Jeffries showed up with his team shortly after a couple of Scotland Yard detectives had arrived as backup. Grant introduced Frankel to his superior, Deputy Commander Franklin Stebbins, who had made an appearance—having left his family at a holiday brunch at his golf club. The NYPD detective could tell Stebbins wasn’t overjoyed to make his acquaintance—probably because his presence meant a homicidal maniac had returned to the British Isles.

A debate ensued on whether to release Silver’s name and description to the media. Grant argued for the public to be made aware that a suspected killer was back in their midst to make it harder for Silver to hide. Stebbins urged delaying the pronouncement, not wanting to create chaos just prior to the holiday.

With Stebbins pulling rank, the discussion was tabled. The deputy commander implored them to solve this bloody case once and for all.

“Why do I get the feeling he was blaming me when he said that?” asked Frankel as Stebbins drove off, presumably to return to his holiday festivities. “Like it was my fault for not catching the guy when he went around garroting New Yorkers.”

“Probably the same way your Lieutenant Harris felt about me letting Silver cross the pond in the first place.”

They moved toward Sergeant Hawley’s car, where Rachel was waiting. Neither man had been able to dissuade her when she’d insisted on seeing what they had discovered on the second floor of the house. And though she had tried to keep the proverbial stiff British upper lip, Frankel saw her start to crumble when she encountered the carnage. He had quickly put his arm around Rachel and escorted her down the stairs and out to the car.

“You really should head back to the house,” Grant told her.

Once it was decided she’d accompany them to London, Grant had gotten Rachel to agree that she would stay with him in Maida Vale.

“I’m not going back there without you, Dad,” she said. “I’m fine.”

Frankel could tell she wasn’t but had been around her enough to know there was no budge room either.

One of the Scotland Yard men came up and told them Jeffries was ready.

A few minutes later, Frankel and Grant returned to the master bedroom.

A lot had gone on in their absence.

The bodies had been photographed from every possible angle. The bloodstained carpet had been covered in plastic; strings had been pulled and mounted off walls tracing the presumed footpaths of the killer and the victims.

The FME corroborated a number of things both Frankel and Grant suspected. The carvings on Fleming’s and Dozier’s foreheads corresponded with the ones found on the three bodies Jeffries had examined earlier that month.

“I’ve already sent pictures to your colleagues in the States,” Jeffries told Frankel. “I presume they’ll match the priest and the other victim you found.”