newton Pulsifer dropped the scissors as he stood and gave an awkward salute. This triggered a smile from Caudery, the first Shadwell had ever seen.

"At ease, private," said Caudery. "Been a witchfinder long, have you?"

"Not long, sir, no," Newt admitted, pushing the bridge of his glasses with a finger.

"I'm sure you'll find it colored with interest," Caudery said, looking at the spread of news clippings on the table. "Out in the field you might encounter all sorts, maybe even an angel or a demon, if you know where to look."

"Oh?" said Newt, unsure of anything else to say. "Um… tea?"

"I'm not staying," Caudery replied, turning back to Shadwell. "So, London book-seller."

"Aye, I'll have it down in a moment."

"Good." Caudery removed a hand from his pocket only to place a few pound notes on the table. "Call me if you find anything. On the mobile."

"Will do that, yer grace."

Shadwell bowed once more, but Caudery had already turned and left the flat.

Newton Pulsifer was a timid young man in his early twenties. He had joined the witchfinder army purely out of bored interest. He had nothing else to do in actuality, as he'd just lost his previous job as a wages clerk. He had been there for one day.

The reasons for his current unemployment had something to do with frying all the computers in his department. This really wasn't Newt's fault. He tried really hard, but no matter how many hours of research he did or dozens of old radios he took apart, Newt would sadly never be good with electronics. Computers died under his touch, fuses blew and switches had a tendency to melt when he was around. It was almost a curse.5

So there Newt was, sitting at a table in Sergeant Shadwell's dismal flat, cutting up old newspapers.

Newt watched his commanding officer scoop up the notes Caudery had left. Newt noticed they were both fifty pound notes.

"Interesting fellow," Newt said, gingerly picking his pair of scissors off the carpet.

"Aye," Shadwell agreed. He folded the notes in half and stuck them somewhere in a jacket pocket.

"Kind of… frightening, though," Newt ventured a bit further. This managed to rouse Shadwell.

"Oh, aye. Mr. Caudery could be called that. He does pay well."

"Um, what exactly does he do? If you don't mind my asking." Newt continued sorting though papers while really focusing on Shadwell.

"He pays our wages, laddie. Always right an' regular. Never late, always on time."

"So, he has means then."

"Means, aye, indeed, laddie. Don't know where 'e gets it an' it isn't my place to know. Ask nay questions, I say. Just stick to yer work and keep yer nose clean."

Newt nodded, thinking to himself that he doubted if the sergeant had ever had a clean nose.

And though he hadn't actually said so, Shadwell had alluded to the Mr. Caudery as not being the most savory of people. Newt wasn't surprised. It seemed only natural that Shadwell would be employed by someone like that. Newt had gotten the feeling of Caudery being somewhat shady, and it wasn't all the sunglasses' doing. It was the way he had said the word demon and smiled. Gave Newt a bit of a shiver, the cold unpleasant kind. He wasn't sure he would care to meet him in person again.

However, Newt was beginning to feel he might go quietly crazy if he had to stay in this flat and cut through another week's worth of newspapers. He had to get out. Anything would do, even doing some spy-work for a potential criminal.

Newt folded up the Times he'd been working on and put it on the top of his completed pile. He moved this pile across the room to the spot where the used papers resided until put in the bin. Then he turned to Shadwell.

"The London bookseller," Newt said, eyeing the paper pad in Shadwell's hand. "Shall I follow up on it?"

"Hmmm, perhaps," Shadwell mumbled. "Southerners."

"Pardon?"

"A bookshop pansy an' a sport car driv'n mafia," the sergeant said.

"Er, I could pay for my own petrol," Newt offered. He wanted to breath fresh air again. He was beginning to forget what fresh air was.

"Eh?" The bit about the petrol had caught Shadwell's attention. "Will'n ta pay for yer own, did yeh say?"

"Yes, sergeant." Newt wasn't about to let this opportunity slip away from him. There might not be another chance at escape for weeks. "All I'd need would be the information and my car. Oh, it's blue, come to think of it. I suppose I could paint it black."

Shadwell gave a sort of cough that might have been a chuckle. "No need fer paint'n anything, laddie. Yeh just follow at a distance when yeh can and lie in wait 'er times. No bracken ta hide behind in London, though. Be a tricky job. Sure yeh up to it, private?"

"Yes, sir." Newt tried to look as tall and soldier-like as he could, though nothing about him really screamed army as much as it did geek.6

It was enough for Shadwell, who had no intention of doing any real work himself. Young Newt seemed eager enough, and as both Fell and Caudery would be paying, there was no reason why Private Pulsifer shouldn't do just as proposed.

"Well, finish up yeh reading, lad," Shadwell said in a droll way. "And be here to'morrow at nine o' clock before yeh go."

"Yes, sir. Um, what for?"

Over his tea, Shadwell smiled. "For yer supplies of righteousness, lad, supplies of righteousness."

Gabriel was not satisfied with the report on Aziraphale.

The earth angel's comments about 'blending in' with the human population did nothing to encourage him. Fell wasn't acting like an angel should. He wasn't focused on celestial matters. He was distracted.

Gabriel made a mental note to himself to personal check on Aziraphale's progress later. At the moment he had a bit too much on. Things were beginning to stir up in the heavenlies and distracted principalities would have to wait. There were Michael and Seviline to keep an eye on him if needed. If anything of importance came to light, they would let him know. Or deal with it themselves.

Gabriel's mind was turned to other matters at present, matters of a much more pressing nature.

A restless wind was blowing; the spiritual realms were stirring. Rumors were being exchanged that things were afoot.

And soon, very very soon, it would all change.

Caudery was walking on his own through London. He was busy working, racking his brains for an ideally devilish accomplishment. The fact that he had to add something real to his next report was the most forward in his mind.

He could always resort to gluing coins to the sidewalk again, but that really only served to amuse him. Anyone could do that. No spark of intelligence required.

Well then, he could take out the internet. A nice, clean easy job. Hell would be none the wiser.

He shrugged the notion away once he got to the Bentley. Hell would still be angry. So why bother? No need to put in all the work for nothing.

He was in need of a few more houseplants. The backseat of the car so far had a peace lily and a rhododendron. A nice caladium would fit right in nicely.

Caudery drove to the florets, a small one near the Soho district. They had what he wanted, and for a price he was willing to pay. He came out with a pink and green caladium and a potted fern he'd also felt compelled to buy. Caudery arranged the plants artfully next to each other in the Bentley. The car was starting to look like it was lived in, more homey and less like a collector's item. No dirt got on the leather, however. Caudery made sure of that.

The peace lily would fit perfectly in his lounge, right beside the sofa. If the sofa was still there, Caudery somberly reflected. He hadn't been brave enough to yet venture into Mayfair. If his flat was gone, well, there was no point in piling insult on injury. He couldn't conjure up something which had been six months gone. He didn't have the power in him. Head Office would notice activity on that large a scale, anyway, and even if he did manage it, his original houseplants would probably be dead.

A few choice words about head office came to mind and Caudery took it out on the four live houseplants he now had. He had purchased a new plant mister and sprayed each of them in turn. The inside of the Bentley remained dry, while the plants dripped. The plant mister was slammed down on the dashboard.

Caudery slumped down in the passenger seat as rain started to pelt against the Bentley's windows. Rain suited him just fine.

Caudery's mood turned dark as his thoughts shifted to the correction center that had served as his home for the past half year. He should have known Hastur had been part of it behind the scenes. It fairly reeked of his craftsmanship. He loved to torment.

The first blow had been when they had taken away the Bentley and wrenched the keys from his fingers.

Then his suit. And his boots.

Caudery liked nice clothes. Prison attire was the very opposite of what he would call nice. Plain tee shirt and track sweats, often ill-fitting and colorless, the clothes could almost be compared to the food. Not that the food was bad, but it was to Caudery. The bunk he'd tried not to mind, nor the cellmate, whom he had actively ignored.

What had really got him was the sunglasses. The sunglasses the correction officer had personally removed from Caudery's face and snapped in half.

Caudery's temper had flared, but he could do nothing. He had no powers, no reserves, no miracles he could preform. Powerless and human, with nothing to defend him. Emotions could avail him nothing, except for more time for bad behavior.

So he'd been forced to expose himself with no hope of defense. Comments about his eyes had ensued, which he had no logical answer for. Not even the truth would have been believed. As if being incarcerated wasn't enough of a humiliation in of itself. Those months, weeks and hours were nothing but humiliation.7

These feelings had served Caudery nothing but had made him keep his head down and plod through his sentence the best he could. He would have liked to trip up the officers, metaphorically let out a few tyres, break a few egos, but he dared not. He restrained himself from swearing and went through the motions of each day. He took the courses provided to show he really was working on fixing his "offending behavior." Mainly these were related to alcohol awareness and responsible driving. On good days, he had the chance to work in some of the gardens.

Perhaps he had developed a bit of sympathy for the other beings around him, imprisoned like him, some with years ahead until they would be able to breath free air again. He only had to endure six months of the place. For some it would be a matter of many more, even as long as a lifetime.

Caudery wasn't in any way omnipotent. He wasn't God, but he could read guilt. The correction center had practically oozed with it.

Guilt of past crimes. Guilt of new crimes. Guilt of crimes not committed, or even guilt for the wrong crime.

Even for the truly guilty, Caudery would have felt some pity, if it were not for the knowledge that an even more horrible future awaited some in the time after death if they didn't change. He didn't envy them that. He could pray for their souls, but as he was a demon, he was doubtful if God heard him. He prayed anyway.8

Besides reading through the limited prison library, it was all he could do. There was too much time to fill and not enough to do to fill it with. Sleeping was impossible. The air was too congested of whispered thoughts and stifled cries in the night-time. He didn't want to remember any of it. He didn't even want to remember the gardens.9

The day of his release had come as a surprise to Caudery. He'd almost become part of the prison, the routine being ingrained in him. It was with little sorrow he said farewell to the sterile cell and the penitentiary walls.

He had almost felt joy when a surly officer handed him his clothes.

A definite surge of true joy had gone through him when the Bentley's keys were placed in his hand. He had hardly dared to hope. He made an idiot of himself by asking repeatedly about the keys.

There wasn't a mistake. They were his. The car was still his.

Impounded for those six months, the Bentley was dusty and it had a few dents and scrapes, but it was intact. It was in one piece. It hadn't been stripped, sold or demolished.

His car.

Still his car.

Caudery would have given nearly anything in exchange for the Bentley. He almost kissed the correction officer in sheer delight. He'd listened politely to the warning and lecture without really hearing a word.

Hurriedly did Caudery throw aside the hideous prison wear and pull on his suit and snakeskin boots, endeavoring to put this episode of his existence completely behind him as soon as possible. He didn't really believe the car was still his until he stumbled out into the daylight and saw it there, looking ever so real and magnificent.

Slipping behind the wheel again, Caudery had been elated. Not even the metal bracelet on his ankle nor the cap they'd fitted on the engine could dampen how he felt. With a twist of the key, the Bentley roared to life. Caudery cruised away at a slow twenty-five miles an hour.

He had begun to feel more and more like himself the further and further away he got from the Tadfield Penitentiary. He slid a disc in the player.

Spread your wings and fly away
Fly away, far away…

He was in his own car, he was wearing his own clothes, from black tie and red shirt to the soles of his boots. Even the chain necklace was back around his neck.

He was missing just one thing.

Caudery reached across to the glove compartment and snatched up a spare pair of shades. He slipped them on and grinned.

Spread your little wings and fly away
Fly away, far away…

He glanced at the speedometer. It was barely registering at thirty. At this rate it would take him over five hours to reach London. Caudery checked the rear view mirrors. They were clear. All he had to do was try.

He snapped his fingers.

Instantly the engine gained power as the cap dissolved into nothing.

Pull yourself together
Because you know you should do better
That's because you're a free man…

With a grin, Caudery slammed the petal to the floor and the Bentley shot over the countryside with speed. Caudery was again a carefree demon, laughing in the face of the devil.10

Until a chance encounter at the park had changed him once again.

Now Caudery sat back, watching the population of London struggle through the downpour from the comfort of his car.

So many people, so many lives. So preoccupied with the immediate cares of this life, so unprepared for the next.

Caudery sighed, popping his boots up on the dashboard beside the plant mister. He shouldn't complain. He was alive, free, and at any rate, had it far better than the damned in Hell. Not that he would poke fun at them. Eternal torment was no laughing matter.

Caudery stepped out into the rain and locked the Bentley.

He was late to meet Fell.

Newton Pulsifer arrived on the dot at Shadwell's at nine o' clock precisely. He wasn't the best with time, but with a good alarm clock and sticky notes taped in various conspicuous places around his flat, he had a sporting chance of being almost early.

Madame Tracey let Newt in as usual, and she had been greeted in the usual tactlessness by the sergeant, to which she smiled and said, "Oh, Mr. Shadwell, you do say the nicest things."

Newt hadn't heard anything at all nice in Shadwell's choice of words, but Madame Tracey didn't seem to be hard to please. She rather liked Shadwell, which would had horrified him to no end, if he had known.

Shadwell herded Newt inside his flat.

"Now then, lad, first yeh be needing yer uniform."

"For spying?" Newt asked.

"Always look the part, Private Pulsifer, even when do'in under cover work. A soldier always looks the part."

"Right," Newt said.

Shadwell opened an old dusty trunk and pulled from it what Newt thought was a bundle of dirty canvas.

"Here yeh are, lad."

The dirty object turned out to be a coat, probably as old as the trunk and not much cleaner. Newt was to wear it. He held his breath as he put it on. It fit him perfectly. The coat was full of pockets of all sizes and decorated with an assortment of odd pins Newt thought to be related to the witchfinder army, though exactly how he couldn't decide. A few of the pins he suspected had come off a real military uniform and there were one or two that simply looked like the rusted caps of pop bottles. On closer inspection, Newt discovered they were exactly that.

At one point in time, a man in a coat studded over with pins and carrying an official-looking card would have commanded a respectful reception wherever he set foot. Newt felt more like a chump idiot standing in Shadwell's sitting room wearing the coat. He doubted if he would be taken seriously by anyone.

He didn't voice his opinions as Shadwell gathered up the supplies for Newt with an almost reverent air.

"Field-glasses," Shadwell recited, handing Newt a pair of binoculars possibly left over from the second world war.11

"Um, field-glasses," Newt repeated.

"Firelighters and matches."

"Firelighters and matches. Why, sir?"

"In case yeh run into any witches, private. Yeh are firstly a witchfinder, remember."

"Yes, sergeant."

"Official logbook and pencil."

"Logbook and pencil."

"Thumbscrew."

"I really don't think…"

"THUMBSCREW."

"Thumbscrew," Newt said, taking the wooden instrument with no happy feelings.

"Official witchfinder pin."

Shadwell handed him a silver pin about ten inches in length, with needle-sharp point and a fancy insignia on the top. It had the look of a weapon to Newt.

"Pin," Newt said, sticking it carefully in the lapel of his coat. He didn't want to misjudge his placement on that.

The last items the sergeant gave him had Newt puzzled.

"Bell."

Shadwell held up a little silver bell, the kind a lady of a Victorian household would have used to ring for her maid.

"Bell." Newt took it.

"Candle."

This was a long taper, made of red wax with an untrimmed wick.

"Er, candle."

"Book."

Newt glanced at the cover. It was entitled Attack of the Ape-men from Mars. Newt just couldn't picture Sergeant Shadwell as an avid reader of anything, especially not pulp fiction novels.

"Book," Newt repeated, adding to the pile of miscellaneous things in his arms. "Um, excuse me for asking this, sergeant, but what are the bell, candle and book for?"

Shadwell smiled. "Demons, laddie. It's an dangerous world out there. Not just witches yeh might be dealing with. Might be a demon to exorcise."

"Oh. Demons. Right."

Newt figured asking just how one would exorcise a demon would annoy Shadwell. Instead Newt nodded, tried to look like he knew exactly what he was doing and stuffed the coat pockets.

Shadwell saluted and Newt echoed the action.

"Be off, private."

"Yes, sir." Private Newton Pulsifer nodded.

"Keep good notes and telephone when yeh find anything significant."

Newt saluted again and quickly made his escape.

Newt's small blue car was anything but subtle. Newt wasn't clear on how he could follow either of his subjects without being spotted. 12

He also wasn't clear on how to actually find Caudery. London was a big city and Newt was only one man. Newt had seen plenty of cars in his short time in London. Black cars, gray cars, a few red, white, and other colours of all makes and models. The two kinds he hadn't seen were a vintage Bentley and another of his. Newt was sure Caudery's car was better than his Japanese one. His car was an unusual car, that Newt knew. It was also an extremely inefficient, unreliable vehicle. The petrol mileage was terrible and getting parts if the car should break down was almost impossible. Newt had tried to convince his friends to invest in their own miserable blue Asian car without any success. Because misery loves company.

Newt got his car to start after the second turn of the key and drove up to the bins in the alley. Newt leaned out his window and removed the lid of the nearest bin. Into the bin he tossed the thumbscrew and the firelighters. He hesitated on the matches. He might need those for the candle. Newt replaced the lid and consulted his logbook. Two names and two addresses were listed in Shadwell's atrocious handwriting. The rest of the details were sparse.

Newt decided to start with the more intimidating charge. He shivered involuntarily as he read over Caudery's information. Newt was sure he wouldn't have any difficulty in spotting him in a crowd, but he wasn't sure about the car. Newt wasn't sure what a 1934 Bentley looked like. He'd never seen one. He'd never seen a car that old. The car his father had owned for years was from the 1980s.

Newt took a breath and turned towards central London. Newt's smallish car almost caused several traffic jams as he searched for his query.

About lunchtime, he spotted Caudery.

Newt pulled over and watched.

Anthony J. Caudery was leaving the National Museum, which slightly confused Newt. Caudery hadn't given him the impression as being someone who was likely to be interested in art. Caudery sauntered over to a large, black, obviously vintage car. It had to be the Bentley.

Newt fumbled for the logbook while keeping his eyes on Caudery. Newt checked the plate number. It was the same as the one written down. Newt tossed aside the book and put his hand on the clutch, ready to merge into the traffic. He was not ready for Caudery's lead foot.

Newt's eyes grew wide in amazement as he watched the Bentley leap away from the kurb and take the corner on two wheels. Newt uttered something like a swear under his breath and gunned his little car. The maximum speed it could reach was 80 miles an hour.13 He'd be lucky to keep Caudery in sight.

Notes:

-All scripture comes from the NKJV and the NIV translations.

-Credit for Spread your Wings belongs to John Deacon and Queen.

1 The current witchfinder army was not sophisticated, intelligent, or advanced in any sense. The army hadn't really moved forward from the 1700s and were a bit low-tech. Perfect for Fell, and they were very cheap to employ.

2 Fell suspected that Shadwell wouldn't approve of any profession Madame Tracy had, no matter whether she was a medium, an artist or raised prize dachshund pups. Shadwell would call her "Jezebel" anyway, puppies, paint or not.

3 Caudery had added the J to his name in 1931 because he decided it made his name sound more complete and official. Lots of people have middle names. So he should too. It was just a J. Fell's own middle initial of Z came from his celestial name. His imagination hadn't expanded to turn the Z into an actual name. It was just a Z. And that was all.

4 He really didn't want to know. Shadwell's refrigerator could be almost as frightening as a horror film. And the rotten vegetables thankfully hadn't learned how to use knives yet.

5 There actually was a curse on the Pulsifer family, going all the way back to the days of Agnes Nutter. It was prophesy number 318 and read as follows: "Unto the men of Pulsifer line, I do say, ev'r to worketh in vane on the inventions of the latter days. Thy undoing shalt beest thy own."

Most of the Pulsifer decedents had no idea what the curse meant and fearfully avoided careers involving all modern things such as airplanes, cars, radio, television and any electronics. Newt was the first to dabble and thus the first to invoke the curse on himself.

6 His often broken glasses, plaid shirt and hoodie and his mismatched brightly patterned socks didn't help the image.

7 These months inside a prison made by human hands reminded Caudery only too clearly of his own original Disgrace. The differences between Tadfield Penitentiary and the prisons of Hell were many. In prison you are offered the opportunity to reform, in Hell there are no chances at redemption. And in Hell you can't smoke.

8 Caudery had always prayed. Never for himself, as he knew he was unforgivable, but for the sake of others. The ones who could yet be saved, the ones who were lost and couldn't see their way. Perhaps it was similar to the blind leading the blind, but this demon continued in this practice in the faith that one day, some good might come of it.

9 The plants in the prison gardens had flourished under Caudery's care. He had been removed from the job after being caught threatening the flora with violence if they didn't behave.

10 He had actually done that once and called Satan a name not to be repeated on paper. Caudery had earned himself a very painful punishment involving holy water, but he'd felt it was worth it. The devil needed a shaking down every so often.

11 They were and had been pinched by Shadwell during his disreputable youth.

12 The beloved car of Newt's was a pale powdery shade of blue most car manufactures try to avoid. The car had enough room for only two passengers, had a shell the thickness of a tin can and was about as reliable as a bicycle underwater.

13 Newt had never reached 80 mph or even 75 in his car. He had always prided himself on driving the speed limit where possible and only one mile over it if the need absolutely called for it.