Grant was summoned to the East End by the constable, who had made a connection between the carefully carved marks (plural, yes, because there were now two, thank you very much) on Melanie Keaton’s forehead and the one found on the Oxford don who’d met his demise on the porcelain at the British Library.
When Grant arrived on the scene, he was immediately drawn to the beheaded figurines with black-feathered wings sprouting from their backs and faces an even darker shade of ebony. One of Keaton’s employees told him they were a series of archangels the sculptor had been working on. The studio was filled with a host of carvings in the same vein, causing the commander to wonder if he’d stumbled onto a black magic cult. Grant made a note to check if the murdered Oxford don had similar tastes, then began a round of questioning that proved no more successful than the inquiries days before at the British Library.
No one had seen Melanie Keaton since she’d locked up the previous evening. Grant asked Simmons if he was familiar with the library but it proved to be a tree not worth barking up; the man had just returned from a business trip in Poland where he’d been for the past month, dousing the idea he might have been on the third floor of the British Library on the first night of December.
Grant left the studio with no sort of connection between an Oxford professor of Greek mythology and a Whitechapel sculptor of archangels. Except for the carvings in their forehead; Melanie Keaton had twice the number of Lionel Frey. Grant felt no better when the FME concluded they’d been administered postmortem. It meant the killer was trying to make a point—as if purposely egging Grant and the Yard on.
Catch me if you can.
VI
The few hours after leaving Piccadilly brought no clarity. Nor did subsequent days.
An Oxford don, an East End artist, and a washed-up rocker—what did they have in common? It was one nasty riddle—and the only person who knew the answer wasn’t sharing.
It went further downhill once they rounded up Billy Street’s bandmates. They were fairly new additions to the Blasphemers; the original members had fallen to the wayside due to excessive alcohol and lack of gigs. None of the current trio held any enmity toward the lead singer. It was Billy’s band—they were just playing in it. With his passing, they were talking of forming a tribute group, but were unsure if it was a good idea because there was just one song to pay homage to.
The next dead end was Lisa Gosden. Jeffries had found trace evidence in the MG that Street had been with a woman the night he was killed and it didn’t take long for Grant’s team to run down the Gosden girl. She’d attended Billy’s swan song and reluctantly admitted to leaving the club with him that night.
Grant found it hard to believe she could have wrapped an E string around the musician’s neck as well as dispatched an Oxford don and sculptor all within a week. She fumbled through the details of her rendezvous with Billy—expressing frustration at his lack of prowess as a lover (more information than Grant needed). And she hadn’t been aware of being watched by anyone in the MG or during her “walk of shame” out to Charles Street.
By Thursday night, when he headed up to Hampstead for his weekly dinner and chess match with Everett, Grant felt further astray than ever on the case. The Thursday dinners had started, at Everett’s insistence, at his brother’s house shortly after Allison’s passing. Grant appreciated Everett taking it upon himself to look after his older brother.
“I won’t have you wasting away,” Everett had told him the night of the wake. “I can’t tell you how many geezers at the university I’ve seen go belly up right after their loved ones passed. They just seem to give up on living.”
Everett said he would miss Allison as well. He’d actually known her longer than Grant. Everett had introduced them during his last year as a student at Oxford when he’d come home to Liverpool for the holidays. Everett and Allison had briefly gone out but her heart quickly went to Grant. She’d jokingly say she hadn’t felt smart enough for Everett, a brilliant budding theologian. This made Grant feel slightly inferior, to which Allison would say “Nonsense.” At least the two of them could talk about normal things and affairs of the heart.
The chess game came about gradually. They played a few times those first few months, then it became a challenge that Grant actually looked forward to. During their matches, Grant would often discuss his cases with Everett. His brother was a good listener and usually offered a fresh analytical view. Sometimes, it was just enough for Grant to lay out the entire matter—hearing it leave his lips often helped him locate the missing piece to the puzzle he’d been trying to unravel.
But not this time.
“This ‘Counter’ . . .” began Everett.
“An awful moniker, you must admit.” A colleague of Grant’s had come up with the not-so-clever-label and it had unfortunately stuck.
“Well, I’m sure he, or she, though I doubt it’s a woman, would probably like the idea they’ve been given a nickname.”
“What makes you say that?” Grant asked.
“Why mark his victims unless he’s boasting? I’d wager he’s frustrated that you haven’t been giving him his fair share of press. If it should leak to the press, I wouldn’t be shocked if it was your killer who sprung it.”
A frustrated Grant rested his finger atop his black bishop. “Wonderful. If that happened, I’d need to claim the source as ‘Anonymous’ because the killer isn’t going to identify himself—and I’d be back at square one.”
“Which would be what?” prodded Everett.
“Damned if I know!” cried Grant. He moved the bishop diagonally three spots and plopped it down on a black square.
His brother gave him a disapproving look and moved a rook sideways. “Afraid that’s checkmate, dear Austin.”
Grant didn’t see it at first. Then he realized his fatal mistake was four moves down the line. He rose to his feet and started pacing in Everett’s library, where they had set up the board beside a dwindling fire.
“I can’t concentrate on anything.”
“So try and narrow it down,” suggested Everett. “What does your gut say?”
“My gut says this can’t be random.”
“And why not?”
Grant stopped midstride. “Because the killer went to the unnecessary trouble of selecting these particular victims.”
“You’re saying he chose them for a specific reason.”
“But why? Why a professor who bores people with tales of mythic beings no one cares about, a sculptor who makes strange idols, or a washed-up musician in a band more interested in taking the Lord’s name in vain than making something that passes for music? It’s beyond me.”
Everett suddenly stood up as well. “Say that again.”
“It’s all beyond me.”
Grant’s brother shook his head. “No. No. The Lord’s name part.”
“Taking it in vain? That part?”
“Yes. Why do you say that?”
“Because Street’s band is called the Blasphemers.”
Everett made a beeline for his bookshelves.
“What are you doing?” Grant asked, intrigued.
Everett didn’t answer. His eyes crisscrossed the various shelves until he spied a black bound book.
“Ah, here we go.”
He held up a thick tome. A King James Bible.
Grant’s eyes widened. “Isn’t that the one that Dad gave each of us?”
“I’m surprised you even recognize it,” said Everett with a smile. “I figure yours must be gathering dust somewhere, you good-for-nothing heathen.”
“You’re going to start quoting scripture? This is what my life has come to?”
Everett was silent while flipping pages. “Ah, here we go. Exodus, chapter twenty, verse one. I quote: ‘And God spake all these words, saying, I am the Lord thy God, which have brought thee out of the land of Egypt, out of the house of bondage. Thou shalt have no other gods before me.’”
Everett looked up. “As opposed to Lionel Frey,
who devoted his life to other gods—the Greek variety, not Jehovah or whatever the Good Book says he should be doing . . .”
“Everett . . .”
His brother quieted Grant with a look and continued. “Number two. ‘Thou shalt not make unto thee any graven image, or any likeness of any thing that is in heaven above. . . .’ Like your sculptor of archangels.”
“You can’t be serious.”
“Deadly.” Everett tapped the Bible passage. “Number three. ‘Thou shalt not take the name of the Lord thy God in vain.’ Sound familiar?”
He lowered the book and stared at Grant, whose mouth had dropped open.
“Good God. The Blasphemers?” said the stunned commander.
“I think we might have stumbled onto your connection, dear brother.”
Grant shook his head in disbelief. “The Ten Commandments?”
“He’s even numbering them for you. Right on their foreheads.”
Grant shook his head in disbelief as he uttered the words. “Someone’s killing people according to the Ten Commandments.”
“Do you have another link in mind?” asked Everett.
Grant wished he did.
The thought running through his head was much, much worse.
Three down. Seven to go.
VII
Grant kicked himself for not putting it together on his own. The killings wrapped up in some sort of misguided religious fervor made perfect sense. Someone was traipsing around London doling out their own form of judgment on people they deemed to have committed punishable sins, even if they were far-fetched and not actual transgressions. Clearly, the killer was bent, so his choices needn’t make sense to a normal person, only to the delusional one who had declared himself judge, jury, and executioner.
Leave it to his brother, “the educated one” as their father used to say, to figure it out. If his Ten Commandment theory held, he knew Everett would lord it over him forever, even if Grant caught the killer and put him away.
“Seeing as how I’m not up to speed with the Good Book, remind me what the Fourth Commandment is.”
Everett turned back to the King James Bible and found the passage again. “‘Remember the sabbath day, to keep it holy. Six days shalt thou labour, and do all thy work: but the seventh day is the sabbath of the Lord thy God: in it thou shalt not do any work . . .’” Everett closed the book.
“Splendid. I’m looking to protect a person who works on Sunday.”
“Or Saturdays if we’re adhering to Judaic law. But seeing as how Jews are outnumbered by Christians at a rate of over one hundred to one in Britain, I think we’re safe sticking with the Sabbath being a Sunday.”
“You have any idea how many people in Greater London we’re looking at?”
“Probably a whole lot more than the men you have at your disposal. What sort of folks are we talking about?” asked Everett.
“Well, there’s every bartender, waiter, or kitchen hand in a restaurant, café, or bistro. You have your ticket takers at the cinemas, shop girls up in Notting Hill and Marylebone High Street to name a few hundred. Men working tube stations, black cab and Uber drivers, museum docents—need I go on?”
“No, though I quite enjoy hearing you prattle away. I’d say you have your work cut out for you.” Everett laughed. “Any thoughts where you might begin?”
“I don’t have a bloody clue!”
A frustrated Grant grabbed the Bible from his brother and flipped through its pages. He slammed it shut just as quickly. “What the hell am I doing? It’s not like I’m going to find an answer in here.”
“You wouldn’t be the first to go looking. Father Talbot up at Oxford chastises us on a weekly basis for not keeping up with our Bible studies.”
Grant started to respond, then checked himself. “Of course.”
Everett’s brow raised. “What are we talking about—of course?”
“A priest,” answered Grant. “That has to be it, don’t you think?”
Before Everett could reply, Grant was back up and pacing. For the first time since Frey’s body had been discovered in the library loo, the commander could feel life pumping back into his veins. He turned to face his brother and pointed at the Bible as if answers had just sprung from it like a fountain of truth.
“Whose work is defined by them working on the Sabbath? Who spends every Sunday morning front and center before Londoners, come rain or shine?”
“Your friendly neighborhood parish priest,” Everett responded. “You think he’s going after a priest?”
“It’s just twisted and specific enough to fit your theory.”
“Do you have any idea how many priests, pastors, and reverends there are in Greater London?” asked Everett.
“A lot more than I’d like.”
VIII
The number turned out to be way higher than he anticipated. There were thousands of Catholic priests in the UK, with at least a quarter of those practicing in the London environs. Grant realized he couldn’t rule out altar boys, assistant clerics, and the like, as they worked the Sabbath as well and could fit the same criteria laid out in the Fourth Commandment.
The good news was that it was only Friday, which gave his team at the Yard a two-day jump. First, Grant went to see Frederick Stebbins, the Yard’s deputy commander and head of the Metropolitan Police—the man he answered to. He painstakingly convinced his superior that Everett’s Ten Commandments theory was their prime (and only) lead, and they formulated a plan on how best to prevent a fourth murder from occurring right under their collective noses.
Stationing a constable at every church in London was obviously impossible, so they considered how to get the word out without yielding a mass panic. All the Yard needed was screaming headlines in the Daily Mail or the Daily Mirror informing Britain’s citizenry that a knife-wielding lunatic was threatening to disrupt their Sunday sermon or the baptism of their newborn child.
It was decided that Grant’s team should reach out one by one to every church with a very specific warning. Rather than tell clergy they were possible prey for a serial killer, the party line would be that the Yard had received a veiled threat of violence against a priest that coming Sunday. Extra patrols would be provided wherever possible and priests would be urged not to venture into solitary places on that particular day and not to hesitate to report anything suspicious. Grant told the clergy he personally contacted to keep this information to themselves as he didn’t want to start full-fledged hysteria within their congregations.
Not a single priest or pastor uttered a protest. Grant figured as men of God they had been trained to take on burdens to ensure the common good. Many asked if they should cancel services. Grant said it was their choice, but not a bad idea.
Miraculously, the media didn’t catch on until Saturday evening.
That was when Monte Ferguson, a veteran reporter for the Daily Mail, appeared outside Grant’s office just as he was heading home after calling hundreds of London churches. Bespectacled, wiry, and desperately hanging on to his few remaining wisps of unkempt hair, Ferguson was polite but dogged, a journalist who Grant knew from experience he’d need to tread lightly with. Their history of give-and-take had been rocky; not enough giving on Grant’s part for the reporter, with Ferguson taking a bit too much when allowed the opportunity. Most recently, Grant had been criticized by Ferguson in a Sunday editorial after the Fleming mess. It still rankled.
“No better place to hang out on a Saturday night, Monte?” Grant asked, turning the lights off in his office.
“Better than going to church in the morning,” said the smiling journalist.
“I’d say that all depends on the sermon.”
“Well, in my parish, Father McGuinness has canceled services.”
“Consider yourself blessed.”
“He’s not the only one,” Ferguson added. “I’ve found at least a dozen other churches that will be closed as well.”
The reporter checked a pad for notes. Ferguson was a bit of
a Luddite, refusing to subscribe to the marvels of iPhones and other devices. Grant could appreciate that, being somewhat of a technophobe himself—but it made him aware that Ferguson had done enough digging to compile a list of his own.
“Must be something in the holy water,” chided Grant, taking one last stab at getting Ferguson to look a different way.
“Or receiving the same call from the Yard earlier this morning telling them about a threat against the church.”
So much for that.
“I don’t suppose you’d care to share who told you this?” asked Grant.
The scribe gave Grant a look that screamed You can’t be serious.
“What do you want, Monte? You know I’m not going to confirm such a claim.”
“How about giving me a reason not to run with it in the Mail’s morning edition or popping it online right now?”
“How’s not starting a mass panic through London sound?”
Ferguson shrugged. “Just more news for Monday.”
Grant had to hand it to Ferguson. The man was most comfortable once he got a bone in his mouth. “What would you need to not print something before tomorrow morning?”
“An exclusive of some sort.”
“Some sort being what?”
“A statement by day’s end tomorrow from you acknowledging the existence of a threat that didn’t come to pass or an exclusive interview with details about a crime should it occur.”
“I think I can promise that.”
Grant felt Ferguson’s eyes focus in on him. “That was easy enough,” said the journalist. “Too easy actually. What gives?”
“I’ve had a long day, Monte. I expect an even longer one tomorrow. So I’d like to get some sleep while I still can.”
Grant started to move past but Ferguson shifted enough to cause the commander to stop in his tracks. “What time?”
The Last Commandment Page 2