"Shouldn't you also consider the possibility that no one broke in?" Harper directed the question to Brandson. "Someone might have shattered the glass to make it look like there had been an intruder—"

Abbot Greeley cut Harper off. "Captain Brandson can certainly draw his own conclusions, Harper." He still smiled at Harper, but his eyes were narrowed in anger. "I'm sure we've kept you from your vacation long enough. Brandson and I will take care of things here."

"Of course. I should be going then," Harper stated coldly.

"What about the maid?" Lord Cedric's voice carried from behind Brandson and Greeley.

Abbot Greeley glanced back at Lord Cedric, then to Harper.

"Quite right. Harper, where is the woman who sent you here? We'll need to speak to her."

Harper had no intention of handing the old woman over to Abbot Greeley, not after what had happened to Peter Roffcale. At the same time, he didn't have the proof or the authority to out-rightly challenge the abbot. The woman hadn't actually accused Lord Cedric by name. All Harper had was his own conviction, and that wouldn't stand up against the abbot's authority.

"I left her at the Convent of the Pierced Heart." Harper picked the most plausible place in the vicinity. Pierced Heart had the added advantage of being farthest from where he had actually left the old woman. Harper wasn't sure if Abbot Greeley believed him, but it didn't matter. All that mattered was that he answered. So long as Harper didn't directly disobey orders, the abbot couldn't have him locked up or discharged.

"Right, then," Brandson said. "I'll send two of my men out to take a statement from Captain Harper's witness."

"Send Reynolds and Miller. If they don't find the woman at the convent, have them search north toward the Chapel Street carriage house," Abbot Greeley said.

Brandson nodded.

"Also..." Abbot Greeley gave a quick glance to the shattered glass doors. "Send Camp, Thurston, and Wills out to round up the Prodigal flyers that we have on record. I want a confession from one of them within the next week."

Again Brandson nodded, as if the thought had been his own. The fact that a Prodigal had been designated as the murderer even before the investigation began didn't seem to bother Brandson. Only Abbot Greeley's orders seemed to penetrate his thoughts.

Harper had once wondered how Brandson managed to rise to the rank of captain. He supposed that he was now witnessing the qualities that Abbot Greeley so valued in Brandson.

"With your permission, sir, I think I had better get back to my vacation." Harper inclined his head slightly to the abbot out of habit.

"A very good idea, Captain Harper. I don't want to catch a glimpse of you until you're due back." Abbot Greeley smiled as if he were joking. Harper wondered if the abbot actually thought he was fooling him.

"We can both hope," Harper replied, and then left the house.

Chapter Two

Needle

The old woman hung against Harper like a mass of soaked laundry. She was limp in his arms, her body and limbs buried in the filthy, dripping fabric of her dress. Her wrinkled face was nearly as colorless as her lace cap and white hair. Only the short wisps of her breath brushing against his collar assured Harper that she was even alive.

For a brief moment Harper thought that she had died when he first returned to her, but he found a pulse still weakly throbbing through the pale veins of her wrist. She hadn't awakened when he shook her, only letting out a weak groan. Her skin felt icy and tremors shuddered through her body. She needed to be taken to a physician. He quickly wrapped her in his coat.

She shivered, and Harper pulled her closer to the heat of his own body. Her lace cap hung in a tangle with her hair. One of the little hairpins jabbed into the side of Harper's neck as he walked. He shifted the old woman's unconscious body against his shoulder, and her cap fell entirely free.

Harper knew that he should stop and retrieve the cap. It might take only one scrap of lace to serve as a trail. But time was already against him. He didn't dare stop and fish through the mud while this woman died. He kept walking and hoped that the mud and darkness would hide whatever trail lay behind him. His best chance lay in putting as much distance between himself and the Chapel streets as quickly as possible.

It wouldn't take Reynolds and Miller long to discover that the woman hadn't been left at the Convent of the Pierced Heart. The moment they realized that, they would be hunting. That knowledge gave Harper a rush of strength, and he quickened his step.

Reynolds and Miller worked fast and took a deep pleasure in their searches. As a team, they hunted more like hounds than men. Harper had seen them chase down a murderer on no more of a trail than the print of a boot heel and a whiff of cologne. They hadn't been easy on the man either. They had brought him in with a broken leg and a gash across his hand so deep that it had required sixty stitches. Harper had always enjoyed having them assigned to one of his investigations.

Tonight he wished the two of them had found other occupations.

Harper reached the Brighton and Chapel Street carriage house just as city bells began to toll out the change of the hour. The south carriage would normally have been gone already, but the bad weather had slowed the drive. It arrived just after him. He had to wait with the old woman cradled in his arms for ten minutes while the horses were changed and the driver took a piss in the street.

Inside the shelter of the carriage, Harper allowed himself to relax a little. The old woman no longer shook against him. She lay still, sleeping. Only one other passenger climbed into the carriage after Harper. The young man was wearing a muddy school robe in the colors of St. Christopher's College. He reeked of too much sweet wine. He collapsed into the seat across from Harper, then sat bolt upright.

"Good God, are you here to arrest me?"

"No." Harper stole a glance out the window to see if Miller or Reynolds had gotten this far yet. Two blocks up, beneath one of the few remaining lamps, he thought he caught the outline of an Inquisitor's long coat. The figure was there only a moment and then gone into the darkness.

"I was only having a few sips of sherry to keep off the cold," the young student slurred at Harper. "The carriage was late. Please don't bring me up for Penance."

"Quiet," Harper told him flatly.

The young man pressed his lips together absurdly and squashed himself back into his seat.

Harper kept watching out the small window. Silently he counted the passing seconds to himself. When he had been a boy, he had gotten in the habit of keeping his nerves calm with this steady silent count. As Harper reached the count of eight, he saw Reynolds.

Reynolds was a surprisingly small man with misleadingly youthful features. At the moment, as he stepped swiftly through the shaft of light from a window across the street, he was beaming like a schoolboy.

Harper had counted to ten when Miller appeared. He could have been Reynolds' twin if it hadn't been for his black mustache and slightly darker hair. Miller tossed something limp and partly white to Reynolds. It was the lace cap. The pulse of Harper's blood began to quicken.

Twelve, Harper counted. Reynolds gestured ahead. Miller nodded.

Thirteen. They began to run toward the carriage house.

Fourteen. Harper calmly latched the lock on the nearest door and then reached past the drunken student and locked the opposite door.

Fifteen. Miller was close enough that even through the rain, Harper could see the glint of his little round spectacles beneath his black cap. Reynolds was bounding ahead through the mud as if it were scarcely there.