Ned tried not to grimace at the coffee Visconti poured for him. It was not what he had in mind when he had asked for a drink, but it was probably for the better. He needed a clear head to deal with those two lunatics.

They were seated in a corner near a fireplace with a low table and comfortable reading chairs in a library. A large mahogany desk and cabinets with artfully engraved doors stood under the large windows that looked out onto a snow-covered garden.  It was a place he could only dream of. The company, however, was not.

St Clair had cleaned up, his boyish face as deceptively innocent as ever with a slightly sheepish expression. The old man, on the other hand, seemed rather too amused by the situation. The cranky fat cat was there too, sprawled by the fire and still eyeing Ned as if it suspected he would steal the silver spoons.

The Italian was the first to break the silence. “Let us clear up this misunderstanding like civilised people, gentlemen,” he said.

“Then maybe you could start by telling me who you are,” Ned suggested coldly, pouring milk into the bitter beverage.

“Giovanni Visconti, at your service. The High Warlock of Europe and Jamie’s godfather, for my sins.”

“So, you are … some sort of witch?” Ned replied, unimpressed.

“I am what used to be called the king of witches, but such terms are apparently inappropriate in these modern times,” the man replied with a self-deprecating smile.

Ned sent a silent prayer for strength to whatever saint dealt with madmen. “Could we start with the less ludicrous part? Why am I here?”

Visconti looked at St Clair, who squirmed in his seat.  “It is a long story.”

“Just give me a summary then,” Ned said dryly.

St Clair obeyed to a fault. “I thought you killed my friends.”

“I got that much, you reckless fool! And then you thought it was a brilliant idea to make sure you were alone with a murderer behind closed doors?” Ned growled.

“I didn’t think it was you until I saw that notebook! And you didn’t exactly explain yourself, but just confirmed it was a kill list and told me to stop playing games,” St Clair retorted heatedly.

Visconti put his cup down with an emphatic clank. “That is enough, gentlemen.”

St Clair pressed his lips together, and Ned forced himself to think clearly. If one took all the hocus pocus aside, this was a murder investigation. He could deal with this.

“Just tell me everything from the start,” he told St Clair through gritted teeth.

The brat had the nerve to look offended, but at least he came right out with it.

“All three victims were witches. Someone is hunting us and stealing our magic. I thought you could help me find them. But when I saw your notebook, I realised that it could be you. In fact, you are a perfect suspect.”

“Because your … coloured lights disappear when they touch me?”

“It’s called magic, sergeant. It won’t kill you to use the word. But it is not only that you are immune to witch powers. As you well know, all the victims died facing their attacker, but without any defensive wounds. That suggests they either knew them or it was someone they instinctively trusted. Like a policeman. The same policeman who was among the first on the scene and could have removed any evidence at leisure.”

“That is circumstantial at best,” Ned objected.

“Maybe. But you carry a list of dead and potential victims with you. A list that not only contains their names, but also the symbols that designate what kind of witch they are. The same symbols the killer carves on their bodies to taunt us. If that is still too circumstantial, show me a policeman in London who hasn’t arrested someone on less evidence than that.”

Ned could not, but wasn’t willing to admit defeat.

“At least we don’t poison and kidnap our suspects,” he said caustically.

“And that is exactly why you will never get the killer, Sergeant. Cuffs and cells won’t hold someone who wields magic,” St Clair replied, then frowned as a mechanical ringing of a phone in the distance.

Ned wondered if he could get to it. But what then? If he called Scotland Yard and told them he was abducted by witches, losing his job would be the least of his problems. Blackwood would probably have him locked up in Bedlam.

There was nothing he could do but talk his way out of this.

“That’s as may be, but your case against me just fell apart. Your godfather already told you that I am not a… eh…”

“A Shadow,” the old man supplied readily.

Ned nodded his thanks and went on, “And the notebook is not mine either. It belonged to the last victim. Lilly Morton.”

The amber eyes narrowed. “Lilly would have never been so dumb to compile such a list. It would lead to all sorts of trouble.”

“Have a look for yourself then.”

“I did have a look. It is not her handwriting. More importantly, there are a dozen mistakes in it that she would not have made. What kind of woman misspells the name of her fiancé, for one?” St Clair said stubbornly.

That threw Ned off balance. Visconti cleared his throat and asked, “May I ask how you got that notebook?”

“The understudy found it in the pocket of Miss Morton’s powdering gown.”

“Why isn’t it in the hands of the investigating officer then?” St Clair demanded.

The brat was sharper than Ned gave him credit for. He had to stop underestimating him. After a moment of hesitation, he decided that he could not tell him the whole truth. He could not endanger Michael by bringing him into this. It was better to turn this back on St Clair.

“Give it back to me, and I’ll hand it over.  I’m sure everyone on that list will be very eager to cooperate with the police.”

St Clair held his gaze wordlessly until a discreet knock made them both look to the door.

It opened quietly, and a grey-haired man in a butler’s uniform stepped inside.

“Breakfast is served, sir. And Inspector Blackwood is on the phone.”

Ned flinched at the name, and St Clair went pale.

“Is there another victim?” he asked.

“No, sir. He says it’s about a message you sent him last night,” the butler explained.

“Thank you, Harrington,” St Clair answered with visible relief. “I’ll be right there.”

The butler inclined his head slightly and left.

Ned waited until the door closed behind him before he asked bitterly, “Is that how you knew about my suspension? You bribed Blackwood?”

“Inspector Blackwood is an old friend and a most honourable man,” St Clair said, then got up with a sigh. “That said, there are days I wish I could bribe him. Today is going to be one of them.”

Ned stared after him. What kind of strange friendship could there be between an eccentric young lord and a stern stickler more than twice his age?  

A flicker of premonition crept up his spine. He glanced at Visconti, who gave him an almost pitying smile.

“Not all the witches of London are listed in your little book, Sergeant.”