Rachel had often heard the story of her grandfather cooking up eggs Benedict for his wife and two boys every Sunday morning before they headed to church back in Liverpool. He had substituted buttered toast and real bacon for English muffins and ham, claiming that was how retired stockbroker Lemuel Benedict had ordered it in the late nineteenth century when he stumbled into the Waldorf in New York City seeking a hangover cure. Her father had continued the tradition when he’d married Allison. Sunday was the one day he didn’t leave for the Yard at the crack of dawn—he was happy to give Rachel’s mother a morning off. But Rachel always suspected her father just loved the dish and he knew he’d get it at least once a week this way.

“I fancy it wasn’t easy getting a flight this time of year?” Everett asked as he scraped his plate clean.

“It’s more common for Brits to flee for warmer climates or the ski lifts instead of staying put when the holidays roll around,” observed Grant.

Rachel wondered if her father was calling out her Mattie fib. She looked at her uncle and sure enough, there was that gleam in his eye.

“But we were lucky just the same,” her father continued.

Rachel felt her body relax. Safe. At least for now.

“I’m glad you’re both home for Christmas, though I’m sure we all wish it were under different circumstances,” said Everett.

“Agreed,” Grant concurred.

“If you’d care to come to the house for Christmas Eve dinner tomorrow night, it would be my joy to host you both.”

Rachel looked directly at her father for the first time. Grant took a final bite, then motioned with his fork. “Whatever Rachel wants.”

“That sounds wonderful,” she said. “Of course, it totally depends on what’s going on with . . . everything.”

She wasn’t even thinking of John at that moment. Like Everett had said, the case was spinning in so many different directions.

The continued search for Prior Silver. Canvassing the streets of Esher and other nearby villages for possible witnesses. Jeffries performing autopsies on Liz Dozier, Jared Fleming, and the unfortunate Sergeant Stanford Hawley.

Not to mention a potential eighth victim arriving just in time for Christmas.

“Can’t imagine him missing an opportunity to make a splash on the holiest day of the year,” Grant said, discussing the case.

“Don’t forget that the Ten Commandments are from the Old Testament,” reminded Everett. “The celebration of Christ’s birth stems from the New.”

“I’m not sure Prior Silver, if it’s indeed him, is playing things that close to the Good Book any longer,” Grant countered. “The rules seem to have changed.”

“You’re talking about Sergeant Hawley, I presume?”

Grant nodded at his brother.

“From what you told me last night, Austin, that sounds more like bad timing.”