When in doubt, do police work. You start with the facts you’ve got and work your way methodically out from there. Even if some of the facts come from an unorthodox source and your Day Book reads like an extract from a Bram Stoker novel.
There was a princess trapped in a dungeon…
“And you believe that represents a kidnapping?” said Nightingale.
Despite everything, we kept the Hangover Stone going until rush hour was well over because it’s not good police work to assume there was only one ghost per morning.
“There’s a sentence you don’t hear every day,” said Jaget.
“Speak for yourself,” I said.
After which we packed up and retired to a nearby pub for refs and regrouping.
“We can’t be sure it’s a kidnapping,” I said. “But if it is a kidnapping we can’t afford to delay for confirmation.”
Nightingale and Jaget nodded over their pints. Kidnappings were time-sensitive, so you couldn’t afford to mess about.
So, assuming it was one…what we needed to know was who the victim was and where they were being kept.
“Alice Bowman said that the Master was sending her and her friends down the line, which I think means the ‘dungeon’ has to be close to one of the stations further up.”
Jaget said in that case we could rule out Amersham because Alice had got off the direct Chesham train. “Can we check Abigail’s notes to see if all the sightings were on Chesham trains?” he asked.
“As soon as we get back to the Folly,” I said.
“Likewise we want to check with NCA’s misper unit,” said Jaget. “Start looking for missing women from further up the line.”
“What does a dungeon sound like to you?” I asked.
“A basement maybe?” said Jaget. “And the description of our Princess’s day sounds like someone commuting into work.”
“This could explain why the ghosts are so assiduously taking the morning train,” said Nightingale. “They may be following a trail worn smooth by the victim.”
“Ghosts do that?” asked Jaget.
“I don’t know,” he said. “I’m going to have to check the literature. I’m also interested in this fairy castle that Alice spoke of. I believe a rummage in the magical library is called for.”
I pointed out that Abigail would be waiting for us when we got back to the Folly, no doubt leading Molly astray even as we spoke.
“Abigail can join me in my search,” said Nightingale.
“Abigail?”
“Of course,” said Nightingale. “Not only will it be good practice for her Latin but it would be useful for her to gain some perspective on the craft.”
Nightingale has always been reluctant to let me loose on the library and I must have frowned or something because he went on—“My worry with you, Peter, is not what you would learn but, should you go into the library, you might never emerge again. Abigail can, at least, be lured out with the promise of the pictures Jaget took.”
“She did describe it as a fairy palace,” I said. “We might be looking at an incursion by the Fair Folk.” That being what the old literature called the type of fae that hung about looking cool and riding unicorns and, to my certain knowledge, stealing children. I explained a bit of this to Jaget who gave me the “if you say so” look that had become very familiar to me since I joined the Folly.
“I can check the CP logbooks for the same geographical areas as we check for mispers,” I said. “See if anything pops.”
“Leaving me to the mispers search,” said Jaget.
“Would you?” I said. “That would be brilliant.”
So, our actions suitably assigned, we finished our drinks and got down to what passes for real policing at the Special Assessment Unit. We dropped Jaget off at BTP HQ so he could use his own secure terminal and, importantly, give the impression to his senior officers he was hard at it. When we returned to the Folly we found Abigail in the kitchen teaching Molly how to take pictures of her food using the antiquated Samsung I suspected she’d liberated from my supply of expendable technology.
I suspected Molly wanted the pictures to send to her friends on Twitter and Facebook, the ones that I was not supposed to know about. I didn’t dare ask because we have an unspoken agreement—I don’t question what she does on my computer when I’m out and, in return, she doesn’t murder me in my sleep.
Back in the old days, before the Folly became a de facto branch of the Metropolitan Police—a time that the rest of the Met don’t like to talk about—it was a much wider, grander organisation. A combination Gentleman’s Club, Royal Society and the unofficial magical arm of the British establishment. Back then, every county had an official County Practitioner who were there to keep the peace and deal with any problems that went beyond the purview of the local magistrates. The County Practitioners were utterly respectable and so integrated into the provincial gentry that I’m amazed that one never turned up in a Miss Marple mystery. Maybe some characters are too twisty—even for Agatha.
The CPs, as they were known, kept a working diary not unlike my own Day Book for keeping track of supernatural incidents. At the end of every calendar year they were supposed to be sent back to the Folly where, as far as I could tell, they were shelved at the back of the mundane library and never, ever, picked up again. Sometime after the First World War some bright spark decided that their contents should be neatly typed out, with carbon duplicates, categorised in various different ways and the results filed in a bank of green metal filing cabinets that lined an access corridor, also never to be picked up again. Nightingale said that at one time the Folly had had its own typing pool in the basement with the cooks and maids and Molly.
These are the only CP logs that are filed under subject as well as date, so I always start with them. Usefully, the area I was interested in had been part of Middlesex in those days, which narrowed it down further. The carbon copies are filed in cardboard folders tied up with ribbons and they felt dry and fragile under my fingertips. From 1921 the Middlesex County Practitioner had been one Wallace Blair Esq. from Arbroath of all places and who, by the standards of the Folly, had a nice succinct style. In the files marked “F” for “Fae” I found six promising reports of which one from May 1924 stood out.
Called out to Waterside, a village in the parish of Chesham, today. The local reverend, who I know to be a sound man, said there had been reports of figures dancing upon the moor. Spoke to witnesses who claimed to have seen six or so girls dancing in what he described as “nightwear and bloomers.” This area has long been reputed to be the abode of “fairies.” Checked the logs of my predecessors and found many references including a verified abduction in 1852, in this case foiled by Walter Buckland who is rusticated at the old parsonage. Alas he left no notes back at Russell Square.