A flustered Frankel looked from Everett to Rachel, who was starting to blush.
“Plans?” stammered Frankel.
“Uncle Everett—”
The younger Grant brother stopped them with a grin. “I admit my eyesight isn’t what it once was, but it’s still good enough to peer across a church aisle. I also might not be the brilliant copper my brother or the detective here is—but it was easy enough to connect what I saw to my niece’s flimsy Matilda alibi yesterday.”
Frankel tried to come up with a response and barely managed a word. “Oh.”
Rachel ended up doing him one better. “Dad already figured it out.”
Everett looked like a child who just had their balloon burst by the neighborhood bully. “Well, like I said, the man’s a brilliant copper.”
“Sorry if I ruined your fun,” Rachel said.
“It was nice thinking I was ahead of the great Scotland Yard commander for a moment.”
“Sounds to me like you’re selling yourself a bit short,” observed Frankel. “I was told you were the first one to come up with the Commandments angle.”
“Let’s just say I helped get Austin started. So much has happened since, it’s been practically impossible to keep up.”
Rachel linked her arm in Everett’s and they moved away from the church.
“If it’s any consolation, I’m planning on being at your house tonight and I will make sure to get Dad there as well.”
“Wonderful!” exclaimed Everett. “But given everything we’ve just been discussing, I think it only appropriate that Detective Frankel joins us as well.”
Frankel shook his head. “I wouldn’t want to impose.”
“Nonsense,” said Rachel. “That’s a splendid suggestion. This way I won’t have to split Christmas between the three of you.”
Everett gave a vigorous nod. “Consider it done.”
“What’s done?”
The three of them turned to find Rachel’s father falling into step beside them. He looked even more harried than moments ago at the podium.
“Everett has invited John to join us for dinner tonight,” said Rachel.
“Whatever he wants to do,” murmured Grant.
Frankel noticed Grant’s eyes moving past them all.
“If you really want to be alone with your daughter and brother, Austin, I totally get it. I wouldn’t . . .”
Grant held up a hand in abeyance.
“No, sorry. I didn’t mean it to sound like that.” He turned back to face Frankel. “I’d be happy for you to join us, John.”
Rachel continued to stare at her father. “What’s bothering you, Dad?”
Grant motioned toward the church. “The constant thorn in my side.”
They followed his gaze to see the crowd thinning to expose Monte Ferguson at the bottom of the cathedral steps, his ever-present notepad in hand.
“Son of a bitch,” exclaimed Frankel.
“The second I got to the door, he confronted me about his exclusive.”
“Exclusive?” asked Rachel.
“It goes back to a deal we made before the Saint Patrick’s murder. I thought I had honored it when we let him run the story that the same person committed the murders here in Britain and the States.”
“Exactly,” said Frankel.
“Apparently, it’s not good enough. He thinks it entitled him to getting Prior Silver’s name before anyone else, so he’s not happy we released it simultaneously to all the media outlets.”
“He’s a vulture like all of those tabloid twits.” Everett shook his head. “They won’t stop until they’ve finished picking at your grave.”
“What he should print is your eulogy for Sergeant Hawley,” said Rachel. “Word for word.”
“I totally agree,” added Frankel. “You did the sergeant proud.”
“Especially that last part,” added Everett. “That packed quite the punch.”
“That was the general idea,” said Grant.
“When did you decide to add that?” asked Rachel. “It wasn’t there when I read it last . . .”
She broke off at the sound of a shrill bird chirp.
“Rachel? Is something wrong?” asked Everett. “You look like you’ve just seen a ghost.”
“Kind of.” She dug into her purse and pulled out her cell phone.
“It’s a ringtone on my cell. I assigned it to Sergeant Hawley’s number—in case he—whoever—texted me again.”
Rachel glanced at the phone screen and literally dropped it into her father’s outstretched palm like the hottest of potatoes.
Grant and Frankel stared at the latest message together.
You shouldn’t make promises you can’t keep, Commander.
“What’s going on here?” asked a confused Everett.
Grant quickly filled his brother in on the mysterious cell chats. As he did, the gravity of the situation grew on Frankel.
“He’s referencing the end of your eulogy, Austin.”
“I’m still at a loss here,” said Everett.
Rachel nodded. “I am as well, I’m afraid.”
Grant motioned back toward the church. “My eulogy was only heard by the five hundred or so people who just left that building twenty minutes ago. It was meant only for Hawley’s close friends and colleagues at the Yard—we didn’t allow it to be broadcast anywhere.”
Frankel indicated the cathedral. “Which means that either Prior Silver was actually in the church at the time . . .”
Grant finished the thought.
“Or someone he’s been talking to was.”
25
Rachel watched with fascination as the two cops sprang into action.
Their first inclination was to cordon off the area and sequester the attendees, but Grant and John realized it was much too late. The service had concluded a half hour ago and many guests had already left to start celebrating Christmas Eve.
They had a list to work from; there had been a checkpoint set up at the cathedral entrance where names were crossed off as they entered the church. But they rapidly abandoned the idea of interviewing everyone as a potential co-conspirator with Prior Silver.
“If, after the funeral, one did get in touch directly with Silver, they’re not going to admit having contacted a mass murderer,” Grant pointed out.
Rachel thought her father seemed calmer than just moments before, having even caught a bemused smile. “You don’t seem troubled by this turn of events.”
“I’m actually encouraged,” said Grant.
“How so?” asked Everett.
“The last thing Silver texted was that we’d be hearing from him after the holiday,” Grant explained. “And here it’s not even Christmas Eve and the man has already broken that promise with a threat.”
John nodded. “You’ve rattled him.”
“Exactly,” said Grant. “And that is when someone who prides themselves on laying out a precise and orderly plan is liable to make a mistake.”
Everett smiled and looked at Rachel. “The Yard is going to miss your father.”
“You better believe it.” She turned toward Grant. “Does that mean you’re just going to chuck the list?”
“Absolutely not. We’ll begin to cull our way through it. But the first thing we need to do is check and see if our friend Mr. Silver tried to crash the funeral.”
A couple of hours later, they were fairly sure Silver had been a no-show.
Everett had taken his leave before Rachel and the two cops headed back inside the church. Her uncle said he still hoped to see them around eight but would understand if they needed to cancel dinner due to this latest wrinkle.
Once Everett departed, they’d turned their attention to Southwark’s security cameras, of which there were plenty. The thousand-year-old edifice had been well-stocked with surveillance equipment post 9/11 and the rash of bombings in the UK.
They were soon joined by Morrow and his tech team in the church basement where the security system w
as housed. There were over a dozen cameras situated in the cathedral and close to twice as many outside, so they had their hands full.
They scrolled through the extensive coverage to see if the former mechanic had dropped in on the funeral. Paying special attention to men the same size and shape as Silver (he might have been disguised), they eventually eliminated each angle. John fixated on a mannish-looking matronly-type as a sneaky possibility; but using the close-up camera functions, Rachel said it was just a woman possessing an unfortunate set of genes.
The three of them had returned to the Yard, where they ended up in Grant’s office deciding what their next course of action should be.
Going over the funeral guest list was an arduous task that could take days and likely end up a fruitless endeavor. That didn’t stop Grant from dividing it between them to see what they could come up with.
“Almost all these people are MPS,” Grant pointed out, flipping pages.
“It wouldn’t be the first time a cop strayed,” said John.
But both men admitted it was hard to imagine a policeman working hand in hand with someone like Prior Silver.
“What about the thief angle?” wondered Rachel.
“Pardon?” asked Grant.
“A possible eighth victim? Thou shalt not steal? Any luck with that?”
Grant shook his head. “That list would be ten times as long with countless men and women we have no record of having had committed such a crime.”
“And given the loosey-goosey way Silver’s been interpreting the Commandments—his definition of ‘thief’ could be anything,” John added. “It could be a teenager swiping a scooter or stealing an answer off a math test.”
“I was thinking of the personal angle,” Rachel countered.
“How so?” asked her father.
“The last two victims, Dozier and Fleming, were known to you. Maybe Silver’s targeting someone you’ve arrested or gone after before,” she suggested.
“It’s certainly worth considering.”
“Sergeant Hawley and I made a lot of progress going over your old cases. Maybe we should be cross-checking them for thieves.”
Both men thought that an excellent idea, as they had none of their own.
By the time Christmas Eve fell a few hours later, the Yard detectives had narrowed that list down to six men and a woman Grant had put in prison for some form of theft; they’d served time and since been released. A different constable was dispatched to contact and maintain surveillance on each until further notice.
Keeping with the personal angle, they went through Prior Silver’s files to see if they could find a collaborator in his robbery spree that could be a possible target, but there had been none. They even interviewed a few of Silver’s former cell-block mates up at Wakefield and Hatfield, the prisons where he had served time. The interviews yielded nothing useful. None of the inmates recalled Silver having any sort of altercation with an imprisoned thief that he might now have his sights set on. Silver had kept to himself, his nose buried in his little black Bible, steeping himself in an ideology that he apparently twisted to fuel his murderous rampage.
As London shut down in preparation for the holiest of nights, Deputy Commander Stebbins suggested everyone go home for the evening. It was a time to be with loved ones; by replenishing themselves they might return from the holiday with a fresh perspective and pick up something they had missed.
Rachel called Everett and told him to expect all three of them for dinner. When she asked what they could bring, all she heard was gratefulness in her uncle’s voice. “Just the three of you. It’s the best Christmas present I could ask for.”
Rachel said they would see him shortly and hung up. She looked across the desk at her father and John. Their expressions remained glum; if Marley’s ghost had stumbled in right then, he would have felt right at home.
Rachel and her father arrived at Everett’s and saw that the Oxford don had pulled out all the holiday stops. The house just off the Hamstead High Street was all a-twinkle with elegant strands of blinking white lights and had a hearty ivy and berry wreath affixed to the door.
Everett greeted them with warm hugs, took their coats, and ushered them into the library where John was already ensconced, two sips into an Old Fashioned. Her uncle provided them with companion cocktails after displaying the bottle of eighteen-year-old Macallan John had brought. Her father’s nod of approval indicated to Rachel that the detective had gone up in his estimation, and it sweetened the pot when he presented Grant a bottle of his very own.
“It’s too damned cold for a chocolate shake,” John said.
As they worked their drinks, John indicated the chess board and asked if that’s where Grant and Everett had first put together the Commandment connection.
Rachel’s uncle nodded. “The one and the same.”
“I can’t imagine where we’d be right now if you hadn’t gone and dusted that Bible off the shelf,” said Grant.
“I’d think by the time this maniac Silver had crossed the Atlantic and risen the count to four or five, you would have deduced the pattern,” Everett told them.
“I’m not so sure about that,” John replied. “I played hooky a lot back in Jersey when I was supposed to be in Sunday school catechism.”
“Lucky bastard.” Everett grinned and knowingly clinked glasses with Grant.
“What my brother’s referring to is that our father used to sit in the car outside the church for the first half hour making sure we didn’t slip out a window.”
The conversation turned to the case as her father and John filled Everett in on the afternoon’s futility once they had all departed Southwark. Sensing their frustration and dark mood returning, Rachel jumped in.
“Enough.”
She said it with a smile but enough forcefulness to grab all their attention.
“It’s Christmas Eve and we’re done with shoptalk. I’m going to enjoy my drink and embrace the holiday spirit with three of my favorite men in the world.”
This was met with “hear, hear”s and glass clinks by the aforementioned trio, giving Rachel hope there was still time to salvage a bit of Christmas.
Everett had worked his holiday magic with dinner.
A splendid Christmas goose was the meal’s centerpiece, replete with homemade stuffing, cranberry sauce, vegetables, and hefty servings of Yorkshire pudding. Grant and John finished every bite, as did Rachel, who went back for seconds before the men. They toasted Everett for the perfect feast. He claimed no credit save for choosing the menu from a gourmet shop and sending his housekeeper to pick it up. Mrs. Bishop (a blue-gray-haired septuagenarian, who had been coming twice a week to Everett for years) served it on his best china, but politely declined joining them as she was dining with her own family later on.
Upon hearing this, Everett told Mrs. Bishop that he could handle dessert, coffee, and digestifs, and insisted that the “good woman” depart immediately, but not without a sizeable Christmas bonus and leftovers in hand.
Once the woman had gone home, Everett brought a browned-exactly-right pie in from the kitchen. Rachel was the first to notice the twinkle in her uncle’s eye.
“You didn’t . . .”
“I just might have,” admitted Everett.
He sliced the pie open and a rich black-and-red filling seeped out—along with a delicious, mouth-watering aroma.
“Razzleberry pie!” exclaimed Rachel.
“Excuse me?” asked John.
Grant offered up a bittersweet smile. “It was Allison’s specialty, made with blackberries and raspberries. She trotted one out every Christmas.”
“It’s from this cartoon I watched when I was a little girl,” explained Rachel. “Mr. Magoo’s Christmas Carol. It’s what Tiny Tim wanted more than anything—‘a jar of razzleberry dressing.’ I kept begging Mom for one each year and she’d say I’d get sick eating a whole jar of something so sweet, so she went and made a pie.”
Everett doled out pieces for e
ach of them. John took one bite and his face practically erupted into rhapsodic ecstasy. “I can see why,” he said.
Grant savored each and every bite. “I haven’t had this in, what . . .?”
“It was two . . . no, three Christmases ago,” answered Rachel.
Suddenly, the room went quiet.
It had been the last time her mother had Christmas Eve dinner with them.
Two Christmases before, Allison Grant had just been diagnosed with lung cancer and no one had been in the mood to celebrate. She was gone early the next summer, so when December rolled around, the Grant family was still in serious mourning mode without their matriarch.
Rachel raised a glass. “A toast to Mom. We miss you each and every day.”
“Especially this time of year,” said Everett.
Grant clinked glasses with his daughter. “Your mother loved Christmas.”
“I think it was because that was when the two of you met,” said Rachel. “Christmas Eve dinner at Grandpa’s house in Liverpool.”
“Is that so?” asked John.
“Well, there’s a little more to the story than that,” said Everett. He tossed an impish look at his older brother who practically choked on his razzleberry pie.
“Do we really have to discuss this?” her father asked.
“Oh, I think we most definitely should,” Everett said with a hearty chuckle.
“What am I missing here?” wondered John.
Rachel leaned over and lowered her voice in a mock conspiratorial whisper. “My mother came to dinner as Everett’s date.”
“Really?” John looked across the table from Everett to Grant. “And left with you?”
“No, it wasn’t like that.” Grant shook his head. “Exactly . . .”
Everett, who clearly was enjoying watching his sibling squirm, laughed.
“We hardly knew each other,” Everett explained. “I was halfway through my last year at Oxford where Allison had finished her studies the previous term. She worked in the library; we struck up a conversation and ended up going for tea. A few dinners followed where I’m sure I bored her to tears with my highbrow book quotes, but she agreed to accompany me home to Liverpool for the holidays.”
The Last Commandment Page 22