Chapter 9 - the Roaring Lion

Brennon stared at the butler through a window in the interrogation room's door. He was imperturbable to the point of insolence. Nathan again gazed steadily at his face for a long time, memorizing fuzzy features, looked away, and again it was immediately forgotten.

"But what the hell, then I recognize him every time?!"

After all, if a person is not remembered, then it is logical to assume that he would have to get to know Raiden every time again. So why?..

Brennon entered, sat across from the butler, and motioned for the policeman to leave.

"Could the Strangler do that?" The commissar asked bluntly.

"Do what?"

"Hide his face, lad."

On the physiognomy of Raiden a schadenfreude, full of excellence grin appeared.

"No."

"Why?"

"Because."

The commissar stared at the interlocutor's scarred eyebrow. For some reason, he remembered this sign. But the scar is thin, and it can only be seen close.

"What could he do?"

"Use some kind of amulet. An illusion concealing appearance. The masking mixture."

"That is, apply some kind of ointment, and then rinse off?"

"The most reliable way. The amulet can be lost, and the illusion..." the butler grunted. "You need to keep an eye on her all the time," he raised his hand, muttered softly, and instead of his palm, Nathan saw a cat's paw. Raiden waved his hand back and forth. At first the paw moved like a real one, then a human hand began to peer out from under it, and then the paw completely hung in the air separately from the hand.

"An illusion is the same mask. And since you do not see your own face, you need to either not move or carry a mirror with you. And all the time, make sure that the mask does not move out."

"And you do without a mirror."

The butler flashed white teeth at him, revealing them in a predatory smile. Brennon suddenly remembered the werewolves, peered into his fangs, but found nothing outstanding.

"What about the ifrit?"

"He devoured and laid down to digest into some den."

"For a long time?"

"For a couple of days," the butler answered, thinking. "But I can't guarantee anything. If he feels fresh and rested, he will come out early."

"Can you find his den?"

"And then what do we do?" Raiden asked. "Heroically die?"

Brennon sat back in exasperation and crossed his arms over his chest.

"What can you do with him?"

"Nothing."

"But Longsdale said..."

"So ask him. I would not go to this beast even for all the gold of your republic."

"So why did you do when the Ifrit broke into your house, huh?"

"Because," Raiden repeated through gritted teeth.

"This, I will take a look, is your favorite answer. Ok, you persuaded. Go ahead about ifrit."

On the butler's face the same wary, suspicious expression returned that Brennon had already seen.

"There was someone else," Raiden finally gave birth after a long pause. "Before the ifrit. When this toad crawled, someone was already trying to break the gate."

"Do you think this is the Strangler?"

The butler thought.

"May be. Daddy takes care of the baby house. But generally it is strange. Evil spirit of such power does not enter into symbiosis with mortals."

"Then why was hungry ifrit looking for your house in a rather big city? After all, he has nothing to eat there."

Raiden grumbled in frustration:

"Exactly. This beast had no reason to crawl so far from the church when there was so much great food around."

"Unless he was lured to your house on purpose."

The butler frowned, and Brennon realized that the guy was already thinking about it. Wonder if he managed to convince Longsdale?

"Did you tell your master about this?"

"Yes."

"And?"

"He did not agree with me."

"There is a some man who put this your lock on the church," Nathan said. "And, as Longsdale assures me, he drove off ifrit from the Sheridan house. Can your master determine if this gentleman tried to break your gate?"

The butler shook his head.

"He already tried. After the ifrit, there is nothing to understand, it is only clear that he tried to open the protective spell around the house. But if it's one person..." Raiden absentmindedly rubbed the scar. "You humans are, of course, strange, but why on earth he lock up the ifrit, then set him against us, and then come to protect yours..." The butler abruptly fell silent and stared at the Commissar. Black eyes widened, and in their depths, around the pupil, a light flashed.

"And I think so," Brennon said slowly.

"Her," the butler whispered. "Not them, of course. Her!"

"Whom - her?"

"But he could just take her away..."

"Whom - her?" Brennon asked with pressure. Raiden blinked and stared at him like a man who is pondering how to lie in such a way as not to accidentally tell the truth.

"Tell me," the butler finally asked, "do you know all the suitors of your niece?"

"No," Nathan answered in surprise, "this is a list a couple of yards long."

"Look among them."

The Commissar drummed his fingers thoughtfully on the table. On the one hand, while the guy is here, he can finish off; on the other - would he burn down half the Department to the hell? "You humans," bah. And on the third hand, his instinct told him that it be easier to finish off the butler with Longsdale. He obviously has a pretty strong influence on this led.

"What about the bones?"

Raiden froze tightly. It seems that he was waiting for persistent inquiries, and their absence alerted him much more than interrogation with addiction.

"Kennedy sent me bone and blood samples. I identified the four dead. Kennedy has all the papers."

"Well. Keep up the good work. You're free."

The butler rose, looking incredulously at the Commissar.

"Go, go," Nathan encouraged him. "You've got a hell of a lot to do."

Raiden walked around him, like a wary cat - a dormant hound, said through set teeth "Goodbye" and slipped out the door. Brennon sat thinking. Not that he would be surprised (frankly, he doubted that at least one normal person would stretch near Longsdale for more than a week), but is it really that the consultant is not afraid of having such a butler at his side?

Or Longsdale could put a muzzle on him, the commissar thought. Wonder what face (or snoot, could be...) does Raiden hide under his mask?

Work was in full swing in the morgue. From somewhere, Kennedy got three medical students and mercilessly drove them between the autopsy tables. The pathologist himself squeezed two folders under his arm and scribbled something on the go in the third. The presence of Ifrit in the city did not at all cancel the rest of the stabbing.

"Ah, there you are!" the old man was glad, having seen the Commissar among students. "I was just about to look for you. Come to me, it's noisy here. Hey, be careful with the body! You open it after six today!"

Closing the laboratory door, Brennon caught a choral students moan and smiled.

'Are you training they?"

"This is friendly help from the university," Kennedy removed the tool cuvets from the table and pushed the Commissar a stool. "Let them practice before they get to living patients. So," the pathologist put on a pince-nez, "you handed me the medicines of Father Grace. There is nothing special about them. The usual medicines that men of his age are taking. Judging by the prescriptions, he constantly goes to the same doctor and buys drugs in the same pharmacy. Here, please."

Nathan took the opened folder. The list of drugs was impressive.

"Is there anything here that he cannot do without?"

"No. His life did not depend on taking medications, if you are talking about this."

"There are some kind of heart drops."

"The common remedy for relieving heart palpitations."

"That's a pity," the Commissar muttered. "Are you sure our fried skeleton is Father Grace?"

"Young man, how can I be sure of this? Fortunately, I don't know the magic that allows me to guess on a piece of bone without error. Listen," Kennedy angrily pulled off his pince-nez, "your consultant allegedly identifies the children by their bones with the help of drops of blood from their parents, and then you are going to return the remains to families. But do you even understand that this is fraud? These people because of you will then mourn over the graves of other people's children for years, not knowing where their own are laid to rest!"

"Do you think Longsdale is deceiving us?"

The pathologist snorted.

- Of course! It is impossible to establish kinship with a drop of blood and a piece of bone!

"And with the help of witchcraft?"

"Oh my God," Kennedy muttered in despair. "What can I talk about with you after that... Here, take this description of the four victims who have already been identified, and leave, for heaven's sake. I have three more corpses and a lot of work."

Brennon grunted, but a grain of doubt fell on fertile soil and eventful began to ear. Recalling that Longsdale was in Grace's house, the Commissar left the morgue, shouted to the officer on duty that he was going to the priest's house and went up to his coat.

***

Dwyer was drinking tea in the living room, flipping through notes. Mrs. Evans, resigned to fate, brought him still hot buns, and Brennon felt a prick of envy.

"Well, what is it?"

"Nothing yet. The current maid did not see anything suspicious in the rooms of the pater, and the one who worked here eight years ago got married long ago and left for the village. Already about six years old. Will we look for her, sir?"

"We will," after a moment's thought, the Commissar decided, and Dwyer stifled a sigh with the bun. "Where is the consultant?"

"Upstairs, sir. Gutting the library and scraping the bath. Just be careful, sir - the beast is there too."

Brennon confiscated three buns and carefully climbed the stairs - the police removed the boards from all suspicious steps. A hound met him at the top. Despising the outstretched bun, the hound resolutely grabbed him behind the edge of his coat and jerked his head off toward the bathroom. Longsdale was found there - sitting on the floor, legs crossed, like a tailor, and sadly studied Grace's notebook through a magnifying glass with greenish glass. The coat, vest and tie hung from the edge of the bath.

"How's it going?"

A sad look turned to the Commissar.

"She's really empty."

"I'm not talking about that. What about a single note?"

Longsdale opened the notebook on the bookmark and stared into the magnifying glass again.

"No sign of witchcraft."

"Great. Are there any signs of decryption?"

"I think about it."

"Think. What we have in the library?"

"Nothing," the consultant answered disappointedly. "These are just books. No hiding places, no secrets, no trace of witchcraft... Except for the bath," he tapped on the side, and the bath responded an unpleasant rattling sound. "You were right. Some potion was really washed off in it, but I can no longer establish which one. Water well destroys the traces of enchantment, and here the residual imprint survived only because, apparently, Grace applied quite a lot of this composition. And he washed it off quite often throughout the whole year."

"It was some kind of..." the commissar hesitated, choosing words. "Masking rubbish?"

Longsdale shrugged and again buried himself in the book.

"Okay, two more... no, three questions. Tell me, can you restore the face of a person burned in the church?"

"No."

"Why?" Brennon was upset, already cherishing the hope of finally establishing the identity of the deceased.

"From a high temperature during a fire, the skull burst, and we could not collect all the fragments."

"And if by magic?"

"You think I haven't tried it?" Longsdale responded in frustration. "After the ifrit processed it, magic slides from it, like rotten flesh from bones."

"Are there any other ways?"

Longsdale thought deeply, tugging the bookmark tongue. The hound, which lay peacefully under the window, raised its face and made a short purring sound. The consultant turned his eyes to the hound, and for a minute or two the two of them intently stared at each other.

"Well, since we don't have his blood to establish identity with the bones, we can try to find out if he is alive or dead. This is only an indirect indication, it will not clarify the identity of the murdered, but..."

"At least we find out if Grace had a chance to participate in the events after the fire," Nathan grumbled. "And what is needed for this?"

"A particle of flesh. Skin, saliva, blood... Hair."

"Well, well," the Commissar grunted. "Given how many baldness remedies we found, Grace's hair was sparse."

"I'll try to collect from the brush. True, I can't guarantee the result. If would be blood..."

"Go ahead. Second question. You thought your burglar could be the same person who locked up ifrit in the church and drove him out of the Sheridan's house?"

"I thought. But I can't confirm this with anything."

"Did you think that he lured the ifrit to your fence?"

The consultant looked genuinely surprised.

"But why? Why first lock up the ifrit, then set him on me, and then again protect people from him? There is no logic here!"

"Humans are mysterious creatures," Brennon remarked philosophically. "And with the motives, we generally have complete darkness. We still don't know why a man was killed in the church, why ifrit was released, why he got out of the church exactly when we took away the bones, why he came to you and why some unknown person was protecting my sister's house. And why he could not protect Farrels."

"Was that the third question?" Longsdale asked, somewhat surprised.

"No. My third is not a question, but a request. I want to interrogate Raiden in your presence. I think the guy is hiding something."

"Well. When?"

"Tomorrow morning, at ten, we have a meeting on the case. You both need to be there. As we finish, I'll do it. Any ideas on the book?"

"They haven't appeared in the past twenty minutes," said the consultant stiffly. Nathan took the notebook and looked at the inscription.

"You said it was Elladian. And how many letters are in the Elladian alphabet?"

"In the classic, twenty-seven."

"And ours is twenty-six," Nathan grunted. "One extra. And then he could designate the letters of our alphabet corresponding to their Elladian number."

"If only it were that simple," Longsdale muttered. "I already tried."

The Commissar tapped a book thoughtfully on his palm.

"In general, this is strange. Why did he encrypt the note and from whom did he hide it? Indeed, in fact, hiding one sheet is much easier than a whole book."

"But losing it is easier."

"It's also true, but the more important question is - why. Why would he encrypt and hide something from himself? This is his handwriting, I compared yesterday with other letters."

"Well, why, many encrypted their diaries and notes."

"Exactly, diaries and notes, and not just one line in an empty notebook. And if we understand why, then we will find the key to the cipher."

The hound made a full of the skeptic sound. Nathan scratched his beard. Longsdale looked expectantly at him from the bottom up. Brennon crouched on the edge of the bath.

"I think there were two of them," the Commissar finally reluctantly admitted. "I can't prove it, but I think."

The hound stared at him with interest.

"Two of whom?"

"Hilkarn Strangler consisted of two people. This is indirectly confirmed by the fact that the blood on Robert Lynch's cap does not belong to Grace. There was someone else. Because I doubt that without the knowledge of the priest it is possible to arrange a burial ground in the church, and then to turn the floor slabs. Moreover, first you need to pull out each slab, dig a hole under this your vessel with soul, and then return everything as it was. In the end, doing it together is much easier than doing it alone."

"Well, you can deal with magic alone."

"Yeah. Grace quite probable known the magic. If the blood on Robert's cap is not his, then he, most likely, was engaged in witchcraft, and entrusted the hard work to an accomplice. He hid his face from him, so that this man could not give him out if he got caught. By the way," Brennon started up, "it is necessary to question the parishioners regarding the repair of floors. After all, he could collect, hm, vessels with souls in the pantry, and then lay them out under the slabs?"

"Yes. But what does the note in the book have to do with it?"

Nathan grunted.

"Because the accomplices of the crime do not always glow with brotherly love for each other. Maybe our pater did not trust our partner and just in case decided to protect the rear."

"Encrypted the name of the accomplice in a separate notebook?" Longsdale asked incredulously. "What for?"

"Maybe he was so afraid..." Brennon stopped short. Hell, if Grace known magic, would he become afraid of someone? Or... or it was the other way around!

"Listen! But Grace could only be a performer! Then a lot converges..."

"Are you going to look for this second now?"

"No," Nathan answered. "We're going to look for evidence and witnesses. And you rummage through his library in search of some literature in Elladian. Grace would not have encrypted the note so that no one else could read it. So, the key must be such that it can be found."

"And if you are mistaken?"

"If I am mistaken," the Commissar said phlegmatically, "then you will have several days of wasted labor."

***

When Brennon finally reached the Sheridan's house, he found two traveling carriages in front of him. The old coachman at the sight of the commissar joyfully grinned all six teeth in a grin. Nathan breathed a sigh of relief and stepped aside, letting in a pair of servants who dragged a huge chest. Bennett Brennon, who appeared at his sister's call, talked with her and Joseph at the porch, and his two youngest sons in the garden were squiring Peggy with all their might instead of benefiting the family. The Commissar grunted and was already striding toward the gate when he was hailed. At the call of this voice, he would hurry at any time, especially - now that he had not seen its owner for several days.

"Hello," said Mrs. Van Allen with a smile, leaning heavily on her son's hand.

"Good afternoon," said unwillingly Brennon, amazed at her appearance. She looked so worse, as if they had not met for a couple of months, and during this time her ailment turned into a serious illness.

"I'm sorry, I must be at a bad time," the widow pointed to the carriages. "You are leaving?"

"The brother will take the youngest children to his village," the Commissar answered, frowning at her, "while the sister and her husband and two older ones will remain. It is necessary to put the house in order."

Mrs. Van Allen glanced at the cardboard-closed windows. She was terribly thin and pale. Nathan looked at the gaps of her cheeks, the blue shadows under her eyes, her hands trembling with weakness, white strands that appeared in her blond hair - and decided:

"Let me have a two word with your mother, Victor."

The young man nodded and handed the hand of his mother to the Commissar. Brennon led the widow away from the gate, noting her uncertain staggering gait, and said quietly:

"Ma'am, forgive me, but you look terrible. You need to leave."

"Oh yes, I'm a little tired. We have an unusually large influx of visitors this January."

"Are you a little tired?" Nathan repeated. "Are you a little tired? Valentina, you're seriously ill!"

She looked up at him, and the commissar's heart sank from their strange dark blue.

"It's not safe in the city, right?" The widow asked quietly.

"It has nothing to do with your..."

"Are you sure your consultant will handle it?"

"With what?" Brennon asked through gritted teeth.

"With the one who was here. This is not a killer pyromaniac."

"Valentina, listen to me," Nathan took her other hand and pulled her closer, looking into her face. "And I'm sorry if I seem intrusive, but I owe you one. Here is my brother, and if I ask, he will take you and your children to him."

"It seems to me," the widow said softly, "it will be too intrusive just on my part."

"Oh God, do you think a village means a cramped little house with a stable? He has thousands of acres of land, the manor, two estates and his own lakes! You will be settled in a separate house..."

She shook her head, but Nathan vehemently rushed to the embrasure:

"Valentina, if you are afraid to leave your doctor, then Ben's eldest son is a practicing doctor, an excellent doctor, and he..."

"I cannot leave," the widow repeated insistently and almost gently.

"But why?" He asked in desperation. The woman said nothing. "Valentina, the cafe and the bakery are not worth your health. Even your son asked me..."

"Oh, there's a conspiracy," Mrs. Van Allen remarked with a laugh.

"I'm sorry," muttered Nathan. "Sorry, it's not my business. I shouldn't... But understand - the city is really dangerous. Take a look at this house if you do not believe."

"I know. That's why I ask - your consultant, whoever he is, will be able to stop him? He protects your family, but he has enough strength for the whole city?"

"Why do you ask? What does this have to do with you? If you are embarrassed that you do not know my family, and they do not know you, then I can introduce you to each other right now."

Mrs. Van Allen silently, with a half-smile, looked at him, and Nathan seemed that her face was melting in the shadow of a winter hood, and only dark blue eyes remained.

"Sorry," he said finally. "It was rude and against decency. And this is not my business. I should not have gone into your family affairs."

"No need to apologize. I would gladly accept your offer for my children, but I myself can't leave."

"But why?" The commissar asked helplessly. "Why can't you?"

"Ask your consultant," Mrs. Van Allen said, "why from twenty-ninth of December to this day, the ifrit has attacked only one family, although he only takes a day to burn out a whole block to the ground."

***

Margaret noticed him when Uncle Ben finally rescued her from a persistent cousins society. That is, at first the girl saw a second uncle, Nathan, who was talking about something with a lady in black, and Victor van Allen was nearby. Miss Sheridan headed for the gate, driven by curiosity, and found a tall man with a cane and a long coat on the corner of the street. The light of a lantern snatched a hook-nosed profile from the darkness, and Margaret could not believe her eyes. She did not even think that he had enough arrogance for this! And he turned his head and beckoned the girl with an impatient gesture.

For two or three seconds, Miss Sheridan wanted to proudly turn and leave; but the gates were open, the family was already hiding in the house, and the uncle stood with his back to her, finding out something from his interlocutor. Margaret picked up her skirts, ran across the street and, grabbing the gentleman's hand, dragged him into the dark alley between the houses.

"How dare you come here?!" The girl hissed violently. He raised an eyebrow at her, and before Margaret exploded in indignation, he asked:

"Do you want to come with me?"

Miss Sheridan blinked in surprise.

"W-where?"

"To the police department."

Margaret was unable to hide her disappointment, and Mr. Redfern added with a grin:

"This night."

"What for?"

"I need to look for something there."

"Are you going to steal evidence?"

"Oh, well, why steal..."

"What else will you do there at night?"

"I'm helping your uncle."

"My uncle," Margaret said caustically, "will soon go mad of your help."

"For example?" obviously amusing, Mr. Redfern asked.

"He believes that Father Grace is alive and rushing through the streets racing with the ifrit."

"Oh," the gentleman answered with a short, surprised laugh, "well, at least it's original."

"I wouldn't be glad if I were you," Margaret said coldly. "You killed Father Grace. You released the ifrit. You set him on Mister Longsdale's house."

"And are you not afraid to tell me all this?" Redfern said thoughtfully, looking the girl from head to toe.

"Why, then, were you protecting my home so much? Why mine, why not them?"

"Them?"

"The ifrit killed the whole Farrell family that very night."

"Ah, I heard."

"Have you heard? Where have you been?"

"Margaret," he said softly, "even if I had driven the ifrit away from them, he would have rushed at someone else. The whole city is for him only a large dining table."

"Had driven," the girl repeated bitterly. "Is that all you can do? Or didn't you just want to bother? You're the same as Mister Longsdale, so you can..."

"I'm not the same as him! Where did you get that idea?"

Margaret, surprised by such a deep indignation in his voice, looked into his face - it had lost good-natured mockery, and now Redfern gazed intently at her from top to bottom.

"You have the same dagger as he. And use it for the same."

"This does not mean that I am the same. What the hell is this strange conclusion?! And I can't kill the ifrit, Margaret, even if I wanted to."

"But why?!"

"Because I'm human," Redfern answered, "and the ifrit is immortal evil spirit," a sinister light suddenly appeared in his dark eyes. "But this does not mean that nothing can be done with him."

"And what can be done?"

"Longsdale, your consultant, must drive the evil spirits back to where it got out. I can't figure out why he didn't do this so long," Redfern added irritably. "And I will take care of the one who survived."

The alae of his nose suddenly swelled predatoryly, his eyes flashed fiercely, and he squeezed Margaret's hand so tightly that the girl gave a faint gasp.

"I'll find him," he hissed, "no matter how cleverly this beast was hiding! Then it was too late, but now I will find him, and when he gets caught!.."

Margaret carefully laid her hand on his arm. For some reason, in his anger, she felt powerlessness, and at the same time a threat, but not for herself.

"Did Father Grace kill all those children?" She asked almost confidently.

"Hands of the Hilkarn Strangler," Redfern answered after a short silence. "But the brain is still free," he let go of Margaret's hand and ran a palm across his face, as if he wanted to erase the expression that gave out his feelings. "I'll come after you today at one o'clock tonight. But put on something less voluminous," He tapped the tip of the cane on her crinoline.

"But what about..."

"And I will answer your questions," he freed his hand, which Margaret had already clung to like a tick, and slipped into darkness.