As he moved closer, Harper heard the voices of two men coming from behind the farther of the two doors. The men spoke in hushed tones, and Harper couldn't clearly distinguish their words. He unbuttoned his overcoat to allow himself easy access to his pistol. Then he started down the hall.

He stopped, noticing that the signs of cleaning ended at the first door. Harper nudged the door open.

It was clearly a girl's bedroom. The rug, the wallpaper, the swaying curtains, and even the big canopy bed were all white. A pattern of gold and pale pink roses covered the carpet. White lace dripped over the edge of the dressing table. The bed billowed up from the rest of the room like a wedding cake in a bakery window.

Harper stepped into the room slowly, studying each foot of floor before marking it with his filthy boots. Blots of vivid red led him from the door to the far side of the bed.

The girl lay on her side. A pool of blood formed a dark red halo around her head. Harper crouched down beside her. The entire back of her skull was a mat of black hair, blood, and jutting bone.

Her neck hung awkwardly between her cracked skull and shoulders. As Harper looked over her body, he noticed old yellow bruises beneath newer blue ones. When he pulled aside the white sleeve of her nightgown, he found that the marks were still red, the bruises not yet darkened.

From the old woman's words, Harper knew that a man had been beating the girl. From the marks on her body, it was obvious that the beatings had been going on for quite a while. Perhaps the girl had attempted to escape and fallen down the stairs. Or possibly the man had thrown her down.

Harper guessed what the men in the other room whispered about so urgently. They could clean up the stairs and hall, but they couldn't wash away the broken bone and deep bruises on the dead girl's body. Harper decided that it was time to talk to them.

Harper stood to leave when he noticed that he had made a mistake upon entering the room. He had thought the glass doors to the girl's balcony had been open. Now, as the curtains fluttered in the storm wind, he saw that the doors were still closed. The glass had been broken out. Harper checked for any shards of glass on the white rug. There were none.

He stepped out onto the balcony. It was too dark to see clearly, and the rainwater hid the glitter that the broken glass would have given off. Harper moved his gloved hands through the water, feeling for the hard edges of glass. He found dozens of shards in just a few moments.

"She's in here," he heard a man say, and then the door to the girl's room swung wide. As Harper watched from the dark balcony, three men entered the room. Harper recognized the first two from the Brighton Inquisition: Captain Brandson and Abbot Greeley. A man in a dark violet dressing gown followed after them.

Brandson's pale face was spattered with orange freckles, and his black coat, like Harper's own, was soaking from the rain. Brandson's fine red hair dribbled water down his face. He had clearly left his cap behind when he had been called to the murder. It was like Brandson to forget something like that.

The abbot's thick shock of white hair was perfectly dry. Despite his age, he looked much more fit than Brandson. He gestured to the dead girl's body offhandedly, as if she were a curiosity he had already seen.

The third man Harper did not know, but his face seemed familiar. He was in his late forties, a few years younger than the abbot. His black hair was streaked with gray and swept back in a rather handsome manner. The elegance of his tall, slim form almost allowed Harper overlook the white bandage wrapped around his right hand. As if sensing Harper's eyes on him, he hid his hand in the pocket of his dressing gown.

"As you can see..." Abbot Greeley directed Brandson's gaze. "The intruder broke in through the glass doors there and attacked her while she was preparing for bed—"

"I don't think that was the case."

The three other men jumped at the sound of Harper's voice. He stepped in from the balcony.

"Captain Harper." A flush of anger colored Abbot Greeley's tanned face. "What in the name of God are you doing here?"

Even at the best of times, a deep, mutual hostility seethed between Harper and Abbot Greeley. Because the abbot was his superior, Harper masked his animosity with expressionless professionalism. As a rule, the abbot did the same. For five years they had maintained that tenuous illusion of civility. But since Peter Roffcale's murder, even that had begun to collapse.

"Investigating a murder, sir," Harper replied.

"You were given vacation leave four hours ago," Abbot Greeley snapped. "You shouldn't even be in town."

Harper realized that the abbot's voice had been one of the two he had heard whispering in the other room. Harper wondered how long Abbot Greeley had been at the crime scene. Certainly long enough for his clothes and hair to dry, despite the soaking rain outside.

"I heard a woman on the street calling for help. She sent me here to try and reach the girl before she was killed." Harper held the accusation back from his voice. "May I ask how you happen to be here, sir? Normally you'd be at home by this hour, wouldn't you?"

"Lord Cedric and I are good friends." Abbot Greeley gestured to the man in the violet dressing robe. "He sent for me the moment he saw what had befallen his poor niece."

"You have my condolences, sir." Harper had seen photographs of Lord Cedric in the social columns of the papers. He recalled that the man was a cousin to the bishop of Redstone, but little else.

"Thank you," Lord Cedric said quietly. Harper recognized the rich depth of his voice. He had been the second man up in the room with Abbot Greeley.

Clearly, Lord Cedric had sent for the abbot long before he had called for any Inquisitors. The abbot would have instructed Lord Cedric in the matter of erasing evidence. It wouldn't have taken long to move the girl's body from the stairs to her bedroom and hide the signs of her previous beatings under a long nightgown. A maid would be called to clean the stairs and hall. Then, to concoct a murderous intruder, they smashed the glass doors. Their deception had been created in haste, and no doubt Abbot Greeley knew that any decent investigator would have seen through it.

But then Abbot Greeley had the advantage of choosing which Inquisition captain to summon. Briefly, Harper glanced at Brandson. The captain flipped his wet hair back from his face. He picked up one of the dead girl's hairbrushes, considered it for a moment, and then, noticing Harper's gaze, returned it to the dressing table.

"Good of you to come, Harper," Abbot Greeley said. "But we have things well in hand now. You can get back to your vacation."

"I'd be happy to." Harper continued to study Brandson. He'd never thought highly of the captain's intellect, but perhaps he could be roused to thought. "Before I go, however, I can't help but wonder what's become of the footprints and water from the intruder?"

"Well." Brandson pointed to Harper's own tracks. "Those would be them, I would say."

"I'm afraid I have a pretty tight alibi, Brandson." Harper crossed his arms over his chest. "Those are from my boots. Moreover, they don't lead in from the balcony to the body. There aren't any tracks leading in from the balcony."

"That's impossible. A rug this white would have been marked. No one could break in and not leave a single print." Brandson frowned down at the white carpet.

"A Prodigal could. One of the flyers wouldn't need to set foot on the floor." Abbot Greeley offered Harper an angry smile. "Thank you for pointing that out, Captain Harper. We now know that we are looking for a Prodigal."