Buried in the Past: Emmett Barclay Mystery Series, #2

By James McHarg

Emmett Barclay has a special relationship with his twin sister, Elizabeth. Together, they help solve some of London's most baffling homicides. For years, Emmett used his otherworldly connection to assist the London Metropolitan Police. That partnership came to an end when his last case nearly got him killed.

 

When a cryptic and taunting note addressed to Emmett is found on a brutally slain street person, he is suddenly reunited with his former police colleagues. Is it a challenge or a threat? Who would do this, and why? The answers seem more elusive than the killer himself.

 

As the death toll climbs, Emmett and the police are led on a frenzied hunt to find the vicious killer before more people die. When Emmett learns who the next victim will be, the murder investigation takes a terrifying turn.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Troubled Skies Publishing
• Release date: Nov 23, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223222620

James McHarg

James McHarg lives in Ottawa, Canada with his wife. He enjoys spinning dark and mysterious tales of fiction. Initially honing his skills on short stories, he has since published a standalone psychological thriller, P3, and the Emmett Barclay Mystery series, Sins of the Past and Buried in the Past. His thriller, Incoming Call, will soon be re-released. Find him on Facebook.

Book preview

Chapter 1

TUESDAY, OCTOBER 19, 1982 – Chesham, England

SHEENA MCCAIN ABSENTLY rubbed at her swollen belly and smiled. Standing just inside the front door of the modestly-sized cottage, she put down the small grey suitcase, tucked back a stray lock of curly, strawberry-blonde hair, and glanced around. It suddenly dawned on her that she might actually miss this place. The furnishings were worn and musty relics she would happily leave behind. The tiny cottage itself had a leaky roof, was too cold in the winter and too hot in the summer. Yet, she and Angus had somehow managed to make this their home for over a year now. Far removed from the dangers of Manchester. Far removed from the threat of discovery.

Best of all, a new member would soon be added to their family. God! To have become pregnant was a miracle. A condition she’d been told would never be part of her future by those incompetent Manchester doctors.

So, time to move on. No regrets. No fear. She’d messed up and now it was time to start all over again somewhere else. In the south, perhaps. One thing for certain, she would never go back to Ireland.

Sheena turned and peered out the narrow, vertical window alongside the door, eyeing the idling car on the street, Angus patiently waiting inside. She could see his dark hair through the side window. Even from here, she could tell he was fidgety, anxious. Well, he’d have to wait a minute longer. She had something very important to do. One more act that would free them from all ties to their current life, wipe the slate clean, as it were, enable them to start fresh.

She walked purposefully across the cramped living area and entered the second bedroom, shutting the door behind her.

Not more than a minute later, Sheena McCain emerged from the bedroom, gently drawing the door closed with a click. Her pace quickened as she moved to the entryway of the home she would never see again. She picked up the suitcase and exited the premises, stepping into the diffused mid-afternoon sunlight. Securely locking the door, she turned toward the street.

Angus, dear, impatient Angus, now stood outside the car, looking more jittery than ever. Sheena experienced a twinge of regret, fixing on his brown eyes, moving ever closer to her boyfriend. Boyfriend. Perhaps that would change soon enough when the baby was born. Then she’d be Mrs. Sheena Cross. That had a nice ring to it. The thought almost made the regret vanish completely. After all, she’d sworn to herself that she would never feel negative emotions again. Such feelings simply complicated a person’s life.

She should have told Angus, actually. She knew that but he never would have agreed. She was always the one who knew the right thing to do. As hard as it was sometimes, that role she had gladly taken on during their three-year relationship. Over time, Angus had learned that to challenge her on important matters was unwise. This was probably the most pivotal decision – no, second most – she ever had to make for them.

Sheena, where’s Abby? Angus’s eyes burned with confusion. Was that a hint of fear she detected, as well?

She brushed past him, yanked open the grey sedan’s back door, and flung the suitcase on the seat.

"Sheena!"

She turned toward her bewildered boyfriend, smiled. Just another minute more and there would be no going back. Unfortunate, but necessary. Angus would get over it. She was sure of it. Each of them had too much to lose to cause a fuss, especially here and now, of all places and times.

Abby’s not coming. She slammed the car door, meeting his gaze squarely.

We have to go get her. What are you doing? We can’t just–

We don’t need her, Angus. We’re going to have our own child. See. She grabbed his wrist, forcing his hand to her belly.

He jerked it away, shaking his head and screaming, No. I won’t leave her behind.

Putting a finger to her lips, Sheena whispered, Mustn’t make a fuss. The neighbours... Her eyes darted around the quiet cul-de-sac.

I’m going to get Abby. Christ, Sheena, she’s just a child. He turned on his heels and then froze in place.

Sheena stared at the source of Angus’s abrupt halt. Grey smoke billowed through the cracks in the cottage’s pathetic window frames. She could see flames licking at the walls inside.

Angus spun back to her. What have you done? His eyes were wide with horror, his mouth twisted with rage.

"I did what had to be done. I did it for us. For our future together. For our child."

He said nothing, his head on a swivel, alternating between glaring at her and then at the house.

Sheena’s hand clamped down on his forearm. "We need to leave now, Angus. Angus! Don’t make me leave without you. I need you."

Without a word, Angus tore his arm free and strode toward the burning cottage.

Sheena raced after him, taking up a stance in his path. Please stop. She was sleeping so peacefully. The smoke will–

What? Kill her! My God, how could you do this? Angus was trembling, his eyes wet with tears. He raised his hands up. For a moment, she thought he might strike her, but he simply pressed his fingers into his temples in astonished disbelief.  

Clutching him by his broad shoulders, she said, Yes, yes, it’s true. But it’ll be painless. Don’t you see. A fire will consume all traces of us. And her. She’s a liability to us. No more hiding. No more fearing the day when someone recognizes her. We can be free now.

The fire crackled behind her. They needed to leave. Before the neighbours were alerted. Please Angus. It’s too late.

Sheena spun him round, which was surprisingly easy, like he wanted to leave but could not abide it being under his own volition. She physically directed him to the car, opened the front passenger door. He went rigid at first, turning and giving her a soul-crushing stare. His eyes drifted to her belly. Then he slumped into the car seat.

She slammed the door, hurrying around and getting into the driver’s side. In the cottage across the street stood the silhouette of a figure in the window. The figure dashed away, in the direction of the front door.

They must have spotted the fire!

Sheena McCain jammed the shifter into first and took one last glance at the cottage. Pushing aside an unwanted pang of regret at plans unexpectedly altered, she punched the accelerator. The car sped away down the narrow street, leaving behind a burning home and a small child once held precious.

Chapter 2

WEDNESDAY, MARCH 21, 2018 – London, England

THE ENTRYWAY OF T.L. Abraham and Son Funeral Services projects an aura of serenity and welcoming. The silence is almost palpable and a subtle, floral scent wafts on the air. All this, I surmise, to mask any unpleasant odors and to encourage a calming experience for its visitors, as if to provide solace in their hour of grief.

I, contrarily, feel dread. Although the reason for my visit is not to pay my respects to a deceased loved one. Instead, I am here to speak to the living. In my capacity as an investigative reporter, I am here to discuss a subject of interest to the media, a scandalous matter which has driven a stake into the heart of those whose business is death.

The irony is not lost on me, nor was it lost on my editor when he summoned me to his office earlier this morning. As a matter of fact, it is my peculiar history with the unfortunate souls who have recently departed that compelled him to choose me for this assignment in the first place. After all, up until six months ago I worked in concert with London’s Metropolitan Police Service to solve cases involving murder. It all came to a crashing halt when my unusual gift nearly got me killed. The powers-that-be soon after decided a civilian’s presence at crime scenes was fraught with too much liability for their – and their lawyer’s – liking.

I take a few hesitant steps down the long corridor stretching in front of me. To my left, through an open doorway which leads to a visitation room, I see a coffin, lid laid open. The space appears as if it had been recently occupied by mourners, now gone to continue on with their daily routines, perhaps while reflecting upon their own mortality. I can’t help but think of Elizabeth, my long-departed twin sister who has haunted me since childhood. I have had no contact with her in the last half-year and I miss her terribly. Although, I do not miss the chilling means through which we connect.

I am suddenly fighting an overwhelming urge to dash away at this point when a shortish, stout man wearing a dark suit, matching tie, and agitated expression emerges from somewhere near the end of the corridor. His gait is that of a man who has carried an over-abundance of weight for far too long. I assume this must be the person I am here to interview. I realize it’s much too late to sprint for the exit, and I reluctantly advance toward him.

When we meet, he does not offer a handshake of welcome. Francis Abraham, he says abruptly. Funeral director.

And I am–

I know who you are.

I hesitate, fully expecting to hear those two detestable words: corpse whisperer.

You’re a reporter. Here to drag our good name through the muck once again. The funeral director crosses his arms over his portly chest, a posture that tells me I won’t get much information from this man.

Clearly, I need to assuage his concerns. If I may, Mister Abraham, I’m here for no such thing. On the contrary, I would like to hear your side of the story. To date, all we media have reported on is the family’s side of the affair. I fully understand your reluctance to speak to the press, but your silence on the matter has only proved to sour the public’s view of your business.

"Don’t expect me to say that I give a bloody care about what the press thinks, because I don’t. My father, however, has urged me to speak with you because we do care about what the public thinks. We have been in this business for over forty years and have never had such an incident. Not once! Realizing his voice has risen above acceptable funeral home levels, he scans the area anxiously, then says, Perhaps we should continue in my office."

I nod. In silence, he leads me down the lengthy corridor. I try to decide the best way to obtain useful information from the funeral director but my thoughts keep drifting to my sister.

Despite the fact that she died at birth, a special bond has strangely existed between us in this earthly realm. They say that twins are inexplicably linked to one another, but that applies to the living. Our circumstances are somewhat more...supernatural. Over the years, I’ve heard her voice numerous times, but the words were not her own. They were the words of the dead. That is, until the last time we connected. Some six months ago, at a particularly gruesome crime scene, Elizabeth uttered a warning to me. Directly to me. Right now, though, as I walk along this hallway and peek into rooms where people gather to honour, mourn, and even celebrate the lives of those who have passed, I ache to hear her voice once again.

Mister Abraham stops at a doorway, extends an arm, leading me into his office and to a comfortable leather chair opposite a stately desk. On the sparsely adorned desk, placed at an oblique angle to me, sits a framed photograph of an older, white-haired gentleman bearing a distinct resemblance to Francis Abraham. His father I presume. There are no other photos or personal items, only a small desktop plaque displaying the badge of West Ham United Football Club. I am no detective but I would venture to guess the funeral director is a bachelor.

He lowers himself into his executive-style chair and glares at me. I have a busy day ahead so please ask what you must, Mister...

Barclay. Emmett Barclay. From my jacket pocket, I extract a business card and hand it to him.

He glimpses the card, does a double-take, and regards me quizzically. That name sounds terribly familiar. His eyes light up. I know now. You’re that corpse whisperer fellow.

I cringe. As I said, I’m a journalist. I no longer work in any capacity with the police.

You were a bit of a celebrity, weren’t you? A man in my business makes a point to follow news stories about murder. I’m also a rather big fan of Agatha Christie books. I enjoy a good tale of mystery and crime. He leans back, his posture more relaxed now.

I’ve seen such behaviour before, a sort of celebrity fascination which has always made me extremely uncomfortable. On the other hand, my minor celebrity status has been a blessing to my investigative reporting. In my experience, upon being recognized, people seem to open up about matters both personal and professional. A helpful tool, which I hope to employ now.

I clear my throat. If I may ask a few questions, I will be on my way shortly.

He nods.

I understand this unfortunate incident began when the table supporting the closed casket collapsed during a visitation. And that the family and friends present were aghast when the lid sprang open and the body spilled onto the floor.

Yes, yes, says the funeral director impatiently. We all know the details. The body inside the casket was not that of the family’s loved one. There was obviously a mix up at the storage facility. All this has already been revealed. Much to Abraham and Son’s detriment, I might add. We have been extremely shocked and upset by the whole affair, have apologized profusely to the family, and have offered to refund their money. It was a cockup of epic proportions and we’ve made it clear something like this will never happen again.

The rotund man is defensive now, tugging at his tie as if it has suddenly tightened round his neck.

"I also have it on good word, Mister Abraham, that the day of the visitation, you convinced the family that it would be best to have a closed casket? An open casket being their initial request. Is that correct?" I lean in, meeting his gaze squarely.

But that had nothing–

After further investigation, I also discovered that an external storage facility is often used when an excess of deceased individuals cannot be kept on site here.

Yes, the sweaty-browed funeral director says. It was their fault. All their fault. Yet, we take the brunt of the media’s wrath. His face blooms red.

Did you have any knowledge of the mix up?

I certainly did not.

Why then would you ask for a closed casket?

Mister Abraham’s eyes are cast upward, as if searching the heavens for an answer. Or perhaps he is praying for the hand of God to strike me down. I-I felt that the dearly departed was in no shape to be openly displayed. Mrs. Burkham was quite old. Sometimes, despite our best efforts, the deceased can’t be made sufficiently presentable.

I see. So, you did see the misidentified deceased person then. It does seem a little odd to me that you, the funeral director, had no idea what the dearly departed looked like. I would imagine the family might have presented a photo or perhaps you may have seen her picture in the obituary. I glance at the man’s hand as he fusses with his tie. He ceases immediately.

There is an awkward silence in the office, which is eerily enhanced by the somber ambience of the funeral home. I am the first to break it.

I don’t wish to make you uncomfortable, Mister Abraham. I am merely trying to understand how things work in your world. For instance, I learned something quite fascinating just the other day about the storage facility. Do you know that they once had an atrocious record when it came to properly identifying their inventory? I let this sink in as the funeral director’s face turns ashen.

If you’re suggesting...that, that... He stands, leans on his desk. I don’t at all like this line of questioning, Mister Barclay. You make me sound as if I’m some kind of criminal. Which I am not. I have nothing more to say to you. Now, please, get out.

I am about to point out that my news story will not be very flattering toward him and his business, in light of the abbreviated nature of our meeting, when my mobile phone alerts me to a call. 

It is Kate Normand, a person with whom I have shared a life-or-death experience. Kate is also a detective inspector with the Metropolitan Police and my good friend’s partner in policing. Intrigued as to the nature of her unexpected call, I excuse myself from the room, leaving the agitated man glaring at me as I exit.

Putting the phone to my ear, I say, Kate.

Dispensing with pleasantries, she says, Emmett, there’s been a murder. Something you need to see. Grayson wants you here now.

Chapter 3

I STOP MY AGING VAUXHALL in front of a band of crime scene tape erected across a side street, a dodgy area a stone’s throw from Church Street. Immediately, a large, ebony-complexioned constable with a gruff face and a barrel chest approaches me and in no uncertain terms warns me away. I give him my name and tell him I am here at the request of Detective Inspector Grayson Helmsley. He says he will confirm my story with the detective inspector and commands me not to leave my car. Given the constable’s impressive size and stone-eyed stare, I am not about to do anything of the sort.

While I anxiously wait, I study the surroundings. A crowd mills about the busy street. The strategic positioning of police cars combined with the rather abundant expanse of the police tape holds them well at bay, with no view to the crime scene whatsoever. The entire street has been cordoned off in both directions. In addition to the constable who confronted me, another officer stands sentinel on the opposite side, also directing traffic away from the area. The sheer size of the crime scene strikes me as somewhat odd. Perhaps, for whatever reason, the police wish to keep the crime scene sealed to all but law enforcement eyes.

From where I am parked, in amongst the cluster of police and emergency vehicles, flashing lights ablaze, I barely make out a small alcove beyond the sidewalk between two rundown three-storey buildings. Some thirty feet in, I see where a wrought iron fence intersects with the building’s side wall. On the sidewalk, within the confines of the cordoned off area, a Met police officer crouches by a woman sitting with her back against the wall, hugging her knees, which are hiked up to her chest. Long grey hair falls over her bowed head and I can’t make out facial features or state of mind.

For some inexplicable reason, I feel a burgeoning dread. Why would Grayson ask me here? I am no longer consulting with the Met and I have no link whatsoever to this neighbourhood. Certainly, Grayson would never ask me to use my ethereal connection with Elizabeth to aid in the solving of a murder. Would he? To ask that of me would require the consent of his superiors. I believe Grayson himself made it quite clear when he told me, You’d have a better chance of winning the Grand Prix with that clunker of a Vauxhall.

I start when the large constable raps on my side window. He notices my edginess and seems to find some humour in it.

Walking briskly and leading me under the police tape, I follow the imposing constable closely. We walk past the crouched officer and the sitting woman at the mouth of the alcove. Her head is raised now and I get a glimpse of her face, a much younger woman than I would have surmised given the mass of greying hair. She is clearly distraught.

She utters a brief sentence through sniffles and a voice badly shaking. Never have I seen such a thing in my entire life...

Hearing her words, my trepidation swells like a surging wave.

Even though it is mid-day, once we are between the buildings it feels as if twilight has suddenly descended. Everything is murky here. Up ahead, near the wrought iron fence, a plain clothes detective stands eerily still, his back turned to me. I see the body on the ground has been tarped, a good indication the police photographers and the scene of crime officers, or SOCO’s as they are widely referred, have completed their work. There is a man kneeling beside it. I recognize him as the coroner, Simon Valkner. We have worked together at many a crime scene, including my last case all those months ago, and I feel less anxious upon seeing a familiar face. He does not notice me and my escort approach.

As I grow nearer, I recognize the back of my good friend’s broad shoulders and quicken my pace. I am disappointed to see no sign of Kate Normand. I am about to call out Grayson’s name when the constable beats me to the punch.

Detective Inspector Helmsley, Mister Barclay here at your request.

Grayson turns, appearing grim-faced in the shadowy light. As always, his mere presence is enough to quell my fear. I can honestly say that I could never have had the fortitude to work a crime scene without Grayson’s companionship and support.

Emmett. Thank you for coming. I imagine you must be anxious to know why I asked you here.

He steps forward, revealing Kate Normand positioned behind his formidable frame. We smile awkwardly, fleetingly, at each other.

Indeed I am.

As Kate has informed you, we have a murder on our hands. Grayson motions to the tarped body.

Now that my eyes have adjusted, I can see more clearly. I am disturbed to note that an inordinate amount of blood is spilled outside of the tarp’s coverage area.

I gladly return my gaze to Grayson. Do you have a suspect? Someone under arrest?

Not at this time. To alleviate any concern you may have, I have not asked you here to use your... His eyes move to the constable at my side. Constable Majdi, please ensure the perimeter remains secured. The constable nods, hurries away.

Knowing that not everyone in the Metropolitan Police Service is as open-minded as the detective inspector, I spare him further awkwardness and speak first. I don’t know if I am happy to hear that. Otherwise, if you don’t want me to connect with the deceased, then I can’t imagine how I can possibly help. I glance nervously at the tarp, then over Grayson’s shoulder, toward Kate. She shuffles as if uncomfortable.

Grayson says, We need to ask you some questions. You see, this crime scene has a link to you.

But I had nothing to do with this. You must believe that.

I do. We don’t suspect you at all. However, we’ve found a piece of evidence that you need to know about.

I am speechless. This is totally unexpected. Finally, a realization comes upon me. Good God! Is this someone I know? Is that why I’m here?

Kate moves around Grayson, approaches me, puts a hand gently on my shoulder. Her hazel eyes regard me compassionately. Please, Emmett, bear with us. We know very little right now. By all accounts, the dead man appears to be a rough sleeper. This area has a high population of homeless people. As a matter of fact, his body was discovered by a woman who works at a local shelter. She came into the alley to offer him a warm meal, a roof to sleep under.

That would be the woman I saw sitting by the pavement? 

Yes. She’s quite distraught as you most likely saw. What she found was a grisly sight. Even by police standards. Apparently, the body has been here all night but with so many rough sleepers camped out in places just like this, nobody gave it a second glance.

Please, Kate. I need to know. Do I know this person?

That is impossible to determine, Mister Barclay. Simon Valkner is now standing beside Grayson. The coroner pulls off a pair of latex gloves as he speaks. To compound matters, we found no personal identification on the body. Ultimately, the cause of death is multiple stab wounds to the chest. So many, as a matter of fact, it would indicate a crime of passion, and that perhaps the victim and the killer knew each other. But that’s mere conjecture at this point. In my estimate he was killed sometime between midnight and four in the morning. And then there’s the post-mortem–

Thank you, Simon, Grayson interjects. We’ll fill in the rest.

Simon Valkner shrugs and walks toward the street.

Confused by the coroner’s assertion regarding the man’s identity, I ask reluctantly, Well then, may I have a look? The thought of seeing a body violated in such a gruesome manner dampens my palms and knots my stomach. It has been a long time and although I have never fully adjusted to seeing a corpse, let alone touching one, I need to find out if I know this person. I begin to move toward the covered body.

Emmett, Kate shouts. Please don’t. Simon was right. There’s no point. The victim’s head...well, it has been severed. It hasn’t been found. There was also an additional post-mortem indignity committed on the body. His fingers and thumbs were cut off at the first knuckle.

As if striking a brick wall, I stop. I glare in shock at the two people before me, my friends and former colleagues, staring back at me as if some piece of evidence has yet to be revealed. All I can think about is that I am no closer to knowing why I have been asked to the scene. I can determine no correlation, can see no relevance to me. As I stand rigid in the murky silence, the smell of blood saturating the dank air, I am truly afraid.

Grayson speaks first. There was a note. Stuck to the victim’s body with his own blood. The perpetrator wanted it to be easily found.

What-what does it say? I ask, my voice thin and tight.

The detective inspector holds in his hand an evidence bag, inside it a bloodied slip of paper. I approach, my eyes focused on Grayson’s, my out-stretched hand trembling. I take the bag and hold it up to my face. I read the repugnant scrap of paper, the ink from the large black, handwritten words running against the wet crimson background.

DARE TO FIND ME, CORPSE WHISPERER

BEFORE COMES THE END OF JUNE!!!

Chapter 4

I THINK, AT FIRST, I must be in a state of shock because my vision has tunneled and I have become aware of a rushing sound in my ears. When Grayson speaks, even though he is no more than three feet from where I stand, his voice sounds distant. As I ease back into the reality of my surroundings, I am uncertain as to the words which have been spoken.

Emmett? Grayson says. Are you all right?

I blink, meet his concerned gaze. Yes. I am fine. My apologies, I didn’t catch what you said.   

I asked if the ‘end of June’ holds any significance for you. A birthday, anniversary, perhaps even a story deadline.

My eyes move to Kate. She, too, appears worried by my state. She gives me an encouraging nod. No. None whatsoever, I respond absently.

Kate says, By using the words ‘corpse whisperer’ it appears the perpetrator has been following your endeavours with the police. Decapitating the victim might even imply that he is familiar with your... Having never been completely comfortable with my peculiar gift, she struggles with putting it into words.

Methods, I reply quite simply, not wanting to leave her hanging. I am beginning to shake free of the initial shock and I realize what Kate is leading toward. If the killer is aware that I lay my hands on the heads of those who have passed, then perhaps this is some sort of premeditated challenge.

She regards me appreciatively. Kate has always doubted my ability to connect with Elizabeth from beyond the grave. I honestly can’t blame her. It took me from boyhood to adulthood to finally realize that I wasn’t crazy, that I was blessed with a gift and not cursed with an affliction. In all truth, had it not been for Grayson, my gift would have forever remained a buried secret.

Grayson rubs his bristly chin. "A possibility, I suppose. On the other hand, the act of severing the head coupled with the removal of the finger tips could simply be a means of hiding the victim’s identity. As Simon said, there was also no ID found, which isn’t entirely surprising given the fact he was a street person. The perpetrator could have taken it to further confound us. To suggest the killer has an awareness of your methods may be a bit of a stretch. After all, very few people, if any, have been present during your connection with the dead. I myself have witnessed it only once and we have partnered on close to a dozen murders."

I can’t argue with Grayson. I have always requested to be alone when I connect with Elizabeth. It is such a personal and profound experience I can’t fathom sharing it with others. I am not certain if our interaction would even be possible in the presence of a third party. On the other hand, murder scenes bustle with all manner of police, emergency responders, and bystanders. In the chaos, someone could have gleaned a view of me as I communicated through Elizabeth. And then there’s the media, with their prying eyes and probing cameras, seemingly omnipresent, regardless of police efforts to hold them at bay. As a journalist, I know a few tricks of the trade myself.

As if on cue, the burly officer shouts from the mouth of the alleyway, Sir, the press has arrived.

Grayson shouts back, Keep them as far away as possible. I don’t want so much as a single eyeball or camera lens spying on the scene.

Yes, sir. The constable bounds away.

Emmett. Grayson turns his full attention to me, his hard eyes as intense as always, yet underscored with something else I can’t quite pinpoint. For whatever reason, this murder appears to be a personal challenge to you. Can you think of anyone who may wish you harm?

My mind races. Since working with the Met, I know I have been the subject of both ridicule and praise. I have, after all, been successful in helping to solve some of the city’s most headline grabbing murders. Some people think I’m a gifted spiritualist. While others think of me as a charlatan. Still, I can’t imagine anyone who would want to cause me harm.

I can think of no one.

We all remain quiet for a short while, considering the possibilities. It’s as if a question hangs in the air. I suspect that what they are thinking is something I simply cannot bear to consider. I made a promise to myself and to Elizabeth all those months ago that I will no longer subject her to the ugliness of this earthly realm. Or to the anguished onslaught of emotions emanating from the unfortunate souls who have died a grisly death.

The coroner returns to our contemplative group, breaking the pall of silence. "I say, has anyone considered asking Mister Barclay if he can help? I don’t pretend to fully understand what it is he does, but if any situation calls for his involvement, then this would be it. Don’t you agree? He pauses, waiting for a response, eyeing the awkward trio before him. Um, I know he no longer consults with the Met but perhaps he might provide a freebee." The coroner gives me an expectant look.

Kate and Grayson meet my gaze in unison.

Grayson says, Emmett, you’re under no obligation whatsoever. I have no authority over the matter. As you know, the chief inspector made it quite clear. Your services were terminated because he felt the danger presented to a civilian is just too great. My feelings haven’t changed either. If there was any risk to you whatsoever, I would not allow this. You must believe that.

I say nothing, reflecting on the dilemma presented to me. Studying the covered corpse, I move toward it and stand over the tarp. I crouch, staring at the depression where the head should be. My heartrate quickens. My breathing is stuttered. Can I do this? Should I do this? Elizabeth. Would you forgive me? From my close proximity to the body, the claustrophobic alcove reeks of death and the silence is nearly unbearable.

Grayson speaks, his voice edgy. I must admit, asking this of you does not sit well with me. This note, in my opinion, is potentially a veiled threat against you. And so, I am only considering this because I’m concerned for your safety. Just know that I’ll respect whatever you decide.

I consider the fact that defying his superior’s edict will surely cause nothing but trouble for Grayson. But what of the chief inspector? I ask.

"That’s for me to deal with. For the time being, I think it best we leave you be. Give you