Evidence and Alliance

The studio was blessedly quiet when Violet finally stumbled through the door, her head pounding with the familiar aftermath of spirit communication. The morning sun had climbed higher while she'd been developing Catherine Webb's photographs in that courtyard, and now it streamed through the high windows in dusty golden shafts.

She'd sent Flanahan away with the developed plates and a promise to talk later. Properly. About Bernie. About Violet. About all of it.

The conversation she'd been dreading for three years was finally unavoidable.

But not yet. Not while her skull felt like it was splitting apart and her vision kept swimming at the edges.

Violet stripped off Bernie's coat and vest with shaking hands, let the false beard fall onto the worktable without bothering to remove it properly. The binding corset came next—she could barely manage the hooks, her fingers clumsy with exhaustion. When it finally loosened, she gasped in relief, her ribs expanding for what felt like the first time in hours.

"Violet?" Artie's voice from the stairs. "That you?"

"It's me." Her own voice sounded strange after hours of Bernie's gruff register. "Don't come down. I'm not... I'm not decent."

Footsteps retreating, then returning. "I'll leave water and willow bark by the door. You sound like hell."

"Feel like it too." Violet managed to pull on her usual skirt and shirtwaist, though her hands kept fumbling the buttons. "Artie?"

"Yeah?"

"Flanahan knows. About Bernie. About me."

A pause. "Christ. How'd that happen?"

"Long story. He came to the studio early this morning. Caught me without the disguise." Violet pressed her fingers to her temples, trying to will the pain away. "We're supposed to talk this afternoon. At Five Corners Station."

"You want me to come with you?"

The offer was genuine, and it touched her more than she'd expected. But this was her burden to carry. "No. This is between me and the detective. But thank you."

"Right then." Artie's voice was worried. "You rest first though, yeah? Can't have a proper conversation when you look like you're about to collapse."

He was right. The room was already tilting slightly, and the metallic taste in her mouth warned that if she didn't lie down soon, her body would force the issue.

"Leaving the water," Artie called. "And there's bread and cheese if you want it later."

Violet waited until she heard his footsteps retreat up the stairs before she opened the door. The pitcher of water sat on a tray with the willow bark powder and—bless him—a small plate with bread, cheese, and cold sausage.

She managed three sips of the willow bark mixture before the nausea hit. The room spun sickeningly, and she barely made it to the basin before her stomach emptied itself.

This was the price. Always the price.

Catherine Webb's spirit had given her crucial information—the location of Moreau's workshop, the confirmation of four victims, and the details about the journal. Information that might finally give Flanahan enough for a warrant.

But Violet's body was demanding payment in pain and exhaustion.

She crawled to her small bed in the corner of the studio, pulled the blanket over herself with hands that wouldn't stop trembling, and let the darkness take her.

When Violet woke, pale afternoon light slanted through the windows at a completely different angle. Her head still ached, but the grinding pressure had eased to something manageable. The metallic taste was gone, and when she sat up carefully, the room stayed mercifully stable.

The water pitcher sat where Artie had left it, condensation beaded on the outside. She drank deeply, grateful for the coolness against her raw throat.

The clock on the mantel showed half past two. She'd slept for nearly three hours.

And she was supposed to meet Flanahan at Five Corners Station.

Violet forced herself to stand, to splash water on her face, to make herself presentable. The Bernie disguise lay scattered across the worktable—beard, vest, binding corset, all the pieces of her professional armor.

Should she wear it to the station? Present herself as Bernie for this conversation?

No. Flanahan knew the truth now. There was no point in maintaining the deception between them, even if she'd have to resume it for everyone else.

She dressed in her usual women's clothing—a practical dark skirt and shirtwaist, her hair pinned up properly. It felt strange, vulnerable, to think about walking into a police station as herself rather than hiding behind Bernie's gruff competence.

But Catherine Webb's spirit had trusted her. Jane Stride's spirit had guided them toward justice. Mary Hutchins and Annie Chapman deserved to have their stories told.

And Flanahan... Flanahan had looked at her this morning with shock, yes, but also with something that might have been understanding. He'd promised they would talk. That he'd use the information she'd provided.

Perhaps the truth between them might be a foundation for trust rather than grounds for betrayal.

Violet gathered the photographs she'd developed—Catherine Webb's crime scene, the images from the Grand Guignol workshop showing the surgical instruments and specimen jars. Evidence. Documentation. Proof.

She left a note for Artie—"Gone to Five Corners Station. Back by evening."—and locked the studio door behind her.

The walk to the station felt different without Bernie's disguise. Men's eyes passed over her without the professional assessment they gave to other men. Women gave her the quick evaluating glances reserved for their own sex—noting her clothes, her bearing, her respectability or lack thereof.

Invisible again. Just another woman on London's crowded streets.

Five Corners Station loomed ahead, its brick facade imposing in the October afternoon light. Violet climbed the steps, pushed through the heavy doors, and approached the front desk.

The sergeant barely looked up. "Can I help you, miss?"

"I'm here to see Detective Flanahan. He's expecting me."

Now the sergeant looked up, taking in her appearance with obvious skepticism. "Is he now? And your name?"

"Violet Abrams." She held his gaze steadily. "Tell him Bernie's here."

The sergeant's eyebrows rose, but he sent a young constable scurrying toward the back offices. Violet waited, trying not to feel conspicuous standing in the middle of the station's lobby while uniformed men moved past on official business.

Footsteps. Flanahan emerging from the corridor, his scarred face unreadable. He stopped when he saw her—really saw her, without the disguise—and something shifted in his expression.

"Miss Abrams." His voice was carefully neutral. "Thank you for coming. This way."

He led her through the tiled corridors to his cramped office, closed the door firmly, and gestured to the chair across from his desk.

Violet sat, the envelope of photographs balanced on her lap. Flanahan settled into his own chair, leaned back, and studied her with that same intense attention she'd noticed at crime scenes.

"So," he said finally. "Violet Abrams."

"So," she agreed. "Detective Patrick Flanahan."

A ghost of a smile crossed his face. "You're not what I expected."

"Neither are you." Violet set the photographs on his desk. "You didn't arrest me this morning. Didn't threaten to expose me. Didn't demand I stop the crime scene work."

"No." Flanahan's fingers drummed once on the desk, then stilled. "I didn't. Because whatever else might be true, your work is legitimate. The photographs are accurate. The documentation is professional. And you've been instrumental in this investigation from the beginning."

"Even though I've been lying to you the entire time?"

"Even though." He leaned forward, his blue eyes serious. "I won't pretend I'm not... frustrated. Confused. Trying to reconcile Bernie with the woman sitting in front of me now. But I'm also not an idiot, Miss Abrams. Women photographers exist—they're just rare, and they're usually society ladies taking pretty pictures of flowers, not crime scene specialists working Whitechapel murders."

"Society ladies can afford to have male relatives vouch for them," Violet said quietly. "I couldn't. When my father got ill, we had a choice: give up the business we'd built together or find a way to continue it. Bernie was the way."

Flanahan was quiet for a long moment. "Your father taught you the photography?"

"Everything. From the time I was twelve. He said I had an eye for it, a steadiness that couldn't be taught." Violet's throat tightened with the familiar ache of loss. "When he died I had to make the decision to run the business alone, with Artie helping me. I'd been working beside my father for seven years. I knew the equipment, knew the techniques, knew how to develop plates and take portraits and then learned to document crime scenes, thanks to you."

Flanahan nodded at Violet, acknowledging his contribution to her craft.

"So, you became Bernie full-time."

"So, I became Bernie. Saul Abrams's younger brother, come to help with the family business. It wasn't even that difficult—I've always been tall, always had a low voice. The beard and binding corset did the rest." She met his gaze directly. "I'm not sorry I lied about who I am, Detective. I'm only sorry it became necessary."

"And the other thing?" Flanahan's voice dropped. "The spirits? That's real too?"

This was the harder confession. The one that could mark her as mad, dangerous, someone to be locked away in Bedlam rather than trusted with criminal investigations.

But Flanahan had asked directly. And Catherine Webb's spirit had trusted Violet with information that could stop Moreau.

"It's real," Violet said. "I can see the recently deceased. Communicate with them. Usually within a few days of death, though strong unfinished business can extend that window."

"How?"

"I don't know. My mother had the same ability. She said it ran in our family, a gift passed down through generations." Violet pulled out her notebook, flipped it open. "Catherine Webb told me her name. Told me about her heart condition, about Moreau approaching her at the theater, about the workshop underground where he keeps his collection. She described the red velvet curtain hiding the entrance, the white-tiled room, the specimen jars arranged like art in a gallery."

"Information you couldn't have gotten any other way," Flanahan said slowly.

"Information that gives you grounds for a warrant." Violet pushed the notebook across the desk. "Everything the spirits told me is in here. Their names, occupations, how Moreau approached them, what he said during the murders. It's not admissible testimony—I know that. But it can guide your investigation. Give you specific details to look for, questions to ask witnesses who are admissible."

Flanahan picked up the notebook, began reading. His expression shifted as he absorbed the information—surprise, revulsion, grim determination.

"This is detailed," he said. "More detailed than anything we've gotten from physical evidence alone."

"The dead want justice," Violet said. "They're willing to tell their stories to someone who can hear them."

"And you're willing to listen, even though..." He gestured toward her, the way she'd looked this morning—pale, exhausted, clearly in pain. "It costs you. Physically. The headaches, the nosebleeds if you push too hard."

"Someone has to bear witness." Violet's voice was firm. "If I can help bring justice for women who were murdered, help stop a killer before he claims more victims, then the headaches are a small price."

Flanahan set down the notebook, met her eyes. "Right then. Here's where we stand. Officially, I cannot acknowledge that you're a woman working as a male photographer. The department would never allow it—you'd lose your contracts, possibly face legal consequences for fraud."

Violet's stomach dropped.

"But," Flanahan continued, "Bernie Abrams is an excellent crime scene photographer. Professional, reliable, produces work the department values. I see no reason why Bernie can't continue providing services to the Metropolitan Police."

Relief flooded through her. "You're saying—"

"I'm saying I'll keep your secret, Miss Abrams. Bernie's secret. Whatever you want to call it." His scarred face softened slightly. "What you've built—the photography business, the documentation work, the way you help the grieving families—it's valuable. Necessary, even. I won't be the one to destroy that."

"Thank you." The words felt inadequate, but they were all Violet had.

"Don't thank me yet." Flanahan pulled Catherine Webb's photographs from the envelope, spreading them across his desk. "Because now we're going to use everything you've learned from those spirits to catch Moreau. And that means you're officially part of this investigation—as Bernie, in whatever capacity the department will accept. Partners, like we discussed."

"Partners," Violet agreed.

"Good." Flanahan began organizing the photographs into evidence sequences. "Then here's what happens next. I'm taking these images and the information from your notebook to Captain Morris. I'll tell him I have a reliable informant who provided details about Moreau's workshop location—which is true, even if I can't cite my source. I'll petition for an immediate warrant to search the Grand Guignol's basement and surrounding underground structures."

"When?"

"The magistrate hears warrant applications Monday morning at ten o'clock. If Morris approves my petition today, if the magistrate grants the warrant, we could be searching that theater by noon Monday." His jaw tightened. "The question is whether Moreau will wait that long or flee the moment he realizes we're closing in."

"He came to my studio Friday night," Violet said. "Tested the door. He knows I photographed his workshop, knows you're investigating. He might already be planning to run."

Flanahan's expression darkened. "He came to your door? When exactly?"

"Friday night. Late. I was in the darkroom developing plates from the theater search. I heard someone testing the front door handle—trying to get in." Violet's voice steadied as she recounted it. "I looked out the window. Saw him at the end of the square, under the streetlamp. He looked directly at the studio. Smiled. Then walked away."

"Christ." Flanahan's hand moved to his notebook, then stopped. "You should have sent word immediately. If he'd gotten in—"

"I had Madame Helena's protection charm. And Artie was there." Violet met his eyes. "But yes, he knows where I work. Knows I'm involved in the investigation. That's why I'm certain he won't wait long before running or destroying evidence."

"All the more reason to move quickly."

Flanahan stood, gathered the photographs with careful hands. "I'm going to Morris now. You should go home, rest properly. I'll send word when the warrant comes through."

Violet rose as well. "And if it doesn't? If Morris won't approve it, or the magistrate denies it?"

"Then we find another way." Flanahan's voice was grim. "But one way or another, Moreau will answer for what he's done. I promise you that."

They stood facing each other across his cramped office—a detective and a photographer, a man and a woman, two people who'd stumbled into an unlikely partnership built on secrets and shared purpose.

"The spirits," Flanahan said quietly. "The ones you've spoken with. Did they... did they find peace? Knowing you're working to bring justice?"

"Some of them." Violet thought of Mrs. Chen fading away in the studio, of Catherine Webb's final whispered gratitude. "Others are still waiting to see how the story ends. Whether justice actually comes, or whether Moreau escapes and they're forgotten."

"They won't be forgotten." Flanahan's voice was firm. "Their stories are part of the case now. Part of the evidence. Whatever happens, they'll be remembered."

It was the same promise Violet had made to Jane Stride, to all of them. That they would matter. That their deaths would count for something.

"Thank you, Detective."

"Patrick." He offered a slight smile. "If we're going to be partners, you might as well use my name. At least when we're not in public."

"Patrick, then." Violet felt an answering smile tug at her lips. "And you can call me Violet. When we're not in public."

"Violet." He tested the name, nodded. "It suits you better than Bernie ever did."

"Bernie serves his purpose." Violet moved toward the door. "And he'll continue to, as long as the Metropolitan Police needs a photographer."

"That he will." Flanahan walked her to the door, opened it. "Go home. Rest. And Violet?"

"Yes?"

"Thank you. For trusting me with the truth. For helping me see what I was missing. This case... it wouldn't be solved without you."

Violet nodded, unable to quite trust her voice, and walked back through the station's corridors with her head high.

Behind her, Patrick Flanahan stood watching until she disappeared into the Saturday afternoon crowds, already planning how to translate spirit testimony into evidence a magistrate would accept.

By the time Violet returned to the studio, the afternoon had shifted into early evening. Artie was upstairs with Madame Helena, their voices drifting down the stairwell in comfortable conversation.

Violet collapsed into the chair by her worktable, finally allowing herself to feel the full weight of exhaustion. The headache had returned—duller now, but persistent. The willow bark helped, but what she really needed was sleep.

Real sleep, without nightmares of hollow chest cavities and preserved organs in glass jars.

But she couldn't afford that luxury yet. Bernie's disguise still lay scattered across the worktable—the false beard, the binding corset, the vest and coat. She should put them away properly, hang them carefully so they'd be ready for the next time she needed to transform.

Tomorrow. She'd deal with it tomorrow.

A knock at the door made her tense, but Artie's voice called down: "That'll be for me. Expecting a delivery."

Footsteps on the stairs. The door opening. Then Artie's voice, urgent: "Miss Beaumont? I... just a moment, please."

His footsteps came rushing down the interior stairs. "Violet," he hissed. "It's the actress from the Grand Guignol. Collette Beaumont. She's asking for Bernie."

Violet's exhaustion vanished in a spike of adrenaline. "Stall her. Two minutes."

She was already moving, grabbing the binding corset with hands that shook from more than just fatigue. The transformation that usually took ten careful minutes would have to happen in seconds.

Corset wrapped and hooked—tight enough to pass, not tight enough to be secure. Bernie's vest pulled on over her shirtwaist. The coat. The false beard—no time for spirit gum, she'd have to hold it in place and hope the dim evening light hid the deception.

One minute forty-five seconds.

Violet forced her breathing to slow, dropped her voice into Bernie's gruff register, and called up the stairs: "Send her down, Artie."

She heard Artie return to the door, his voice polite: "Mr. Abrams can see you now, mademoiselle. Just down the stairs."

Footsteps descending. Collette Beaumont appeared in the doorway, wrapped in a dark cloak despite the mild October evening. Her face was pale, her eyes red-rimmed. She looked like a woman who'd been crying for hours or hadn't slept in days or both.

"Monsieur Abrams." Collette's accent was thicker with distress. "I... forgive me for arriving unannounced. I did not know where else to go. I must speak with you. About Monsieur Moreau. About..." Her voice dropped to a whisper. "About the truth."

Bernie gestured to the chair by the worktable, keeping one hand near the false beard to hold it in place. "Sit down, mademoiselle. Tell me what's happened."

The actress entered like a hunted thing—quick, nervous, checking behind her as though afraid she'd been followed. She sank into the chair as if her legs could no longer support her.

"He knows," she said without preamble. "Monsieur Moreau. He knows the police suspect him. He told me this morning, before he left London."

Bernie's pulse kicked hard. "Left? Where did he go?"

"He has a property. Outside the city, in Kent. An old manor house called Blackthorn, near the village of Ashford." Collette's voice shook. "He goes there sometimes for privacy. For his work. He told me to meet him there Wednesday evening. Said we would wait until the investigation 'faded.' Until people forgot about the murders and moved on to other scandals."

"And you're telling me this because?"

"Because I am afraid." The words burst out raw and desperate. "I am afraid of what he is. What he has done. What he might do to me if I stay silent." Collette looked up, met Bernie's eyes. "I knew, monsieur. Not everything, not at first. But I knew there was something wrong. The way he looked at women, the way he talked about perfection and transformation. The locked rooms beneath the theater he said were dangerous, unstable. I should have said something. Should have told someone when the murders started. But I was afraid, and I told myself I was wrong, that I was imagining connections that weren't there."

"What made you change your mind?" Bernie asked, keeping the voice steady, gruff.

"Last night. After you and the detective left the theater." Collette's hands twisted in her lap. "Monsieur Moreau came to my dressing room. He was... excited. Feverish. He talked about his collection being complete. Four perfect pieces. He said he'd shown them to the fourth victim before he killed her—wanted her to understand she was the final masterpiece."

Catherine Webb. Violet felt her stomach turn behind Bernie's mask, remembering the spirit's testimony. Moreau had shown Catherine the preserved pieces. Had explained exactly what he was going to do. Had made her final moments a grotesque lesson in his artistic vision.

"He told you this?" Bernie's voice came out harder than intended.

"Not directly. But he was raving, almost delirious with satisfaction. Talking about how rare it was to find subjects with the specific qualities he needed. How much planning it took to acquire them without suspicion." Collette's voice dropped. "And then he said something about starting a new collection. About how four pieces was just the beginning. That he'd learned so much from this first set that the next would be even more perfect."

The room went very still.

Madame Helena appeared at the top of the stairs, drawn by the conversation. She descended slowly, studying Collette with the intensity she usually reserved for tarot readings.

"A new collection," Helena said quietly. "He's not stopping."

"No." Collette shook her head. "I don't think he ever intended to. I think this was always going to continue, getting more elaborate, more impossible to detect." She pulled a folded paper from her cloak with shaking hands. "This morning, before he left, I found this in his office. I think... I think it's a list of potential subjects. Women he's been watching."

She held it out to Bernie.

Violet took it carefully, unfolded it with one hand while the other maintained pressure on the false beard. The handwriting was elegant, educated, each entry meticulously detailed:

Sarah Collins - Dancer, 22, perfect feet, high arches, exceptional flexibility. Performs Tuesdays/Thursdays at The Crown & Anchor.

Margaret Hayes - Opera singer, 28, remarkable vocal range, flawless throat structure. Sunday services at St. Bartholomew's.

Rebecca Norton - Artist's model, 24, exceptional bone structure, classical facial proportions. Studios on Charlotte Street.

Elizabeth Moore - Seamstress, 19, perfect fingers, extraordinarily delicate hand movements. Morton & Sons, Commercial Road.

Four more women. Four more "perfect" features Moreau wanted to collect.

Bernie's hands clenched on the paper. "Artie!"

The young man appeared at the top of the stairs.

"Run to Five Corners Station. Find Detective Flanahan. Tell him Bernie Abrams needs to see him immediately regarding the Grand Guignol case. Tell him it's urgent—new evidence about Moreau's location."

"Right." Artie grabbed his cap and was out the door in seconds, moving with the street kid speed that had served him so well over the years.

Madame Helena moved closer to Collette, her dark eyes knowing. "You're telling the truth," she said finally. Not a question. "You're terrified and guilty and desperately trying to do the right thing before it's too late."

"I should have spoken sooner," Collette whispered. "Should have trusted my instincts. But I was afraid of losing my position, of Monsieur Moreau's anger, of being wrong and ruining an innocent man's reputation." She looked at Bernie. "You believe me, don't you, monsieur? You understand I'm not... I didn't help him. I just didn't stop him."

"I believe you." Bernie kept the voice steady, masculine. "And you're doing the right thing now. That matters. Detective Flanahan will protect you. He'll make sure Moreau can't retaliate."

"You promise?"

"I promise." And Violet meant it, even through Bernie's disguise. Because if Collette's information led to Moreau's arrest, if it prevented the murders of the women on that list...

They sat in tense silence, Madame Helena brewing tea, Collette shivering despite the warm room. Bernie remained standing, one hand still pressed casually against the false beard, praying the adhesive would hold long enough.

Outside, Carter Square went about its Saturday evening business—voices calling, doors closing, the ordinary sounds of London life continuing while inside this studio, the pieces of a murder investigation finally aligned.

Twenty minutes later, heavy footsteps on the stairs announced Flanahan's arrival before his knock.

Bernie opened the door to find the detective looking harried but focused, Artie slightly out of breath behind him.

"Mr. Abrams," Flanahan said, his eyes going immediately to Collette. Then back to Bernie, a flicker of understanding crossing his face as he took in the hastily assembled disguise. "Your assistant said you had urgent information about—" He stopped. "Mademoiselle Beaumont. I was planning to send constables to find you. We need your statement."

"I came here," Collette said, standing. "To Monsieur Abrams. I thought he could help."

"Mr. Abrams has been invaluable to the investigation," Flanahan said smoothly, stepping into the studio. His gaze moved to Bernie, a question in his eyes—are you alright?

Bernie gave a tiny nod and handed him the list. "Mademoiselle Beaumont has information about Moreau's location. And evidence of planned future murders."

Flanahan scanned the paper, his scarred face going very still. "Christ. This is his handwriting?"

"Yes." Collette's voice was small. "I found it this morning in his office at the theater. Along with his notebooks—sketches, observations, detailed plans for acquiring each woman."

"And his location?"

"Blackthorn Manor, near Ashford in Kent," Bernie said. "He fled there this morning. Told Mademoiselle Beaumont to meet him Wednesday, that they'd wait until the investigation 'faded.'"

Flanahan's jaw tightened. "The bastard's planning to run."

"Or to continue his work somewhere the London police can't easily reach him." Bernie met his eyes. "The manor has outbuildings. Mademoiselle Beaumont believes he uses them for his 'special work.' Another workshop, Detective. Another hidden space where he can operate without witnesses."

"We need to move on this immediately." Flanahan was already pulling out his notebook, writing quickly. "I'll send a telegram to the Kent constabulary, have them watch the property. Then I'll take a team down first thing Monday morning to make the arrest."

"The warrant—"

"I'll petition Morris tonight for emergency authorization. With this evidence, with Mademoiselle Beaumont's testimony, we have grounds for immediate action." He turned to Collette. "Mademoiselle, I'm taking you into police protection. You'll give a full statement, and we'll arrange for your safety until Moreau is in custody."

"Thank you." Relief flooded Collette's face. "Thank you for believing me."

"Thank Mr. Abrams." Flanahan's gaze moved to Bernie. "He's the one who's been pushing this investigation forward from the beginning. Without his photographs, his observations, we wouldn't be this close."

Something passed between them in that look—acknowledgment, partnership, the weight of shared secrets. Flanahan could see the hastily assembled disguise, could probably guess that Violet had scrambled to become Bernie in mere minutes. And he was playing along seamlessly, maintaining the fiction for Collette's sake.

"I need to photograph this list," Bernie said. "Create a permanent record before the original goes into evidence."

"Do it." Flanahan handed the paper back. "And make copies of the names. We'll need to warn these women, assign protection if possible."

Bernie moved to the camera with the deliberate care of someone trying not to dislodge a false beard. Setting up the equipment for document photography was second nature by now, the precise movements gave Violet time to think, to process what Collette's information meant.

Through the ground glass, the list appeared in sharp detail—four more names, four more women marked for Moreau's collection.

But not if they could stop him first.

"Detective," Bernie said, keeping one hand on the camera to maintain the angle while the other still pressed near the beard, "I want to come to Kent. To document the arrest, photograph whatever evidence you find at Blackthorn Manor."

Flanahan started to shake his head. "That's not—"

"I know it's not standard procedure. I know I'm a civilian photographer with no official standing." Bernie pulled the dark slide with the one free hand, exposed the plate with practiced efficiency. "But those women—the ones already dead and the ones on this list—they deserve to have someone bear witness. Someone who'll make sure their stories are told properly."

Flanahan was quiet for a long moment, his blue eyes studying Bernie's face. Then, slowly, he nodded. "You can come. As Bernie Abrams, official photographer documenting the arrest. But you stay back during the actual confrontation. If there's violence, if Moreau resists, you do not engage. Understood?"

"Understood." The tight knot in Violet's chest loosened slightly. "When do we leave?"

"Tomorrow evening. Six o'clock train from Liverpool Street to Ashford. Bring your camera equipment—if anyone asks, you're documenting the arrest for the case file." He offered his arm to Collette. "Come, mademoiselle. Let's get you somewhere safe."

As they moved toward the door, Flanahan paused, looking back at Bernie. His expression was careful, professional, but there was warmth underneath. "Good work, Mr. Abrams. This case wouldn't be solved without you."

Then they were gone, Collette's footsteps fading up the stairs, the front door closing with a solid thunk.

Bernie stood motionless until the sound of their footsteps disappeared completely down Carter Square. Then, slowly, carefully, Violet peeled the false beard away from her face.

The spirit gum hadn't been applied. The beard had been held in place by nothing but pressure and prayer for the past half hour.

Her hand was shaking.

"That," Artie said from the stairs, "was the most terrifying thing I've ever seen. I thought it was going to fall off in the middle of the conversation."

"So did I." Violet sank into the chair, her legs suddenly weak. The adrenaline that had kept her upright and in character was draining away, leaving nothing but exhaustion. "Help me with the corset. I can't... I can't breathe properly."

Artie came down and began unhooking the binding with gentle efficiency. "You're going to Kent, then? With Flanahan?"

"Yes." Violet gasped as the corset loosened. "As Bernie. To photograph the arrest. To document what Moreau's done."

"And if it goes wrong?" Madame Helena asked from the stairs. "If Moreau fights back, if there's violence?"

"Then I stay back, like I promised." Violet met Helena's dark eyes. "But I have to be there. Those women—Catherine Webb, Jane Stride, all of them—they trusted me with their stories. I owe it to them to see this through."

Helena was quiet for a long moment. Then she nodded. "You're your mother's daughter. Leah would have done the same—walked into danger for the dead who couldn't speak for themselves." She descended the rest of the stairs, moved to the small altar in the corner where she kept her cards and crystals. "Then we prepare you properly. More Protection charms. Iron filings. Salt for your pockets."

"Helena—"

"Don't argue with me, child." The older woman's voice was firm. "You may wear Bernie's disguise and carry a camera instead of cards, but you're walking into the same darkness your mother faced. The dead may trust you, but the living who kill them?" She pulled out a small pouch, began filling it with herbs and salt. "They're far more dangerous."

Violet didn't argue. Because Helena was right.

Tomorrow evening, she'd board a train to Kent as Bernie Abrams, official police photographer.

And Monday morning, she'd stand outside Blackthorn Manor while Detective Patrick Flanahan arrested a serial killer.

If everything went according to plan.

If Moreau didn't run, didn't fight, didn't have one more trick hidden in his grotesque collection.

If justice finally turned, the wheel completed its revolution.

Violet closed her eyes and let Madame Helena prepare her protections, while outside the window, London settled into Saturday evening, unaware that somewhere in Kent, a killer was planning his next perfect collection.