4th January
Nathan cautiously made his way between the blackened debris. The pale gray dawn discolored houses, streets, figures and faces. The people behind the cordon were talking a little audibly, but Brennon almost did not distinguish their voices. He stopped at the first body.
"All?" He muttered to the sergeant.
"All, sir. Husband, wife, wife's sister, four children, two maids, the cook, the nanny and the tutor."
"Have you examined the bodies?"
"Yes, sir, but Mister Kennedy has told me not to touch anything yet."
The commissar nodded and went to the cigar light. Broyd stood at the wreckage of the stairs.
"Go to your sister, Nathan. I can handle this without you."
Brennon said nothing gloomily. Kennedy, two policemen and consultant's butler examined the blockage a little further than the stairs.
"Did you know them?" The commissar asked.
"No, but I heard. Farrels donated a lot to the temples. The husband was close friends with Bishop Whitby."
Raiden came up to them and said briefly:
"The ifrit. A dozen corpses, all eaten up," he nodded at the pile of still smoking debris in the middle of the former living room. "The tutor ran out to meet him."
"Why didn't they burn out?" Broyd asked. Raiden beckoned to them and squatted beside the tutor's body. It was dusted with snow and ash, but not touched by the fire. The butler picked up the fireplace tongs that were lying nearby (it seems that the tutor on the way to the door armed himself with what he could) and squeezed the finger of the corpse with them. The little finger broke off with a stiff crack, and Raiden poured a handful of ashes from it.
"God," Broyd muttered. Brennon swayed in his heels, hands in his pockets and clenched them in his fists. The police chief tossed the cigar behind the cordon and rubbed his face, ruffling the whiskers.
"Go to your own, Nathan," he finally decided. "I'll end here."
"Longsdale with them. We still need to explain to the townspeople..."
"Go, I said. The explanation is my job, not yours."
"You can take my carriage," the butler intervened, "I'm all the same here until the morning. I'll pack samples for Lo... for my master."
Nathan finally looked from the body to Raiden and nodded. Broyd walked quickly toward the cordon.
"Nothing will happen to your family while the consultant is there," said the butler. The commissar nodded again. There were still no words. Raiden handed him a bundle for Longsdale and led him to the crew.
"Thanks," Nathan finally managed. The butler smiled meanly.
"No problem. Family is such a thing."
Brennon clicked on the reins. He did not succeed in driving away the idea that all this could happen to the Sheridans and only by a miracle did not happen. Grayish, as if dusty, burned out from the inside of the body among the charred ruins... Between the houses of Sheridans and Farrels was only fifteen minutes on foot.
The commissar drove past the black spot on the fence and stopped at the gate. Kelly was on duty. He grabbed the horse under the bridle and said that the consultant was waiting in the living room, and the family in the kitchen. Nathan grabbed the bundle and went through the garden. It was not necessary to possess secret knowledge to trace the path of ifrit - it stretched a strip of melted snow and charred bushes. The earth was scorched to dry dust. Beneath the broken windows, Brennon spotted the red dog. The dog raised its face and looked at him carefully. The commissar walked past, toward the door for the maid.
Martha, his sister, was the first to rise to meet him, and Nathan hugged her, clutching her tightly. She clung to him with all her might, trembling weakly. Joseph Sheridan only nodded to Brennon and wearily hung his head in his hands.
"Where are the children?" Nathan asked quietly.
"Joe Junior with Peg and Miss Tay, Eddie is looking after the little ones. Who is this, Nath?"
"Farrels."
"All?"
"All. Children, servants, tutor - everyone who was in the house."
Martha sat heavily on a bench.
"Who did this?" Whispered Joseph. "Is that the one who burned the church?"
"Yes."
"But, Lord, why?"
"I can't say anything, Joe."
"Even to us?" Martha asked sharply. "We could be burned alive just like Farrels! You can't just be silent!"
"I won't," Nathan said through set teeth. "I will find this bastard and turn his neck."
"Mister Longsdale says we're safe," Joseph said. "That's for sure?"
"I do not know. Joe, no one in town is safe now. Go to Bennett, this is the best. Where is Longsdale?"
"In the living room. Will you rise to the children?"
"Yes. Now," Nathan sank down onto the bench. Sister squeezed his hand and moved the coffee pot to him:
"Will you?"
"More. What did you saw? Tell me again."
"We have not seen," Mr. Sheridan answered. "We woke up because the windows flew out in the living room. The window in my office above it also cracked, from top to bottom."
"There was still a sound," Martha took off the kettle from the fire and poured coffee in a mug. "It's as if something flashed past the house, some kind of air buzz."
"Yes. We jumped up and rushed down. Found there ... all this. Martha immediately ordered to send for you. And that's all. No one was hurt, only Peg cut her arm with a splinter."
The commissar clung to the mug. He was on his feet from four in the morning. A call to Farrell caught him in his sister's house. However, the pillar of fire that blazed in the neighborhood, and so did not leave room for doubt. Probably the whole block saw it. As soon as he closed his eyes, a dazzling glow flashed before Nathan again.
"I'm upstairs," he finally muttered. "Call, if anything."
"Will you stay?" Asked Marta. "I warmed the pies for yours people, and the kettle is full."
"I do not know..."
She hugged Nathan. Brennon slowly turned a mug on the table in which coffee splashed.
"If only you had seen..." he said, barely audibly. "If you knew what could..."
Martha pressed her cheek to his temple.
***
Nathan carefully opened the door, and from the darkness an angry whisper came:
"Hush! The littles only fell asleep!"
The commissar stopped at the beds. The three younger boys were sleeping peacefully, the baby in an embrace with the nanny. Edwin quietly got up from his chair and went to his uncle.
"Is it because of the church?" He asked in a whisper. Brennon frowned at him. "Everyone is talking. They say that a crazy arsonist. It's true?"
For his nineteen, Eddie was rather lanky, and it was already difficult for Nathan to look at him from top to down, inspiring reverence by his very appearance.
"You know that I cannot answer."
"Even to us?" Even to mom?
"Yeah".
The nephew ruffled his shaggy, dark red hair. Nathan looked at the younger ones with a grin. Of all the Sheridans' children, one Margaret went suit to father. But her character - definitely from her mother...
"Did you see anything?"
Edwin shook his head.
"No, just heard."
"Heard?"
"I did not sleep."
"Why is that?"
"I read," Eddie said, blushing.
"What did you read?"
"The book."
"Which one?"
The nephew stared at the floor, flaming with his ears and physiognomy.
"Read or watched?" Commissar sarcastically specified.
"I read... But there were pictures too!"
"Well, well, at least the ears were left unoccupied. What did you hear?"
"Someone walked down the hall and down the stairs. The steps seemed to be Peggy's...Or maybe my mother... No, sure Peg - we all went down to the living room from here, and she came running from the side of the kitchen."
"Have you seen anyone else? Or have you heard?"
"No."
"Do you think there were strangers in the house?"
Eddie thought for a moment.
"Well, actually," he said finally, "if say so, then it's not difficult to climb into our house. The windows on the ground floor are high, but with a staircase you will reach. But even if an arsonist made his way to us, then why would he beat all the windows And all at once," - the young man shivered. "It was like beaten through them with a poker - there was fragments no bigger than my palm. You can't do it all at once, unless there were several people. Uncle, ask Peg - she could hear more from the kitchen."
"Good. Eddie, have you ever gone to Saint Helena's Church? Communicated with Father Grace?"
The nephew shook his head again.
"Was someone unfamiliar or strange around your house?"
"I have not seen anyone. Well, neighbors, a janitor, but - nobody else."
"Remember - say to me."
Brennon quietly closed the door behind him and thoughtfully stood in front of the niece's room, wondering if it was worth disturbing the girl again, since she had already gone to bed. However, voices came from inside, and Edwin said that with Peg her companion (who suffered such fear that she flatly refused to sleep at her room, alone) and Joseph Jr. And there is a meager chance that Peg from the kitchen saw or heard more than everyone else. After all, someone the hell frightened off this damned beast!
***
As soon as uncle stepped out of the doorway, Margaret jumped out of bed and ducked into a dressing gown.
"Where are you going?!" the younger brother shouted.
"Be quiet, toadstool!"
The girl rushed to the door. Fortunately, Miss Tay got drunk on sleeping pills, and even a cannon could not have raised her.
"Peg, mom ordered..."
"So sit here, pretend I'm here too!"
She slipped out of the room and hurried to the sound of voices. Its came from the living room; Margaret, fearing to miss everything, slid down the railing, ran across the hall and hid behind a cupboard at the entrance to the living room. In the midst of the defeat the uncle and the consultant stood. At first the heart sank pleasantly, and then it pounded with such force that it was beating in the ears. Mr. Longsdale did not seem to suffer from the cold - having thrown off his coat and vest, in the middle of the frozen-out living room he showed her uncle the rest of the circle on the floor.
"...the house was defended," the soft, low baritone came to Margaret, from which she was numb and burst into a hot blush.
"And now?" The commissar asked. "Is the house defended now?"
"Yes," the consultant straightened up, and the girl noticed his eyes glowing in the semi-darkness. "I did everything to protect both the house and your family."
"Thanks. I am indebted," uncle coughed hoarsely and nodded at the parquet: "So you say this is protection against evil spirits?"
"And very well done. All the more strange," Longsdale frowned,"why he could not control his own spell. It should not have exploded like this, except from an excess of invested forces."
"Do you think he did not calculate? Carried away?"
Margaret bit her lip. Maybe because of her he exhausted and fell out somewhere in the gateway!
"Judging by the methods used, he is too experienced to not keep track of such things."
"But who the hell is he?" - the uncle asked irritably. "What did he want here? Where did this man come from... Longsdale," he pull up short himself unexpectedly, "are you sure that the charred skeleton in the temple belongs to Father Grace?"
"Now I'm not sure anymore," the consultant answered after a long pause.
"What if our pater was an enlightened man on this part," the Commissar poked his toe in an arc on the floor, "and after a visit to evil spirits decided to lie low?"
"Do you think he killed the warlock-Strangler, left his body in the church and put a lock on the door so that the ifrit did not come out?"
Margaret held her mouth in her hands.
"In general, this is logical. Is it possible? We didn't find any books or anything else like that ... Well, that."
"He could keep it all in the church," the consultant went to the window opening, and the faint winter twilight snatched out his profile from the half-darkness, wide shoulders and black hair. Margaret almost didn't listen to what he was saying. "So no wonder. In general, he would hardly have kept such things at home."
Uncle scratched his beard.
"It is truth too. But then, how did the Strangler manage to conduct his ritual right under Grace's nose in his own temple? Why were the bones of children there?"
The girl gasped. That's what the policemen took out of the church when she saw the ifrit for the first time!
"Maybe Grace was an accomplice of the Strangler?"
"Then why the hell did the pater drag himself here and fight so hard that he overtaxed, protecting this house from ifrit? The Martha's family never knew him."
"Do you not believe in repentance?" Longsdale asked with a grin. The Commissar snorted loudly.
"Like hell! Eight years was a bastard, and then stopped? No, there is something else..."
"Oh, by the way! I finally found out when the lock was applied on the door."
"Or rather? Earlier, later?"
The consultant shook his head.
"No one will tell you more precisely. On the same day, if you want, not earlier."
"Interesting... And the print? You said that every witcher leaves a personal mark in these of his..."
"This is not a witcher," Longsdale said softly, and his uncle stared at him in amazement. "This is a human. But this is one and the same human."
"What do you mean?"
"The one who set the lock, and the one who today defended the house from the ifrit, is one and the same person."
"Lord!" Margaret buried her forehead in the closet. How could she not have guessed!
"And you are talking about it just now?!"
"But I..."
"Do you know him?"
There was a pause.
"I don't know," Longsdale finally muttered. The girl raised her head. He looked completely bewildered.
"In what sense?" The commissar asked irritably. "What do you mean, I don't know?"
"I don't know if he is familiar to me or not."
"How can this be? You either know him or not, there is no third."
"But I cannot understand," the consultant said almost plaintively. "I can't understand whether I know him or not."
"Well, get fucked," her uncle said through set teeth. Longsdale turned away to the window, and on his belt, Margaret saw a scabbard for three-edged blade attached to the small of his back.
5th January
Nathan leaned against a window slope with a cup of coffee in his hand. Downstairs, at the entrance to the department, onlookers and journalists were swarming. The doors swung open, a flock of piranhas got excited, and Broyd stepped out to them sedately, accompanied by the two most stalwart policemen. Brennon sipped his coffee. The chief finally decided to make an official statement, as always, getting rid of the hassle of the commissioner. Nathan did not like to speak to the public and, moreover, believed that Broyd inspired her much more confidence because of his respectable and comely appearance, which the commissar could not say about his own face. A vague noise came to him, but he did not open the window — he knew the content of the speech. The police chief intended to inform the press and the curious that there was a crazy pyromaniac in the city, and also that the Hilkarn Strangler case was reopened, and we ask all conscious citizens...
Brennon returned to the table and without much enthusiasm examined the mountain of papers. At the top of the stack, two reports of the fire brigade shone by red emblem right in the eyes. The first, about the temple, Nathan once again flipped through. It didn't get any better. The cause of the fire has not been established, the source of ignition was not found, the means by which the arsonist achieved fire of such strength are unknown. In the church, the chief of the fire brigade assured, nothing was found that could blaze so. The second report, regarding Farrel's house, was no different from the first, except that the despair and bewilderment between the lines felt stronger.
Brennon pushed back the reports and added coffee to his cup. After long and gloomy thoughts, he firmly decided to share responsibilities - the police are looking for Strangler, Longsdale is engaged in the ifrit. Nathan believed that he had no right to risk the lives of policemen in a deliberately losing battle with evil spirits. But the life of a consultant...
If he is human at all, the commissar thought. Any human can be killed, it's enough to say that - every living creature; so what kind of creature is that you can't? Longsdale could assure that he was afraid of the ifrit - but then, on the lake, Nathan himself saw the consultant killed, and saw his lungs and heart grow together in an open wound. The sound with which the edges of torn tissues and broken bones converged, he could not forget until now.
Brennon sipped his coffee. He could describe any person he talked to — he knew what each of them was: Broyd, Regan, Mrs. Van Allen, even the consultant's butler and his dog. However, he could not understand what the consultant himself was, as if the whole personality of Longsdale was assembled from separate pieces, and Nathan saw one flap, then another, but he never caught the whole. Unless, when suddenly, for a split second, that other person showed up.
"But how did he become... this? And why doesn't he remember anything? How can you forget this at all?!"
Nathan frowned. What a strange answer - not "I don't know," but "I don't remember." It was as if Longsdale was sure that he previously remembered or should have remembered, but he forgot. Almost as strange as answering not "I am immortal", but "I cannot be killed." Is there any difference? Or no?
"Yes," the Commissar thought. "I saw that he was dead."
And he sighed. What should one go to entrust the lives of thousands of people to an unknown creature, which even cannot die normally?
"Sir?" someone called from behind the door.
"Yeah," Brennon said, "come in."
Over the past three days, Regan became haggard, turned pale and even lost weight - his chubby pink cheeks sagged and turned gray, bruises appeared under his eyes.
"Did you sleep?" the Commissar asked.
"Ah? Who? I?" the detective muttered, obviously not really understanding what kind of world he was in. "Yes, sir. Yesterday. It seems to be."
"Now you will report back and fall home. And to sleep there, not to work. Savvy?"
"Yes, sir," Regan stupidly rustled with papers, woke up and said with strained vigor: "I interrogated once again all those present at the last Vespers, as well as the neighbors, the housekeeper and those who quarreled with Father Grace."
"Start with these."
"What, from everyone?"
"And how many are there?"
"A lot," Regan answered sadly. "Of course, I made a list..."
"Did anyone have a reason to set evil spirit on the pater?"
"Not to that extent, sir. He was not loved, but hardly hated. In addition," after a pause, added Regan, "doesn't this need special knowledge? I have no idea where greengrocers and grocers could get them."
"It would be possible to search all kinds of books in their houses, but we have no grounds for searches, and where to get so many people? But do not lose sight of this. Also keep in mind that now we have relatives of the killed children."
Regan meekly sighed.
"Eight years is enough to find the right books and master at least one spell," Brennon said.
"But if one of them found out that Grace was killing children, why didn't this one contact us, sir?"
"Because last time we didn't help them," the Commissar replied sullenly. "In general, track every suspicious rustling by neighbors and relatives of children. Especially if someone hangs around the church. Go on."
"Dwyer and your consultant are looking for traces in Grace's house..." Regan hesitated. "Well, the fact that he himself is... as regards evil spirits and such... Until they didn't found it. The neighbors did not notice anything like him. As for the last Vespers," he handed Nathan a sheet of paper, "we made a list of everyone who was there. No one saw strangers in the church. Although, sir..." Regan sighed again. "Honestly, because if... if the killer knows how to cause evil spirits, then why shouldn't he be able to become invisible?"
"Hmm."
"Then what's the point?" The detective asked quietly. "Why are we all doing this? If he can do everything, and even that which we cannot imagine, what is all this for? A waste of time and energy, is not it? Sir, how do you work, knowing that we can never reach him?"
"Who told you that not to reach?"
"But how if he leaves no trace?"
"All leave traces," the Commissar said. "Even ifrit, albeit ethereal. And for all magic we have a consultant."
"Yeah, and the dog," Regan muttered. "Find by smell. And if the Strangler is not at all human?"
"Human," Brennon unkindly said through set teeth. "The only question is who exactly. And since he is a human, no matter how hard he tries, but somewhere he made a blunder. Only God is not mistaken."
Regan silently fingered the papers in the folder.
"I wrote to the seminary where Father Grace studied, and to his only relative, his sister in Ainsmole. But he did not communicate with her. He corresponded only with two people - we found two boxes where he kept letters. Both are jammed to the eyeballs - there is correspondence for twenty years, no less. One is his friend since his studies, Thomas Barry; the second is a priest named Andrew Laclow.
"And the first?"
"Barry didn't graduate seminary, as I understood from the letters. But I'm still reading them and now somewhere in the middle of the fifty-third year. No mention that Grace knew the Strangler, or suspected someone, or he himself was. And one more thing," Regan rummaged through the folder and handed the old battered paper to the commissar. Nathan carefully picked her up with two fingers. "This is a bath order, seller's response. The store has long been closed, Dwyer is looking for where the owner went."
"Yeah," the Commissar carefully straightened a piece of paper on the table. "What do they have there at all?"
"Dwyer interrogated the maid in the morning. The consultant climbed the library and did something with the bathroom."
"What exactly?"
"I don't know," Regan answered, and furtively crossed himself with his thumb. "He conjured, probably. And I met his butler. He was going to come to you at five."
"Thank you," the Commissar slid the folders the young man handed over to himself and glanced at his watch. Another two hours... "Is that all?"
"Yes, sir."
"Free," Brennon poured in the cup a cooling coffee. "Stomp home. So tomorrow you will look fit as a fiddle."
"Thank you, sir," Regan smiled exhaustedly and trudged toward the door, suppressing a yawn.
"We will find him," under him breath, but distinctly enough to be heard from the door, the commissar muttered. "We now have our own specialist in magical dirty tricks."