The front door was even brighter red in the full midday light, and I was happy to find it unlocked, as before. Inside, the faint sulfurous stink had all but faded away, and the open windows had replaced it with crisp, fresh air. I hung my hat and coat on the rack, noting that my suitcase was still just where I had left it, and looked around the room for the second time. Sharing a wall with the doorway was a battered wooden bench, which could easily have been salvaged from a doctor’s waiting room, but had about it a certain quality that suggested it might have been stolen from a church, instead. At the opposite wall sat the unoccupied desk, stacked with papers and overstuffed folders. To my right was the row of books and artifacts, including the terrarium, which my eyes now carefully avoided.

Toward the back of the room on the left wall stood a doorway flanked by two framed paintings. One painting featured a mounted knight driving a lance through a lizard the size of a small dog, an image I recognized as Saint George slaying the dragon. The other depicted a tumultuous sea in which a wooden ship was being towed through the waves by an enormous golden orange fish. Although painted in entirely different styles with nearly opposite color schemes, the two pictures seemed to belong together, held in unity, like the house itself, by some stronger force than aesthetic logic.

I crossed toward the door, but paused as I passed the desk. In a little valley of usable desktop, between the stacks of jumbled paperwork, lay an uncapped fountain pen. I took the two-step detour to scoop it up, not wanting it to dry out, and my eyes passed over the document on which it rested. The page was dated several months prior, written in tidy cursive, and read as follows:

Mr. Jackaby is quite certain that the whole affair will culminate in some unholy ritual this evening. He has been, as usual, unforthcoming about the details of the case. The only link I have discerned between the incidents is the coincidental involvement of Father Grafton and a few members of his parish. My suggestion that we direct our inquiries toward the church was not met with enthusiasm.

When I pressed the matter, Mr. Jackaby informed me that my services will not be necessary in his current line of investigation, and insisted that, since I am so curious about it, I should go and ask my own “silly little questions” without him. I must admit to some nervousness, given the heinous nature of the case, but I suppose Mr. Jackaby would not send me on alone if he sensed any danger.

I shall be sure to record the results of my first independent investigation as soon as I return.