A muffled noise woke Ned just before dawn. He needed a moment to remember where he was. The whimpering on the other side was pitiful. It was most likely just a bad dream, he thought as he got up and pressed his ears against the wall. There was a low voice, followed by a short, stifled cry.

Ned ran into the dark corridor and right into a large figure leaving St Clair’s room. Ned charged at it, only to be shaken off like an annoying fly and flung back.

“What is it?” St Clair asked drowsily.

“Everything is all right. Go back to sleep,” the man said.  

The voice sounded exactly like Lord Ravenstone’s, down to the deep timbre and clipped upper-class tone. Ned stopped in his tracks and refrained from attacking again.

The man quietly closed the door behind him and introduced himself formally.

“Jaswinder Singh, at your service, Sergeant Kelly.”

Struck speechless by the absurdity of the situation, Ned only managed to ask, “You know who I am?” 

Singh’s white teeth flashed in the dimly lit corridor as if something about the question amused him. He nodded and asked, “Would you like to join me for some tea?”

Ned threw on some clothes and followed him to a small drawing room on the first floor. It was cosier than any of the grand rooms on the ground floor and obviously meant just for the family.

Singh put a spirit kettle to boil, then said, “I apologise for startling you, Sergeant. Would you mind telling me what day it is?”

“You… you just woke up?” Ned asked incredulously.

“An hour ago.”

Ned had to think hard. So much had happened in the last few days that it felt like a month.

“Saturday morning. You were attacked on Thursday evening,” he finally said. “Can you tell me what happened?”

Singh swallowed hard, but then visibly pulled himself together. “The last thing I remember clearly is taking a shortcut through Soho when one of those poor street boys came out of a doorway. He grabbed my hand. I thought he wanted money, but he pulled off my glove.  Everything after that is a blur. What … what I think happened then can’t have happened.”

“What do you mean by that?” Ned asked with a frown.

Singh busied himself with filling the teapot as if the task gave him something to hold on to while he spoke.

 “It felt like Lilly was there. She called for me. It was like a dream. Then my father came out of nowhere and attacked me. I was furious that he wouldn’t let me go to her. When I woke up, I found him asleep in an armchair next to my bed. I didn’t have the heart to wake him.”

He finally looked up. His handsome face with the short, well-groomed beard looked composed, but the large, dark eyes betrayed his pain and confusion.

“Did we really fight? Did I injure him?”

Ned told him what he knew about his return home and answered the rest of his question as best he could. Singh listened and continued with the tea preparations. The cups looked tiny in his large hands.  The man was almost two meters tall, with the shoulders of a prize-fighter covered in a perfectly tailored shirt and a woollen jacket. Most men of such size looked like brutes, yet Singh had the bearing of a king and moved with measure and elegance.

“This must all sound mad to you,” Ned said as he finished his story.

Singh poured the tea, then shook his head. “In this family, you quickly learn to believe six impossible things before breakfast.”

“Like in ‘Alice through the looking glass’?”

“It was Jamie’s favourite story when he was little. He refused to fall asleep if someone didn’t read from it when he went to bed,” Singh replied with a nostalgic smile.  

“Is he all right? It sounded like he had a nightmare,” Ned said hesitantly. 

 “He often has them when he is forced to use Psychometry. It’s more than enough for any man to deal with his own feelings and memories without experiencing those of others,” Singh replied.

There was no reproach in his voice, but Ned still flinched guiltily.

“I am very sorry for your loss,” he said belatedly.  

Singh inclined his head in thanks, then said, “Can I see that notebook? It seems strange that Lilly never showed it to me.”

Ned went to fetch it and picked up the sketchbook as well. He stopped in front of St Clair’s room for a moment, but judging by the silence, the nightmare had not returned.

Singh looked into the notebook and frowned.

“I’ve never seen this. Some of the names and signs are wrong, too. It’s like someone was guessing.”

Ned nodded and carefully opened St Clair’s sketchbook to the page with the drawings of Hargrave and the boy.  He didn’t want Singh to see the sketches from the morgue.

“Have you seen either of them before?” he asked.

“I think that’s the boy who ambushed me in Soho. The man seems familiar, too, but I can’t really place him. Let me think about it,” Singh said thoughtfully.

He turned the page, and his eyebrows shot up in surprise as he saw the next image.

“Isn’t that Michael Callahan?”

“Where do you know him from?” Ned asked, trying to hide his nervousness.  

“Lilly introduced me to him at a party. They were supposed to be in a new play together. A charming chap, but definitely not a witch. What does he have to do with any of this?”

“He gave me the notebook,” Ned replied cautiously.

Singh turned the next page. He frowned at the monstrous eyeless faces. Drawing a forefinger along the lines, he asked, “Didn’t Jamie say anything before he gave this to you?”

“He literally dumped it in my lap and took off in a hissy fit,” Ned grumbled. 

Singh smiled indulgently. Apparently, throwing a fit was perfectly normal behaviour for his brother.

“When Jamie’s mother taught us to draw, we studied facial anatomy on skulls in the British Museum. I was never very good at it, but Jamie has an almost uncanny talent for it. He probably wanted you to draw your own conclusions.”

“The only conclusion I drew is that he is losing his mind.”

“Those two men don’t look much alike to a casual observer because of age and different eye shapes. But when you strip their faces down to bone structure, their jaw lines and cheekbones are almost identical,” Singh explained, looking intrigued.

“There can’t be that many different bone structures in the world,” Ned said defensively.

Singh shrugged. “If there weren’t, we’d all look much more alike."   

Ned wanted to protest, but a knock at the door interrupted him. Harrington entered, looking even graver than usual.

“I apologise for disturbing you, gentlemen. Inspector Blackwood has sent an urgent message.”

“A new victim?” Ned asked with trepidation.

“I’m afraid so, sir.”