The Hunt

The studio felt too quiet after Violet returned from Dead Man's Hole.

Sunday evening had settled over Carter Square, the streets emptying as families gathered for supper. Violet stood at the window, watching lamplighters make their rounds, her mind still on Jane Stride's spirit finally finding peace.

Tomorrow. Tomorrow they would leave for Kent.

Her ribs ached from the binding corset—she'd been wearing Bernie's disguise since early morning, through the workshop raid at the Grand Guignol, through the documentation of Moreau's grotesque collection, through the conversation with Jane's spirit that had finally released her from this world.

Violet moved to the worktable where Bernie's equipment lay ready for tomorrow's journey. Camera, plates, chemicals, all packed with the meticulous care that had become second nature. Everything prepared for documenting an arrest that would either bring justice or end in failure if Moreau had already fled Kent.

"You should eat something," Artie said from the stairs. "And sleep. You've been going since dawn."

"Can't sleep yet." Violet began checking the camera one more time, her hands needing the familiar routine. "Need to make sure everything's ready. If Moreau destroys evidence at Blackthorn Manor, the photographs from the workshop might be all we have."

"The plates are perfect. You checked them twice already." Artie descended the rest of the stairs, carrying a plate of bread and cheese. "Flanahan said the train leaves at six tomorrow morning. That's nine hours away. You need rest."

He was right, but Violet's mind wouldn't settle. Four women dead. Four more marked for Moreau's next collection. And tomorrow, everything would be decided—justice or escape, closure or continued hunting.

"Right then," Artie said behind her. "Everything's packed for tomorrow. Camera equipment, plates, all of it."

"Good." Violet turned from the window, pulled off Bernie's false beard with a wince. The spirit gum left red marks on her skin, painful reminders of the disguise she couldn't afford to drop for long. "Flanahan got the emergency warrant approved last night. We leave at dawn."

"And if Moreau's already fled Kent?" Artie's voice carried worry. "He's had two days to run."

"Then the Kent constabulary will have seen him leave. They've been watching Blackthorn Manor since Saturday." Violet set the beard on the worktable carefully. "Either way, we'll know by tomorrow afternoon."

Madame Helena emerged from her third-floor rooms, a tray of tea things balanced on one hip. "Then we prepare. We watch. We protect ourselves and wait for justice to turn." She set the tray down with a decisive clink. "But we don't go haring off after a murderer without the law behind us."

"I wasn't suggesting—"

"You were thinking it." The older woman's dark eyes were knowing. "I can always tell when you're planning something reckless, child. You get that look your mother used to get. Determined. Stubborn. Ready to throw yourself at a problem like sacrifice will solve it."

Violet wanted to argue but couldn't. Because Madame Helena was right—she had been thinking about going back to the Grand Guignol, about finding that hidden door Jane had described, about gathering enough evidence to force the magistrate's hand.

"I just feel useless," Violet admitted quietly. "Four women are dead. Their spirits trusted me to bring justice. And I'm sitting here drinking tea while Moreau—"

A knock at the door cut her off.

All three of them froze. It was barely past two o'clock—too early for Flanahan to return with news from the warrant hearing. Too late for afternoon clients.

"I'll get it," Artie said, moving toward the door with the kind of cautious deliberation that came from growing up in The Rookery, where unexpected knocks usually meant trouble.

He opened it a crack, then wider. "Miss Beaumont?"

Collette Beaumont stood on the threshold, wrapped in a dark cloak despite the mild October afternoon. Her face was pale, her eyes red-rimmed. She looked like a woman who'd been crying for hours or hadn't slept in days or both.

"Monsieur Abrams," she said, addressing Violet with the formal courtesy that felt strange now, after everything. "Please forgive the intrusion. I know it is improper to arrive unannounced. But I must speak with you. About Monsieur Moreau. About..." Her voice dropped to a whisper. "About the truth."

Violet glanced at Artie, at Madame Helena, then stepped back. "Come in."

The actress entered like a hunted thing—quick, nervous, checking the square behind her before Artie could close the door. She stood in the center of the studio, twisting her hands together, clearly struggling with whatever she'd come to say.

"Please," Violet gestured to the chair by the worktable, keeping Bernie's gruff voice though part of her wanted to drop it, to speak as herself. "Sit. Tell me what's happened."

Collette sank into the chair as if her legs could no longer support her. "He knows," she said without preamble. "Monsieur Moreau. He knows the police suspect him. He told me this morning, before he left London."

Violet's pulse kicked hard. "Left? Where did he go?"

"He has a property. Outside the city, in Kent. An old manor house called Blackthorn, near the village of Ashford." Collette's voice shook. "He goes there sometimes for privacy. For his work. He told me..." She swallowed hard. "He told me to meet him there Wednesday evening. Said we would wait until the investigation 'faded.' Until people forgot about the murders and moved on to other scandals."

"And you're telling me this because?"

"Because I am afraid." The words burst out raw and desperate. "I am afraid of what he is. What he has done. What he might do to me if I stay silent." Collette looked up, met Violet's eyes—or rather, met Bernie's eyes. "I knew, Monsieur Abrams. Not everything, not at first. But I knew there was something wrong. The way he looked at women, the way he talked about perfection and transformation. The locked rooms beneath the theater he said were dangerous, unstable. I should have said something. Should have told someone when the murders started. But I was afraid, and I told myself I was wrong, that I was imagining connections that weren't there."

"What made you change your mind?" Violet asked gently.

"Last night. After you and the detective left." Collette's hands twisted tighter. "Monsieur Moreau came to my dressing room. He was..." She searched for words. "Excited. Feverish. He talked about his collection being complete. Four perfect pieces. He said he'd shown them to the fourth victim before he killed her—wanted her to understand she was the final masterpiece."

Catherine Webb. Violet felt her stomach turn, remembering the spirit's testimony. Moreau had shown Catherine the preserved pieces. Had explained exactly what he was going to do. Had made her final moments a grotesque lesson in his artistic vision.

"He told you this?" Violet's voice came out harder than intended.

"Not directly. But he was raving, almost delirious with satisfaction. Talking about how rare it was to find subjects with the specific qualities he needed. How much planning it took to acquire them without suspicion." Collette's voice dropped. "And then he said something about starting a new collection. About how four pieces was just the beginning. That he'd learned so much from this first set that the next would be even more perfect."

The room went very still.

"A new collection," Madame Helena said quietly from her position by the tea tray. "He's not stopping."

"No." Collette shook her head. "I don't think he ever intended to. I think this was always going to continue, getting more elaborate, more impossible to detect." She pulled a folded paper from her cloak. "This morning, before he left, I found this in his office. I think... I think it's a list of potential subjects. Women he's been watching."

She handed the paper to Violet with shaking hands.

Violet unfolded it carefully. The handwriting was elegant, educated, each entry meticulously detailed:

Sarah Collins - Dancer, 22, perfect feet, high arches, exceptional flexibility. Performs Tuesdays/Thursdays at The Crown & Anchor.

Margaret Hayes - Opera singer, 28, remarkable vocal range, flawless throat structure. Sunday services at St. Bartholomew's.

Elizabeth Shaw - Artist's model, 19, symmetrical features, classical proportions, expressive face...

The list went on. Ten names. Ten women. Each reduced to anatomical features and where they could be found.

Violet's hands clenched on the paper. "He's been planning this for months."

"Longer," Collette whispered. "I found notebooks. Sketches. Detailed studies of human anatomy cross-referenced with his observations of theater patrons. He's been selecting subjects the entire time I've known him. I just didn't realize what I was seeing."

"You need to give this to the police," Violet said firmly. "Detective Flanahan is presenting evidence to a magistrate Monday morning for a warrant to search the Grand Guignol. This—" She held up the list. "This proves premeditation. Proves he's planning more murders. It could be exactly what Flanahan needs."

"I cannot go to the police," Collette said, her voice breaking. "Monsieur Moreau, he has friends. Friends in the magistrate's office, friends in society, friends who would warn him if I made accusations. That is why I came to you. You are not police. You are a photographer, independent, someone who works with the detective but is not bound by official channels." She leaned forward desperately. "Please. Take this information to Detective Flanahan. Tell him about Blackthorn Manor. Tell him Moreau is there now, probably destroying evidence, preparing to disappear. The detective, he seemed like a good man. Like someone who would act on this information even without official approval."

Violet studied the actress carefully. Everything Collette was saying aligned with what she knew of Moreau—the meticulous planning, the obsession with perfection, the complete lack of remorse. And the location in Kent...

If Moreau had fled London, if he was at Blackthorn Manor right now, waiting for Wednesday when Collette was supposed to arrive...

"Artie," Violet said without taking her eyes off Collette. "Run to Five Corners Station. Find Detective Flanahan. Tell him Mr. Abrams needs to see him immediately regarding the Grand Guignol case. Don't give details to anyone else."

"Right." Artie grabbed his cap and was out the door in seconds, moving with the street kid speed that had served him so well over the years.

Madame Helena moved closer, studying Collette with the intensity she usually reserved for tarot readings. "You're telling the truth," she said finally. Not a question. "You're terrified and guilty and desperately trying to do the right thing before it's too late."

"I should have spoken sooner," Collette whispered. "Should have trusted my instincts. But I was afraid of losing my position, of Monsieur Moreau's anger, of being wrong and ruining an innocent man's reputation." She looked at Violet. "You believe me, don't you? You understand I'm not... I didn't help him. I just didn't stop him."

"I believe you." Violet pulled a chair closer, sat facing the actress. "And you're doing the right thing now. That matters. The police will protect you. Flanahan will make sure Moreau can't retaliate."

"You promise?"

"I promise." And Violet meant it. Because if Collette's information led to Moreau's arrest, if it prevented the murders of the women on that list...

They sat in tense silence, Madame Helena brewing fresh tea, Collette shivering despite the warm room. Outside, Carter Square went about its Saturday afternoon business—costermongers calling, children playing, the ordinary sounds of London life continuing while inside this studio, the pieces of a murder investigation finally aligned.

Twenty minutes later, heavy footsteps on the stairs announced Flanahan's arrival before his knock.

Violet opened the door to find the detective looking harried but focused, Artie slightly out of breath behind him.

"Mr. Abrams," Flanahan said, his eyes going immediately to Collette. "Your assistant said you had urgent information about—" He stopped. "Mademoiselle Beaumont. I was going to send constables to the theater to find you. We need your statement."

"I came here," Collette said, standing. "To Monsieur Abrams. I thought he could help."

"Mr. Abrams has been invaluable to the investigation," Flanahan said smoothly, stepping into the studio. His gaze moved to Violet, a question in his eyes. "What's happened?"

"Miss Beaumont has information about Moreau's location." Violet handed him the list. "And evidence of planned future murders."

Flanahan scanned the paper, his scarred face going very still. "Christ. This is his handwriting?"

"Yes." Collette's voice was small. "I found it this morning in his office. Along with notebooks containing detailed studies of those women—sketches, observations, plans for... acquisition."

"And his location?"

"Blackthorn Manor, near Ashford in Kent," Violet said. "He fled there this morning. Told Miss Beaumont to meet him Wednesday, that they'd wait until the investigation 'faded.'"

Flanahan's jaw tightened. "The bastard's planning to run."

"Or to continue his work somewhere the London police can't easily reach him." Violet met his eyes. "The manor has a carriage house. Miss Beaumont believes he uses it for his 'special work.' Another workshop, Detective. Another hidden space where he can operate without witnesses."

"We need to move on this immediately." Flanahan was already pulling out his notebook, writing quickly. "I can send a telegram to the Kent constabulary, have them watch the property until I can get there with a proper arrest team."

"The warrant—"

"Will have to wait or be pursued separately." Flanahan looked up from his notes. "This is time-sensitive. If Moreau destroys evidence or flees the country, we lose him. I'll explain the urgency to Captain Morris, get approval for immediate action." He turned to Collette. "Mademoiselle, I'm taking you into police protection. You'll give a full statement, and we'll make arrangements for your safety."

"Thank you." Relief flooded Collette's face. "Thank you for believing me."

"Thank Mr. Abrams." Flanahan's gaze moved to Violet. "He's the one who convinced me to look at the Grand Guignol more closely. Without his photographs, his observations, we wouldn't be this close."

Something passed between them in that look—acknowledgment, partnership, the weight of shared secrets. Flanahan knew the truth about Bernie now. Knew about Violet's gift. And he was choosing to trust her anyway, to use the information she provided even though it came from sources he couldn't cite in official reports.

"I just take photographs," Violet said in Bernie's gruff voice. "You're the one doing the real work."

"We're both doing the work." Flanahan tucked his notebook away. "And we're going to finish it. Together." He offered his arm to Collette. "Come, mademoiselle. Let's get you somewhere safe."

As they moved toward the door, Flanahan paused. "Mr. Abrams. A word?"

Violet followed him into the hallway, out of Collette's hearing.

"I'm leaving for Kent tonight," Flanahan said quietly. "Taking three constables, traveling by train. We'll coordinate with the local constabulary, set up surveillance on Blackthorn Manor, and move in tomorrow morning to make the arrest."

"I want to come." The words were out before Violet could stop them.

Flanahan's expression shifted—surprise, concern, and something that might have been reluctant admiration. "That's not—"

"I know it's not proper procedure. I know I'm a civilian photographer with no official standing." Violet kept her voice low. "But those women trusted me with their stories. They told me what Moreau did, trusted me to bring justice. I owe it to them to see this through."

"By putting yourself in danger? If Moreau recognizes Bernie from Friday night, if the arrest goes wrong—"

"Then I'll deal with it." Violet held his gaze. "But I'm coming, Detective. Either with you or following on my own. Your choice."

Flanahan stared at her for a long moment. Then, slowly, he nodded. "You can come. But you stay back during the actual arrest. You're there to document, to photograph, to be a witness—nothing more. If there's violence, if Moreau resists, you do not engage. Understood?"

"Understood." Violet felt something tight in her chest loosen. "Partners, remember?"

"Partners." Flanahan's mouth quirked slightly. "Though I suspect you're the most troublesome partner the Metropolitan Police has ever had."

"I'll take that as a compliment."

"It wasn't meant as one." But his tone was warm despite the words. "Meet me at Liverpool Street Station, six o'clock. The train to Ashford leaves at quarter past. Bring your camera equipment—if anyone asks, you're documenting the arrest for the official case file."

"I will."

Flanahan returned to Collette, escorting her toward the stairs. At the door, he looked back. "And Violet? Thank you. For trusting me with the truth. For helping me see what I was missing. This case... it wouldn't be solved without you."

Then they were gone, leaving Violet alone with Artie and Madame Helena and the sudden realization that within twenty-four hours, this would all be over.

Justice would turn. The wheel would complete its revolution.

And four spirits would finally, finally find peace.

Artie insisted on helping pack the camera equipment, assembling plates and flash powder with practiced efficiency while Violet tried to ignore the nervous energy thrumming through her veins.

"You're sure about this?" he asked for the third time. "Going to Kent, being there for the arrest?"

"I'm sure." Violet checked the camera's mechanisms, made sure everything was in working order. "I need to be there. For them. For Mary and Annie and Jane and Catherine. They trusted me to see this through."

"They'd understand if you stayed safe."

"Would they?" Violet looked up from the camera. "I've been asking their spirits to trust me, to tell me things they'd never tell the living, to relive their murders for the sake of catching their killer. The least I can do is be there when justice arrives."

Artie was quiet for a moment, then nodded. "Right then. But you're bringing the good plates. The sharp ones. If you're documenting an arrest, it should be done properly."

"Agreed."

Madame Helena appeared at the top of the stairs, a tea tray balanced on one hip. "You need to eat something substantial," she said, her voice brooking no argument. "And rest. You'll be no use to anyone tomorrow if you collapse on the train."

"I'm fine."

"You're exhausted." Helena set the tray down with a decisive clink. "I can see it in your face, child. You've been wearing that disguise for nearly twelve hours, you spent the morning photographing preserved organs in a madman's workshop, and you've been running on willpower and willow bark since Saturday."

Violet wanted to argue but couldn't. Because Helena was right—her hands were shaking slightly as she checked the camera equipment, and the headache that had been lurking at the edges of her awareness all day was starting to sharpen into something more persistent.

"Eat," Helena commanded, pushing the plate of bread and cold meat toward her. "Then sleep. You have—" she consulted the clock on the mantel, "—eight hours before you need to leave for the station. Use them wisely."

"I can't sleep." Violet picked at the bread without appetite. "Every time I close my eyes, I see those jars. Mary's eyes. Annie's tongue. Jane's hands. Catherine's heart. All arranged so carefully, like—"

"Like art," Helena finished quietly. "Yes. I know. Evil often has its own terrible beauty. That's what makes it so dangerous." She poured tea with steady hands. "But you cannot carry their pain for them, Violet. You can only bear witness. Bring justice. Let them rest."

"That's what I'm trying to do."

"I know." Helena's dark eyes were knowing. "Your mother was the same way. Leah felt every spirit's grief as if it were her own. It nearly destroyed her, that gift. The weight of all that unfinished business, all those stories that needed telling."

Violet looked up sharply. "Mameh's gift didn't destroy her. Cholera did."

"The cholera took her body, yes. But her spirit?" Helena shook her head slowly. "She'd been fading for months before she got sick. Giving too much of herself to the dead, wearing herself thin trying to help every spirit that crossed her path. By the time the fever came, there wasn't enough of her left to fight it."

The words hit Violet like a physical blow. "You never told me that."

"You were six years old. What was I supposed to say? 'Your mother loved the dead more than she loved staying alive'?" Helena's voice was gentle but firm. "But you're not six anymore. You're nineteen, and you have the same gift she did, and you're walking the same dangerous path. So I'm telling you now: the dead will take everything you give them and ask for more. You have to know when to stop. When to say 'enough.'"

"After tomorrow," Violet said. "After Moreau is arrested and those four women can rest. Then I'll stop."

"Will you?" Helena studied her face. "Or will there be another case, another murdered woman, another spirit asking for justice? When does it end, child?"

Violet didn't have an answer for that.

They sat in silence for a while, Violet forcing herself to eat, Helena sipping her tea and watching with the patient intensity of someone who'd seen this pattern before and knew how it ended.

"I've prepared protections for you," Helena said finally, pulling two items from her pocket. The first was a small cloth pouch. "Iron filings, salt, protective herbs. Keep this in your right pocket."

The second was heavier—a small metal case, ornately decorated with symbols Violet didn't recognize. Helena opened it to reveal a thick piece of hammered iron, polished smooth, about the size of a playing card but three times as thick.

"This was your mother's," Helena said quietly. "An old tradition—Jews in the Pale carried these for protection. Iron blessed with prayers, worn over the heart. Your mother carried it when she did dangerous work with spirits. It saved her life once, in Warsaw, before she came to London."

Violet took the iron plate, felt its weight in her palm. It was warm, as though it had been sitting near a fire.

"Wear it in your left breast pocket tomorrow," Helena said. "The side closest to your heart. The cloth pouch goes in the right. Together, they'll protect you—body and spirit both."

"Helena—"

"Don't argue. Your mother would haunt me if I let you walk into danger without every protection I could give you." She pressed both items into Violet's hands. "Promise me you'll wear them both."

"I promise."

Helena stood, gathering the tea things. "Now sleep. I'll wake you at half past four. That gives you time to put on Bernie's disguise properly before you need to leave."

After Helena left, Violet tried to sleep. She lay on the narrow bed in the corner of the studio, still fully dressed, staring at the ceiling while her mind refused to quiet.

Tomorrow, they would arrest Moreau. Tomorrow, this would all be over.

Unless he'd already fled. Unless the Kent constabulary had missed him slipping away in the night. Unless he fought back, or had confederates, or had one more trick hidden up his sleeve.

Unless, unless, unless.

Violet pressed her fingers to her temples, trying to will away the thoughts. Four women were dead. Four more were marked for his next collection. She couldn't afford doubt now. Couldn't afford to imagine all the ways this could go wrong.

She had to believe that justice would turn. That the wheel would complete its revolution. That by tomorrow evening, Étienne Moreau would be in custody, and four spirits could finally rest.

She had to believe it.

Because if she didn't, the weight of all that death, all that unfinished business, would crush her the way it had crushed her mother.

Violet pulled the blanket over herself and closed her eyes, forcing her breathing to slow, willing sleep to come even though she knew it would be full of preserved organs in glass jars and spirits with hollow cavities where their hearts should be.

Tomorrow. Tomorrow would bring answers.

Tonight, she just had to survive the waiting.

The knock came at half past four, exactly as promised.

Violet woke with a gasp, her heart hammering, the remnants of a nightmare scattering like smoke. She'd been dreaming of jars. Rows and rows of them, stretching into infinity, each one containing a piece of someone who'd trusted her to bring justice.

"Time to get ready," Helena's voice came through the door. "I've left hot water and the binding corset outside."

Violet forced herself upright, her body protesting the movement. She'd slept poorly—three hours at most, fractured by nightmares and the anxious conviction that she'd oversleep and miss the train.

But she was awake now. And there was work to do.

She transformed into Bernie with the mechanical precision that came from three years of practice. The binding corset pulled tight enough to flatten her chest and make breathing difficult. The undershirt and vest. The trousers and boots. The wig and false beard, spirit gum applied with careful attention to make sure it would hold for the long day ahead.

By the time she checked herself in the mirror, Bernie Abrams looked back—gruff, masculine, ready for a day's work photographing a murder arrest.

Violet Abrams had disappeared again. As she always did. As she always would, until this case was over and she could decide what came next.

Artie had the camera equipment ready by the door, packed with the same careful attention he'd shown since the day Poppa had taken him in. Two cases—one for the camera and tripod, one for the plates and chemicals. Everything organized, everything prepared.

"Ready?" he asked.

Bernie nodded, unable to quite trust the voice yet. Too early, too nervous, too much riding on the day ahead.

"You'll be careful," Artie said. It wasn't a question. "You'll stay back like you promised Flanahan. You'll let the constables handle the dangerous part."

"I will."

"Good." Artie handed over the equipment cases. "Because if you get yourself killed trying to photograph a serial killer's arrest, I'm never forgiving you."

Despite everything, Bernie smiled. "Noted."

Madame Helena appeared at the top of the stairs, wrapped in her dressing gown, her hair down for once instead of elaborately styled. She looked older this way, more vulnerable, and for a moment Violet could see the worry beneath the theatrical fortune-teller persona.

"The protections are in place?" Helena asked.

Bernie patted the left pocket. "Yes."

"Then go. Bring justice. Come back safe." Helena descended the stairs, pulled Bernie into a fierce embrace that smelled of incense and herbs and the theatrical powder she used for her fortune-telling performances. "Your mother would be proud of you, child. I hope you know that."

Bernie's throat tightened. "I hope so too."

Then there was nothing left to do but pick up the equipment cases and step out into the predawn darkness of Carter Square, where London was just beginning to wake and a train was waiting to carry Bernie Abrams to Kent and whatever justice—or failure—the day would bring.

The streets were nearly empty at this hour. A few early workers, a lamplighter finishing his rounds, a constable on patrol who nodded at Bernie as he passed. The ordinary machinery of London life, continuing on while somewhere in Kent, a serial killer waited, unaware that justice was finally coming for him.

Bernie walked quickly, the equipment cases heavy but familiar, the false beard itching slightly despite the spirit gum. The October morning was cold enough to see breath misting in the air, and the sky was just beginning to lighten from black to deep blue at the horizon.

Liverpool Street Station loomed ahead, its great glass and iron bulk already busy despite the early hour. Travelers, porters, vendors setting up their stalls. The smell of coal smoke and coffee and humanity pressed together in enclosed spaces.

And there, near the platform for the Kent line, stood Detective Patrick Flanahan.

He wasn't alone. Three constables stood with him—young men, all of them, with the nervous energy of officers who'd been told they were about to arrest a serial killer. Flanahan looked tired but focused, his scarred face set in determination, a leather satchel over his shoulder that probably contained the arrest warrant and case files.

He saw Bernie approaching and raised a hand in greeting.

"Mr. Abrams," he said formally, for the benefit of the constables. "Thank you for coming. The train leaves in ten minutes. We should board."

Bernie nodded, adjusting his grip on the equipment cases. "Ready when you are, Detective."

As they moved toward the platform, Flanahan fell into step beside Bernie, his voice dropping to a murmur only she could hear. "Second thoughts?"

"No," Bernie said quietly. "You?"

"About a dozen." Flanahan's mouth quirked slightly. "But we're doing this anyway."

"We're doing this anyway," Bernie agreed.

They boarded the train—a second-class carriage, already half-full of early travelers—and found seats near the back where they could speak without being easily overheard. The constables settled into seats nearby, checking their equipment with the nervous efficiency of men preparing for violence.

Flanahan opened his satchel, pulled out a folded map of Kent. "Blackthorn Manor is here," he said, pointing to a spot about three miles outside Ashford. "Isolated property, wooded grounds, main house and several outbuildings. The Kent constabulary has had two men watching since Saturday afternoon. They sent a telegram last night—no movement, no signs of flight. Moreau appears to still be in residence."

"Or he left before Saturday and the house is empty," Bernie said.

"Possible. But unlikely. The local constables reported seeing lights in the windows Saturday evening and smoke from the chimney Sunday morning." Flanahan folded the map carefully. "Either Moreau is there, or he left staff behind to make it look like he's there."

"What's the plan?"

"We arrive in Ashford at half past seven. Meet with the local constabulary, coordinate the approach. Then we move on the manor at eight o'clock sharp. Front and back entrances covered, constables stationed to prevent flight. I'll serve the warrant, make the arrest if Moreau is present." He looked at Bernie directly. "You photograph the premises, document any evidence we find, but you stay outside until we've secured the property. Understood?"

"Understood."

The train lurched into motion, pulling away from the platform with a shriek of steam and metal. Through the window, London slid past—still mostly dark, lit only by gas lamps and the occasional lit window where early risers were beginning their days.

Bernie watched the city disappear into the growing dawn and thought of four women who would never see another morning. Four women whose spirits had trusted her to bring justice.

By the time the train reached Kent, the sun would be fully up.

And by the time it returned to London that evening, Étienne Moreau would either be in custody or on his way to France, and this would all be over.

One way or another, justice would turn.

The wheel would complete its revolution.

Bernie just hoped she'd be there to witness it.