The number turned out to be way higher than he anticipated. There were thousands of Catholic priests in the UK, with at least a quarter of those practicing in the London environs. Grant realized he couldn’t rule out altar boys, assistant clerics, and the like, as they worked the Sabbath as well and could fit the same criteria laid out in the Fourth Commandment.

The good news was that it was only Friday, which gave his team at the Yard a two-day jump. First, Grant went to see Frederick Stebbins, the Yard’s deputy commander and head of the Metropolitan Police—the man he answered to. He painstakingly convinced his superior that Everett’s Ten Commandments theory was their prime (and only) lead, and they formulated a plan on how best to prevent a fourth murder from occurring right under their collective noses.

Stationing a constable at every church in London was obviously impossible, so they considered how to get the word out without yielding a mass panic. All the Yard needed was screaming headlines in the Daily Mail or the Daily Mirror informing Britain’s citizenry that a knife-wielding lunatic was threatening to disrupt their Sunday sermon or the baptism of their newborn child.

It was decided that Grant’s team should reach out one by one to every church with a very specific warning. Rather than tell clergy they were possible prey for a serial killer, the party line would be that the Yard had received a veiled threat of violence against a priest that coming Sunday. Extra patrols would be provided wherever possible and priests would be urged not to venture into solitary places on that particular day and not to hesitate to report anything suspicious. Grant told the clergy he personally contacted to keep this information to themselves as he didn’t want to start full-fledged hysteria within their congregations.

Not a single priest or pastor uttered a protest. Grant figured as men of God they had been trained to take on burdens to ensure the common good. Many asked if they should cancel services. Grant said it was their choice, but not a bad idea.

Miraculously, the media didn’t catch on until Saturday evening.

That was when Monte Ferguson, a veteran reporter for the Daily Mail, appeared outside Grant’s office just as he was heading home after calling hundreds of London churches. Bespectacled, wiry, and desperately hanging on to his few remaining wisps of unkempt hair, Ferguson was polite but dogged, a journalist who Grant knew from experience he’d need to tread lightly with. Their history of give-and-take had been rocky; not enough giving on Grant’s part for the reporter, with Ferguson taking a bit too much when allowed the opportunity. Most recently, Grant had been criticized by Ferguson in a Sunday editorial after the Fleming mess. It still rankled.

“No better place to hang out on a Saturday night, Monte?” Grant asked, turning the lights off in his office.