Everett turned back to the King James Bible and found the passage again. “‘Remember the sabbath day, to keep it holy. Six days shalt thou labour, and do all thy work: but the seventh day is the sabbath of the Lord thy God: in it thou shalt not do any work . . .’” Everett closed the book.

“Splendid. I’m looking to protect a person who works on Sunday.”

“Or Saturdays if we’re adhering to Judaic law. But seeing as how Jews are outnumbered by Christians at a rate of over one hundred to one in Britain, I think we’re safe sticking with the Sabbath being a Sunday.”

“You have any idea how many people in Greater London we’re looking at?”

“Probably a whole lot more than the men you have at your disposal. What sort of folks are we talking about?” asked Everett.

“Well, there’s every bartender, waiter, or kitchen hand in a restaurant, café, or bistro. You have your ticket takers at the cinemas, shop girls up in Notting Hill and Marylebone High Street to name a few hundred. Men working tube stations, black cab and Uber drivers, museum docents—need I go on?”

“No, though I quite enjoy hearing you prattle away. I’d say you have your work cut out for you.” Everett laughed. “Any thoughts where you might begin?”

“I don’t have a bloody clue!”

A frustrated Grant grabbed the Bible from his brother and flipped through its pages. He slammed it shut just as quickly. “What the hell am I doing? It’s not like I’m going to find an answer in here.”

“You wouldn’t be the first to go looking. Father Talbot up at Oxford chastises us on a weekly basis for not keeping up with our Bible studies.”

Grant started to respond, then checked himself. “Of course.”

Everett’s brow raised. “What are we talking about—of course?”

“A priest,” answered Grant. “That has to be it, don’t you think?”

Before Everett could reply, Grant was back up and pacing. For the first time since Frey’s body had been discovered in the library loo, the commander could feel life pumping back into his veins. He turned to face his brother and pointed at the Bible as if answers had just sprung from it like a fountain of truth.

“Whose work is defined by them working on the Sabbath? Who spends every Sunday morning front and center before Londoners, come rain or shine?”

“Your friendly neighborhood parish priest,” Everett responded. “You think he’s going after a priest?”

“It’s just twisted and specific enough to fit your theory.”

“Do you have any idea how many priests, pastors, and reverends there are in Greater London?” asked Everett.

“A lot more than I’d like.”

VIII