Outside, it was raining. Drops snaked down the grimy window, pooling on the sill beyond the glass. Only a little second-hand light came through into the cluttered loft workshop, revealing huge sheet-covered shapes looming out of the dimness. It was incredible, John thought, just how many things had been squeezed into this sprawling space at the top of an nondescript townhouse in Finsbury. Beneath the window, a table was scattered with a half-built mechanical devices, most of which John was unable to identify. Here and there, however... A spider-like limb or a intricately-detailed motor would form under his gaze from what had previously looked like a jumble of components. To one side, a tall chest of drawers bulged with spanners, pliers and all manner of tools. Wooden boxes of variously sized nuts, cogs and screws were stacked on top, or littered around the machines that were hidden under the dusty sheets. How Phineas Green had ever found anything in this place, John had no idea. But according to his landlady, he'd lived here alone with his toys for the last thirty years.

There were only a few policemen left on the scene now. Green's body had been taken down to the morgue several days ago, where, as expected, the coroner confirmed the cause of death to be a single steam-pistol bullet to the head. Thirty-two calibre, probably fired by a common-as-dirt Accrington, which could be bought from any gun shop in the country. From the scuffs on the floor where the body had been found, John suspected the elderly inventor had not put up much of a fight. Two half shoe-prints and two oval shapes where the dust had been disturbed by his trousers; Green had been kneeling when he'd been shot. An execution. With no real motive and no sign of the perpetrator.

"The scene-cleaners will be arriving tomorrow morning, Detective Inspector," said Constable Higgins. He was a new recruit to the uniformed force and, from the quiet, wide-eyed way in which he moved around the crime scene, with its dried blood still staining the floorboards, John suspected this was his first murder.

"Good. I trust I can rely on you and Birtwell to make the premises secure?" said John, shifting his gaze to meet the nervous eyes of the young constable.

"Yessir," he nodded, anxious but eager to be responsible for something important. "But- Are you going somewhere, sir?"

"The morgue. Chief Inspector Sinclair has decided it would be prudent to hire a medium to... examine the corpse," said John. "In the absence of all other leads..." The scorn in his voice was evident. He did not make a habit of open insubordination to his superiors, particularly in front of young officers but for this, he would make an exception. Sinclair had been newly promoted and assigned to John's division a fortnight ago but had failed to command much respect amongst the men. Some would call his ideas progressive, others, eccentric. John thought him to be weak-minded and misguided, willing to latch onto any fad or fashion in order to appear radical or grab the attention of the press. A psychic to solve a murder? Psychics and seances were cheap trickery for rich, gullible women with too much time on their hands.

The constable nodded, unsure of how to react. "Yessir," he repeated. "I hope it goes well, sir."

John barely managed to repress a sarcastic remark and let himself out of the loft workshop. Before long, he was out in the rain, waiting for the familiar billows of steam over the bustle of the busy street that would signal the arrival of the omnibus that would take him to the morgue. Back up in the loft Constable James Birtwell laughed.

"Sending Bulldog Marlowe to oversee a seance... Sinclair really hasn't a clue," he said, shaking his head in mirthful disbelief as he wound out a length of thick canvas to nail over the doorway

Higgins mumbled something non-committal.

-delete- -delete-

Hidden politely away from the main view of the city, tucked between an inconspicuous bookstore and a building that had remained out for rent for as long as anyone could care to recall. It was a tidy building, the brick face painted over white with a collection of gleaming pipes peeping out from the roof to release the steam it put off using the mortician's tools. Inside, it was just as clean and unoffensive as the outside. It rather had to be, for the few who ambled past it to tolerate its gruesome purpose. The halls were thin, and tall, and the whole place had a dry, day-old cleanser scent that covered up something else unusual and pungent.

The mortician's secretary sat at a wooden desk in the first elbow of the building, scratching out notes on a sheet of paper and sniffing into a kerchief every few lines. There was an ornately carved bench on the other side of the room, where loved ones often sat as they waited to identify the remains of the departed. Currently, there was a single woman sitting on the bench, with her small hands tracing quietly over the tiny bumps on the otherwise blank pages of a book she held. She wore the simplest of dresses, a pale yellow piece with little decoration save a pearl necklace which hung down past her collar bones. The brim of her hat was turned upwards, allowing the light to illuminate the few freckles across her nose, and her almost gray-blue eyes that appeared to be staring at nothing in particular.

The woman, who had introduced herself as Bonnie Gray to the secretary, had said nothing for the half hour or so that she had been sitting there. Every once in a while, she would glance up with a polite smile, looking in the direction of the rooms where the mortician did his work as if someone had just called her. But she remained quiet, tracing the bumps on her book and awaiting the arrival of the Inspector that she had been informed would be meeting her there.

"Miss?" Asked the secretary after a moment, lifting his gaze to glance at the woman as if she had just made a rude sound. "Are you entirely certain you are here on the correct day? At the correct hour?"

"Hmn?" Bonnie looked up in the direction of the voice, though actually looking at whoever was speaking to her was more of a formality...with the living, at least. She smiled, quietly shutting the book over two of her fingers, to keep her place. "Oh, yes, sir. I am quite certain. I apologize if I'm bothering you. I'm certain the gentleman I'm waiting for will arrive shortly."

The secretary made a sound in the back of his throat, and returned to his notes. Bonnie looked back away (again, more as a polite formality than anything else) and resumed the reading of her book.

John disembarked the omnibus and walked with ease through the narrow, sometimes confusing streets, to where the morgue was situated. He knew its location well as his job took him there with unpleasant frequency. He could bear supervising the transport of a body from a murder scene to the morgue, or attending a briefing on a recent post-mortem with the coroner but supervising the identification of a victim by relatives... Although he never blanched at carrying it out, he considered it to be the worst aspect of his job. The worst with the exception of informing relatives in the first place.

He went inside, taking off his coat and top hat to hang on the stand by the door. The place stank of carbolic soap, as always, and John would often find that, by the time he emerged from its white-washed corridors, the sharp chemical smell had leached into his clothes and his hair, lingering until he next washed them.

Striding into the waiting room, beyond which lay a door that led into the cool depths of the building where the corpses were stored, he approached the secretary's desk.

"I'm here to see Miss Gray," he said, matter of factly, as the man behind the desk looked up at him warily through his spectacles. He took his badge out of his pocket. "I'm Detective-"

The secretary coughed slightly and his gaze flickered over to a point behind where John was standing. He frowned and turned around. Sitting on the bench, looking small and pale in the scrubbed white-grey of the waiting room, was a woman. He had to admit that he must have allowed his prejudices to create a misleading expectation of what he might have found waiting for him in the morgue today. John had been expecting heavy embroidered shawls, cosmetics caked over wrinkles, and tarnished silver jewellery; a caricature in fact. Instead, the woman here was far younger, and dressed plainly in a straw-coloured dress that off-set the darkness of her hair and the paleness of her skin with a quiet and beautiful simplicity. Despite this, he did not allow himself to be caught off guard.

"Miss Gray? My name is Detective Inspector John Marlowe," he said, extending his hand to her. But there was something about the vagueness of the way with which she directed her gaze that drew his attention. He glanced down at the book she had in her lap and saw that nothing was written on it (at least, not in ink). He withdrew his hand. "I believe Chief Inspector Sinclair contacted you about a murder. Are you aware of the details of the case?"

A soft smile tugged at the corners of Bonnie's lips as the sharp, brief steps of a man entered the room. They carried with them the authority of a man of the law, which she had grown to recognize on the odd chances when she was drawn into a case to aid the gentlemen of the badge (always quietly, of course), though there was something else entirely that punctuated each foot fall. Something rigid, impatient almost. His voice lacked the rasp of great age, but his brisk manner suggested he was beyond the eager brightness of youth.

"The victim was an elderly man; an inventor, and quite a good one at that. He was working on something immensely important, and unfortunately he preferred to work alone, so there won't be any eye--or ear--witnesses. He died on his knees, shot at a very close range. Oh, and he was greatly fond of cheese crumpets." Bonnie rose to her feet, slipping her book into her bag and holding her hand out at the half-distance she had adopted when trying to shake hands with those who she couldn't see. Her smile widened a touch. "It is a pleasure to meet you, Inspector. Shall we venture forward and have a word with Mister Phineas?"

The first three things, as well as the fifth and sixth, could have easily been related to her by Chief Inspector Sinclair in his wisdom. The fourth and seventh facts, however... The former was possible, though they had been unable to find a record of any paid work in his cluttered workplace, nor in his small, equally cluttered bedroom down the corridor. It could be that Green was simply not the type to write such things down. But it had also occurred to John that it could have been taken at the same time as his murder. So far, no large engineering company they had contacted had him on their payroll, permanent or contractual.

The seventh was absurd and John ignored it, along with her final comment. Despite her innocent appearance, it appeared she was not beyond cheap tricks. Any respect garnered by her uncliched appearance was lost immediately.

He shook her hand coldly and stepped back to open the door that led downstairs.

"This way, Miss Gray. There are steps; do you require assistance?" he asked, as the secretary behind the desk eyed the two of them with a disgruntlement. He had apparently heard what Bonnie had said. John did not doubt that this was not a common sight and a renewed anger at the ineptitude of Sinclair simmered in his mind.

Bonnie had discovered, in her unusual 'career,' that the first few words exchanged with those she worked with were often very telling about what was soon to come. The tone of her companions' greetings, the exact phrasing of their words...even in the politest of companies, she could generally perceive whether or not she was going to be trusted during the meeting with the dead. And Detective Inspector Marlowe, with his firm handshake and a solid stance which she could practically feel in his words, was not going to be one to swoon at even the most clear shows of her gift.

But she had certainly met her own fair share of disbelieving fellows before, especially when paired with men of the law. The cold wave she could feel emanating off of Inspector Marlowe's shoulders as he turned was hardly novel to the medium, and in fact oddly served to bolster her opinion of him. A Detective with his head squarely on his shoulders was surely an asset to his superiors.

"Thank you, Inspector, but I can manage on my own," Bonnie replied softly to the offer, not wanting to give the already irritable secretary any further reason to complain. She moved forward with a surprising surety for one who could not see where she was going, holding one hand slightly out in front of her as if following the guiding hand of some unseen force, until she reached the stairs, at which point she placed her palm flat against the wall. She gathered up the pale yellow skirt of her dress in one hand and carefully picked her way down the stairs.

"Do you have any presumptions about this death, Inspector?" Bonnie inquired in her voice, so quiet it didn't even echo off of the walls. "Or anything in particular you would like me to ask?"

But after a moment, an almost wry smile touched one side of her mouth, and she added an amused, "Forgive my asking, but before we begin, perhaps we should be clear on something. Did Chief Inspector Sinclair tell you anything of what I do?"

As she carefully but accurately made her way down the steep steps, John wondered if she had been blind since birth. If so, familiarity with adapting to her condition might explain the surety with which she descending the stairs, just as she had learnt to read by running the tips of her fingers over Braille.

He followed her down into the depths of the building then paused as she spoke.

"I don't presume anything," said John, shortly. Her questions had irritated him immensely and he thought she was guilty of a presumption herself; that he believed what she was about to do would amount to anything more than a theatrical act costing the police force vital funding.

"I must be honest with you, Miss Gray," he began harshly, eyeing the smile creeping over her lips. "There is nothing I wish to ask because I know you will not be able to ask it. Chief Inspector Sinclair told me you were a medium and that was all. How you purport to carry out your profession does not interest me because I know that the dead are gone and lost to us." John had seen and investigated far too many murders to believe otherwise; he was acquainted with the final nature of death and ten years of police service had wiped away any of the mystery that might have surrounded it.

"The Chief Inspector should not have hired you, Miss Gray," he said. "I am sorry to waste both your time and mine. So, let's not waste any more than is necessary."

With that, he pushed open the white-washed door that led to the morgue and was met with greasy lamplight that gleamed off the scrubbed steel trolley and painted metal doors of the drawers that housed the cadavers. The mortician; a small, mousey man called Albert Perry who's skin was as pale as his wards', turned around from his place at the sink.

"Ah, Detective Inspector Marlowe! And... Miss Gray, I presume? You're here to see Mr Green, aren't you?" he said, rubbing his hands dry with a rag then going to examine the labels on the drawers through scratched spectacles. "Here we are! Phineas Green..."

He deftly unbolted the drawer and, wheeling the trolley directly in front of it, drew out its contents on a rolling slab onto the trolley top. Green looked uniformly grey in death; grey hair, grey skin, and his sharp, shrewd features had become slack. The ugly wound in the side of his head was still covered by a bandage that wrapped under his chin to his crown, put in place to spare the distress it would cause his landlady when she had come in to identify him.

"Now, er- I'll leave you to it, shall I, Marlowe?" he said, glancing at his companion as if he knew very well John's opinion of her. "Got a spot of paperwork to sign off with Mr Bloomsbury. Don't bother yourself with putting him back," he added, as he retreated upstairs.

At the inspector's curt reply, Bonnie found herself approving of the man all the more. Certainly it was not very open-minded of him to instantly assume her to be a fraud, a liar, or a waste of his time, as he had so clearly suggested. But she ironically decided she preferred the upfront disbelief with a hint of rudeness of Inspector Marlowe to the slight sneering and quotations made by fingers when the speaker didn't believe she knew what they were doing of so many other non-believers.

"Well, they do say that if you truly want honesty, you shouldn't ask questions you don't truly want the answers to," Bonnie answered with a hushed touch of humor in her tone. "As you wish, Inspector, we will make this brief."

She heard the swish of the heavy doors opening, and not hearing them closed assumed they were held open for her. She moved forward with increasing certainty, until they reached the wall wherein lay Mister Phineas' body. Bonnie smiled and murmured a polite greeting to the mortician, folding her hands as she waited for her cue. She listened to the man's fading footsteps, and then soon they were alone...the three of them.

"As I promised, Inspector, I will strive to make this go by quickly. Surely a man such as yourself has more important business to attend to than to stand idly by listening to what he doesn't believe is possible." Bonnie moved forward, removing her hat and holding it respectfully in her hands as she gazed down in sympathy at the rigid old man. "Poor Phineas...No one ever deserves to have their life stolen from them."

And then the strange young woman grew quiet. She slowly shut her gray-blue eyes, her shoulders relaxing as her breathing became measured and only escaped through her slightly parted lips. Her fingers grew tight around the worn velvet of her hat's brim.

The air within the room, clean and bitter though it already was, grew stagnant, and cooled so rapidly that it might have sprouted ice crystals. Bonnie's breath could no longer be heard, nor could it be entirely certain that she continued to breath at all. She stood perfectly still, her heavy lashes seeming almost to flutter in some imperceptible breeze.

But what Bonnie was experiencing was far different from all that. When she had shut her eyes, it had really been more like opening them. The moment her breathing had settled into the even, slow tattoo, she saw clearly when she had been glimpsing waving and whispering to her since she had first arrived. The freshly released, brightly lit spirit of an elderly man, with whisps and stacks of fuzzy white hair all about his head and a shiny new set of square spectacles resting on his bunched up nose. Bonnie saw him, lively and half-wiggling with anticipation, as clear as any other woman had ever seen a man. Clearer, even.

"Hello, Phineas," Bonnie greeted warmly, moving forward to shake the old man's hand--though as far as Inspector Marlowe, or any other human for that matter, would see, she remained prone beside the deceased body, "it is a pleasure to meet you. My name is Bonnie Gray. I am so sorry about your death; how are you faring?"

"Oh, quite alright, quite alright," Phineas Green replied, cheerily waving his free hand in the air. "You know, I've lost that pain in my knee! Marvelous!"

"I'm so glad," Bonnie smiled and patted the man's hand. "Now, I do hate to be brief, but the gentleman standing there next to me-"

"-Is not one for theatrics, so I have gathered," Phineas chuckled, glancing at the traces of annoyance on Marlowe's face, "so indeed, let us be brief. I'd hate to make a liar out of such a fetching young lady!"

Bonnie chuckled, and had the good grace to blush a little so that her freckles faded in intensity. "Thank you, Phineas. Now, let us see what we can do about getting you some justice, shall we?"





A few long moments inched by, Bonnie's breath showing in short-lived puffs in the cold air. Then, with less warning than it had first arrived with, the temperature rose back up and the air cleared. Bonnie drooped like a weary flower on her feet, and then straightened and lifted one hand delicately to her temple. She cleared her throat, shaking the dizziness about in her head. The nausea generally did not last long...once the spirit with whom she had been conversing had carried on with its business. The most unfortunate part was that she was once more lost in darkness, without the traces of Phineas' being around to light her way. And so she reached one careful hand to rest against the wall, using the other to settle her hat back onto her head.

"Inspector Marlowe? Have you ever seen a pentagram?"

John watched carefully Bonnie's sightless eyes closed and began to flicker almost imperceptibly. She remained where she was, barely moving or breathing, for several minutes. This was no great show of spooky knocking on the underside of the trolley or shaking of furniture. The grey corpse of Phineas Green was as still as ever; no hand moved nor eyelid lifted. Similarly, no ghostly figure appeared and there was no flash of light or eerie voice that rose out of the thin air. The hairs that rose on John's arms underneath his shirt did so because of the cold in the underground morgue not because some unearthly chill.

In some ways, he thought, this might be a more effective, more subtle strategy in order to convince a sceptical police officer. Any cliche would have alerted him immediately to the cheapness of her act. But he was not fooled.

It had been a full five minutes now, and he was considering stopping her charade; perhaps she thought that Sinclair would pay her by the minute, but almost just as he had this thought, her cloudy blue eyes opened once again. She looked pale, and even a little nauseous. For the first time, he wondered if she actually believed in what she practised. Perhaps she actually thought she could see and speak to the spirits of the dead. A little of his disdain was replaced with pity.

"A pentagram?" he said, raising his eyebrow as she leaned against the wall to support herself. "I know what a pentagram is, Miss Gray." Was there any more overtly occult or mystical symbol she might have plucked from her own head? The mundane objects and motifs that featured so much in his own day-to-day detective work would not interest a medium.

"What significance do you think that has on the case?" he said flatly.

"Oh, I'm very glad. Because it would be difficult for me to illustrate, had you not known," Bonnie replied to the Inspector's curt scoff with a faint smile as she resting her cheek against the cool side of the mortuary container units. Any other woman (who hadn't already fainted in the presence of the grisly dead body) would have put forth considerable effort in finding somewhere else to rest, knowing what lay on the other side of the small metal doors; but Bonnie was entirely unconcerned with the husks left behind by the deceased. She was well aware that life did not, as the Inspector believed, puff out like a tired candle once the heart stopped beating. What was left behind was unimportant in the majority of her tasks.

"As far as its significance, I am afraid that there is little I can answer on that. Phineas said--that is, I believe that it is of some importance to the 'case,' as you say. Did the investigators at the scene of the crime find any such things? Writ on a piece of paper, perhaps? Phin--I believe it may have been one of the last things Mr. Green here saw before he was shot. And, though I do hate to press further on your time, I do believe that it is of great importance. Good day, Inspector Marlowe."

With that said, Bonnie once more bent to gather the lower section of her gown up in one hand to keep it from catching at her feet as she walked, and retrieved the umbrella she had carried looped about one elbow, using it to delicately pick her way back towards the stairs. Her assistant, Edward, would be arriving shortly to pick her back up and take her back to her home by way of the ever-reliable omnibus. She doubted that the Inspector, with his frowning voice and admirable talent for being forthcoming, would be much inclined to further her involvement in the matter; and as far as Bonnie knew, though she was certainly curious and would have loved to help achieve justice for the amiable old man, there would be no more ghosts in the case. And if Edward, who was fiercely loyal for his own reasons, caught wind of the disbelief in Marlowe's every action, he would no doubt strike up a fuss.

And Bonnie tended to try and avoid fusses.

"Oh, and Inspector," Bonnie added once she had picked her careful way to the swinging double doors, "Phineas did not see his murderer's face. He did, however, say that they spoke in a sour, gruff voice. Like one whose throat had been injured at some point in their life, likely in their youth. And he believed that the pentagram was to mark something...though he was not certain as to what it was."

"No," said John. "There was nothing of the sort found at the crime scene."

If there had been, he would have been immensely surprised. Contrary to what the general public read in detective novels and penny dreadfuls or saw at the music hall theatre, 'clues' occurred very rarely indeed. Life (or death) was never as simple as that and, more often than not, that footprint in the flowerbed by the broken window was just the gardener. And that piece of fabric snagged on a splinter on the door frame was from the dead man's own coat where he'd caught it a few days ago.

At her turn of phrase; 'Phineas said' he grew even more sceptical. So she purported to talk directly to the deceased spirits, as if chatting to them in a cafe or on the street? Most mystics had more vagueness to their work than that. This wasn't even a feeling, or a vision, no- Phineas said.

Keeping this to himself, he followed her as she carefully picked her way back up the stairs.

"That is inconvenient," he said, as he signed the register at the secretary's desk. Perry, who had been looking over a post-mortem report, raised his eyes in obvious curiosity as to what had happened down there in the morgue and how the unbendable Marlowe had reacted to it. He watched as the Detective Inspector dutifully wrote her observation down, just as he had done for her mention of a pentagram down in the morgue. Perry knew that Marlowe always wrote every minute detail of a crime scene, any seemingly insignificant thought about a case in that notebook. Whether the medium's words would ever be referred to again... He doubted it.

"Thank you for your time, Miss Gray. I'm sure Chief Inspector Sinclair will contact you again should he feel that your services are required," said John, snapping the notebook shut and putting it into the pocket of his coat. He retrieved his hat from the stand in the corner and stood back to allow her to leave first.

"Of course," Bonnie replied with another quiet smile, dipping her head towards the Inspector's voice. "And I wish you the best of luck in the investigation, Inspector. Please do not hesitate to call on me if you need my assistance."

Just as Bonnie was preparing to move back to the bench and wait, the entrance to the narrow hall of a greeting room opened, and in stepped a tall, broad-shouldered man who appeared to be somewhere in his thirtieth decade. He wore an inexpensive gentleman's suit, but no cap over his smoothed back buckskin hair. His eyes were a dark brown, almost black, and moved like the aggressive eyes of a hawk. When he first entered the room, the gaze was initially set on the slight form of Miss Gray. But an instant later, they flicked suspiciously towards Inspector Marlowe.

"Are you the escop in charge, then?" The dark-eyed man inquired, lifting his chin up and appraising the inspector with a dissatisfied air. His eyes lingered on John's mechanical fingers, and his brow lifted just the slightest.

"Hello, Edward," Bonnie interrupted, tucking her umbrella back under her arm.

"Miss Gray," 'Edward' replied with a far more respectful tone, even going so far as to bow a bit at the waist, though it was a gesture she clearly could not fully appreciate. He moved forward to retrieve her free hand, placing it gingerly around his own arm. Then he looked back to the inspector, the disapproval soaking back out of his features.

"Edward, this is Detective Inspector Marlowe. Inspector, this is my assistant, Edward." Bonnie gestured from the space she had last heard the Inspector's voice (where in her vision, there was that faint blur of a living spirit trapped in mortal flesh that she could usually see when looking at the living) to the owner of the arm she held on to.

"Pleasure to make your acquaintance, Inspector," Edward greeting in an entirely un-pleased way, holding out his free hand. "Do you think this investigation will go on very long?"

John was aware that the gaze of the man who had just walked in (Miss Gray's assistant or servant, perhaps) lingered on the mechanical fingers of his right hand. Mechanical modifications or augmentations for old injuries were not uncommon these days but they were generally only found on those who could afford to commission a biomechanist to design them. If it were not for the fact his injury has been sustained on duty and the new extremities paid for by the Metropolitian Police Force, John would have never been able to afford them.

He pulled his gloves on, quickly concealing the dull metal plating, and shook the man's hand, as reluctantly put out as it was. It was possible he was of the type that tended not to get on with the police on principle. Or perhaps he was simply overly protective of his ward. Either way, John took note of his frostiness and matched it with a steely expression of his own.

Unlike the other man, he did not lie and profess his pleasure at meeting him. John had little time for his impoliteness; he wanted to get back to his lodgings and go over his notes on the case.

"I'm not at liberty to discuss that, sir," he said, shortly. "The investigation is on-going. But I'm certain that you'll hear of any major breakthrough when you read about it in the papers, if one does occur."

A 'major breakthrough', of course, meant catching the killer. But, as Miss Gray would no doubt inform him once the two were alone, they had precious little to go on to lead them to a perpetrator. But let Sinclair be the source of that leak- John was not about to release information about an on-going investigation so thoughtlessly.

"If you'll excuse me," he said, to the both of them as he put on his hat and pushed open the door to reveal evening descending over a drizzle-dampened London. "Miss Gray, Edward."

With that, he disappeared out into the darkening city. His lodgings; two rooms in a middle-market boarding house, were not far from here and despite the rain, he decided to walk back on foot rather than take an omnibus three stops down. All but discarding the information Bonnie had given him in the morgue, John focused on the other scant aspects of the case that might throw up some lead and tried to piece them together in his head all the way home.

((OOC: I'm not entirely sure what to do now, so I'll just push Bonnie forward to her house a few days later, waiting for someone to call in on her ^^; ))

"Really, Mildred, is it so difficult? Francis simply wishes for a bit of privacy off and on; I would think that a lady of your standing should be able to understand that."

Bonnie sat on the plush, fifty-year-old sofa in the sitting room of her home. Sitting beside her was a wrinkled woman in an exceedingly old-fashioned gown, her nettled hair piled as high as it could be bothered to on her head. The woman's hands pawed at themselves, and the folds of her mouth worked against each other in frustration.

"This is my house! I can go where I please, and I shan't be ordered about by a lowly cretin such as he!" The elderly woman sniffed, tossing her head with a fluidity that belied her age.

"But Mildred, dear, we've discussed this before," Bonnie reasoned, reaching out to pat the gnarled hands. "This was Francis' home before it was yours. He stays clear of your favorite room, and all he asks in return is that you leave him to the kitchens. For at least a few hours a day, is all."

"This is my house!" The woman suddenly shrieked, jumping to her feet. She seized one of the pillows off of the sofa and flung it across the room. It knocked into a table, and sent a glass vial that had some of Edward's new work in it crashing to the ground. "I'll go where I please!"

Bonnie did not jump, but frowned at the sound of the tinkling glass. "Oh, Mildred, really! Was that quite necessary?"

Mildred, who had spent several decades driving away unwanted guests by throwing such tantrums, remained standing erect and puffing in irritation. Most living humans were at least marginally frightened by physical objects soaring around, seemingly of their own accord, and it had taken the old woman some time to grow accustomed to having no effect on her audience. She sat back down with an annoyed 'hmph,' and clasped her hands together once more.

Bonnie sighed, brushing a bit of dark hair behind her ear as she heard the hurried footsteps of Edward racing up the stairs. She saw the faint red blur that was his energy in annoyance, standing near the source of the crashing glass sound. She could practically see him grinding his teeth, standing there with his fists clenched.

"Mildred." Edward tapped his foot for a moment, then glanced towards the sole woman on the sofa. "Am I correct, Miss Gray? This is the work of Madame Mildred the Malevolent, is it not?"

"Tell that impertinent young man to chew on his own ear!"

"She says she's sorry, Edward. As am I. Was it anything important?" Bonnie's brows rose in apology, her head inclined in the direction of Edward's voice.

"All of my work is--no, Miss Gray. Do not fret." Edward took a measured breath, as if to say more, but was interrupted by a knock at the door.

"Edward, would you mind..?"

"Of course, Miss Gray," Edward's footsteps faded towards the front of the house, and he opened the door.

Beyond the door-frame was John Marlowe, looking uncharacteristically apprehensive.



It had been against his better judgement to retrieve Miss Gray's address from the notes on the case but, as it had turned out, his unwavering determination to leave no stone unturned when there was even the slightest chance it might lead to the capture of a criminal had won over.

A pentagram. At the time, the symbol had been too ridiculous to even consider. Did he know what one was? she had asked him. Of course he knew. He'd seen it daubed on a wall in blood at the scene of one particularly gruesome murder scene (the man who committed it; a Satanist and far removed from the realms of sanity, had been confined to Bedlam ever since). It was the occultist's calling card, painted on the caravans of circus psychics or embroidered on robes of some of the more theatrical mediums. He'd dismissed it out of hand.

It had been two days after his begrudging trip to the morgue to view Phineas Green's body with Miss Gray. There were still no leads on his murder, either. None of the engineering or manufacturing companies they had contacted (and they'd contacted many) had any recent official record of him doing contractual design work for them. Those had did have him on their books, had employed him years ago to design small mechanical toys for children, or the lever systems on elevators; things that seemed to provide no motive for his death. Who would kill a man over a small mechanical dog?

John had been going through the letters their received in response to their enquiries when one had caught his eye.

North Star Engineering Ltd. was one of the largest engineering companies in the country. Unlike many of those on the list, he'd heard of them. They employed several thousand people and manufactured the latest in steam and mechanical technology. Thirty years ago, it had been North Star who had designed the first prototype steam car; the streets were full of them today. More recently, they had developed a huge spider-like mining machine called the Arachmine which had been promptly ordered by every mining company in the north of England, doubling output almost as soon as it was deployed. They had government contracts too, improving the high-speed line between London and Glasgow and building the bulbous military airships that could sometimes be seen over the city.

The ice-blue logo at the top of their letter was an elongated star, rather like a stylised glint of light on metal, inside the top half of a perfect circle. John knew what a pentagram was, but did Miss Gray? A medium who did not know what a pentagram looked like would be ironic, and not to mention unlikely, but in the absence of any other lead, John had reluctantly forced himself to walk the frost streets to the address in Sinclair's notes. When he knocked at the front door, he was fully prepared to be disappointed. So much so, in fact, that he had no hope for this lead at all. Doggedness, rather than any belief in the occult, had made him come here.



"May I speak to Miss Gray?" he said, taking off his hat.

Edward, with one hand clutching at the splattered-on apron he removed from around his waist (covered in remnants of past tonics and formulas), stared coolly at the inspector who had materialized on his doorstep. Requesting a repeat meeting with Miss Gray, of course. After a moment of working his stiff lips against each other, Edward offered a jerky bow to the inspector and moved aside for him to enter. "Of course, Inspector...Marlowe, wasn't it? Miss Gray is in the sitting room. Right this way, if you please."



Mildred had just sauntered off to offer a begrudging apology to Francis, leaving Bonnie alone, when Edward signaled his return with his still flustered footsteps heading towards what she assumed was the shattered vial on the ground.

"Who was at the door, Edward?" Bonnie asked, her fingers once more tracing across the pages of her book. She was nearly finished with it now, and determined to reach the last page before the end of the week. But at the sound of a second set of footfalls joining Edward's, she presumed that she was going to have to put a hold on her reading for a while.

"Inspector Marlowe, Miss Gray," Edward responded in that stiff, huffing voice he tended to use when he was displeased. She saw the blur of energy that was her assistant and companion scrunch together and wave a bit, and assumed from the conjoining tinkling sounds that he was cleaning up the glass shards.

"Do be careful, Edward, I'd hate for you to cut yourself." Bonnie turned her face in the direction of the second set of feet, and flashed her welcoming wisp of a smile. "Hello again, Inspector. What can I do for you? Won't you sit down?" She gestured to the open space on the sofa, where Mildred had recently been throwing her tantrum. The seat would likely be cold, but it was better than nothing.

John nodded stoically to return Edward's bow and followed him into the house, having noted the distinctly chemical stains on the apron he clutched in his hand. He had no idea as to the man's profession but had assumed he was simply an assistant employed to help the sightless Miss Gray in her day-to-day life. Perhaps the two of them ran a dubious tonics and potions business from her home. John began to regret his decision to return to question the medium even more than he already had been. But he could hardly turn around and walk straight back out of the door now. Unfortunately.

"Good morning, Miss Gray," he said, after Edward had led him into the sitting room. She looked as pale as ever, he thought, as he sat down beside her on the sofa. The room was far too cold, especially in the chill of an English winter; it could not be good for her health.

He paused, whilst he considered what to say. He did not want to imply that he considered himself to be following up a solid lead, simply because he didn't believe that at all and John staunchly avoided deception, even when a white lie might oil the cogs of conversation. But she looked more fragile than he remembered and he did want to overtly offend her or her serene manner.

"I should think you are aware of my scepticism concerning your profession," he began, eyeing Edward as he bent to brush up what might have been a smashed glass or vial full of some strange-smelling liquid. "But something has come to my attention and I would not be doing my job as meticulously as I strive if I did not follow it up. You mentioned a pentagram, Miss Gray, at the morgue. Would you oblige me by drawing what you saw, rather than describing it?"

Bonnie nodded calmly at the Inspector's reassertion of his thoughts on her abilities, her hands folded neatly in her lap. But her delicate brows lifted a fraction in surprise as he brought up again the pentagram she had told him about--after being shown it by Phineas--in the morgue. Even if the pentagram had turned up to be of great importance (and she was certain it must have, or Phineas wouldn't have wasted his last moments with the living to tell her of it) Bonnie would never have thought that the reproachful detective would have taken the time to seek her out and reaffirm her opinion on it.

"Well, that is very dedicated of you, Inspector," Bonnie complimented after her surprise had abated. "Certainly, I will do my best to oblige. Though I ask that you soften your critique of my artistic abilities. I'm afraid that my talent only goes so far..."

With a humorous smile, Bonnie turned her head back towards the familiar blur of Edward. "Mister Granville, will you please retrieve something for me to write with?"

Edward stiffened a bit at the use of his surname (it was relatively well-known in certain circles, while 'Edward' was about as common as could be, and he did not enjoy carrying out the conversations about why an accomplished scientist had left his study to be assistant to a medium), but stood erect and nodded. "Of course, Miss Gray."

Edward went to retrieve a pad of paper and a small section of charcoal from his study. He came to an abrupt, cringing halt as a loud crash came from a room upstairs. He clenched his fists and seethed as he stared in the direction of the sound. "Mildred."

Bonnie sighed and shook her head, resting a few fingers against the swelling ache beneath her temple. Edward tromped off, and returned breathing with evident effort through his nostrils. Then he excused himself, and raced up the stairs.

Bonnie paused as she settled the pad in her lap and adjusted the charcoal in her fingers, certain that the Inspector wouldn't like hearing about how Mildred was the crotchety old woman ghost in the household. "Edward has a...longstanding battle, with the cat," She offered in explanation after a moment. Then she cleared her throat, and held open one hand on the paper to guide the other as she crafted out the pentagram that Phineas had shown her. By stiffening the length from her thumb to the tip of her index finger, she was able to sketch out fairly straight lines for the star, with several of the point reaching farther out than the others, as if someone had taken the edge of it and pulled it tight. Then it was a matter of remembering where each of the tips had been to draw out the circle behind it.

Satisfied with her work (even if she couldn't see it), Bonnie pulled her hands out of the way so that the Inspector could see it. She set the charcoal on the edge of the page and carefully wiped her hands clean on a kerchief. "There we are. Only, and this may sound strange to you, but the image was blue. I believe I have constructed it correctly...again, forgive me if it is indecipherable," Bonnie added with a quiet laugh.

Edward Granville. The name sounded vaguely familiar and John made a mental note to remember it as Bonnie's assistant left the room to 'battle', as she put it, with the unseen cat upstairs. Then, he fixed his gaze solidly on the shape that was gradually forming under her hands. Even before she'd half-finished it, he knew what it was. Despite her professed inability to draw, the image of an elongated star captured within a circle lay neatly beneath her slender hands.

"That is not a pentagram, Miss Gray," he said, taking the paper from her and looking at it carefully. "Though, if you have only ever had the appearance of one described to you, then it would be easy to make the mistake."

It was feasible that she'd drawn the North Star Engineering logo deliberately; after all, it would not be difficult to find out that Phineas Green had been a mechanist. And North Star was a big company; if John hadn't seen the letter stating that Green had never been on their books with his own eyes then he too would have assumed the inventor had had at least some contact with the company. But why go to the bother of saying she'd seen a pentagram and hope that John would not only make the connection with it and the logo but also overcome his scepticism by coming to pay her a visit? On the slim chance that he would, however, her act would seem all the more believable.

He put the page back down and, though she would not be able to return it, looked over at her.

"Have you ever heard of North Star Engineering? What you have just drawn is their logo," he said, sharply.