You cannot! Keats snapped, causing his guest to start at his vehemence.
I appreciate your ardor on the subject, Sergeant, but it is my choice. I have money laid aside. My wife would readily welcome a new start. We could find a place in the country and raise horses. I would rather like that. His voice sounded raw.
You might like it, but I wouldn’t, Keats said sourly. Unlike most of the officers he’d worked with, Fisher took the effort to analyze a situation. A man ahead of his time, he studied the criminal mind and kept abreast of the latest investigative techniques. Others would jump to a conclusion and then bend the facts to fit their suspect. If Fisher left the force…
Keats’ future flared in front of him like a bolt of summer lightning. Inspector Ramsey would become his superior, elevated to Chief Inspector the moment Fisher resigned. The Ram was well named. A bull-headed man with a mind as firmly closed as a spinster’s knees, he detested Keats, viewing him as Fisher’s pampered acolyte. The moment his mentor left, Keats’ head would be on the block. Then he would become a wastrel, just like his father.
Fisher watched him intently. Ramsey’s a good man, he offered.
Maybe he’s a good man, sir, but I’ll argue about his skills as a copper.
Fisher’s eyes narrowed. You would do well not to say such things outside of this room, Sergeant.
I won’t, sir. But I thought we were being candid.
A short grunt of acknowledgement came from his visitor.
After another sip of whiskey, Keats asked, Are you sure this is what you must do?
Fisher leaned forward, a strange light in his eyes. I came to hear your advice. You know me as well as most. Have you witnessed any signs that my brain is edging into dementia?
There it was—the dilemma. The Conclave’s ironclad rule stated that the Opaques were not to know of the Transitives.
There were exceptions––family members and such––but in general, The Conclave took steps to hide the truth. A lesser person might meet with an accident, a tumble off a train perhaps. A man as important as Fisher they would seek to discredit, banish into retirement. If that tactic failed, his life was forfeit. Fisher’s future was as dismal as his own if Keats didn’t handle this properly.
He took a deep breath and then plunged in. You must stay, sir.
Fisher eyed him with what appeared to be desperate hope.
You think me sane?
Yes, I do.
Why do you say that? he challenged. Keats’ averted gaze supplied the answer. Good God, you’ve heard of this sort of thing before, haven’t you?
I don’t dare… Not as such, sir. Nevertheless, I do know there are many unexplained events in the world, and you may have indeed witnessed one. There are strange men in India who, in trance-like states, tread across glowing coals without any apparent injury. The rational mind cannot explain that, yet it is documented fact. Perhaps you have witnessed such a unique phenomenon.
Fisher leaned back in the chair and stared at the fire. His brows furrowed. The mantel clock chimed half past the hour. As the sound died away, he set his glass on the hearth, rose and straightened his jacket.
I shall stay at my post for the time being. I wish to keep this event to ourselves. However, if you see anything in my behavior that indicates a softening of the mind, you are to tell me instantly, do you understand?
Keats nodded and rose from the chair. I doubt I will see such a thing, sir.
When we are less weary and I’ve had time to think, we shall find a private moment to speak further on this matter.
He paused at the door, placing a hand on Keats’ shoulder. With a thick voice, he said, Thank you, Jonathon. I appreciate your candor.
You’re welcome, sir. I’ll see you in the morning.
A wry chuckle. It’s already morning, Sergeant.
So it appears, sir.
Once his visitor had departed, Keats bolted the door and slumped into his chair near the hearth. Rubbing his face, he sighed heavily. Keeping Fisher as his superior meant the world to him. Having the man one step closer to the Transitives was Keats’ worst nightmare.