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Inspector Kent takes a sip of his tea. “This tale concerns a troupe of mummers who seem to have gone missing not too far from these parts.”

“Gracious,” Mademoiselle LeFarge says. “We had a visit from some mummers recently.”

“Against my better judgment,” Mrs. Nightwing grumbles.

“It’s a strange little story. Apparently, these chaps were due to rendezvous with others of their profession in Dorset, but they never showed. Meanwhile, we’ve reports of them spotted in various villages, like phantoms. And in their wake, there have been rumors of missing persons.”

The girls delight in the story, especially when Inspector Kent waggles his eyebrows at them.

But every hair on my neck is at attention. “Were they ghosts?”

Inspector Kent’s booming laugh rings out. The other girls giggle, too, thinking me foolish.

“In my twenty years with the Yard I have seen all manner of skullduggery but never have I seen a ghost. I shall tell you what I think. I believe these mummers, being of dubious station in life, owed money to these chaps in Dorset. That’s why they’ve not showed. And as for reports of missing persons, well, in every village there is someone who needs a means of escape from his present circumstances.”

“What sort of circumstances?” Cecily presses.

“Never you mind about that.” Mademoiselle LeFarge tuts, leaving us to wonder about it all the more.

The inspector chuckles. “With your curiosity, you should all work for me.”

“Ladies cannot become detectives,” Martha says. “They haven’t the constitutions for it.”

“Tommyrot!” the inspector answers, slapping his thigh. “My dear mother reared four boys, and it was woe unto any one of us who tried to fool her. She could have been a chief inspector, such were her talents. Someday there shall be women at Scotland Yard. Mark my words.”

“Oh, Mr. Kent.” Mademoiselle LeFarge chortles. “No more of this or these girls won’t sleep tonight. Let us talk of the wedding, shall we?”

“As you say, Mademoiselle LeFarge, as you say,” he answers.

“I thought perhaps you girls could help us decide which hymns we might sing.” She frowns. “Oh, dear. I’ve forgotten to bring a hymnal from the chapel. And there I was reminding myself all day long.”

“I shall get it,” Inspector Kent says, putting down his teacup.

Mrs. Nightwing stops him. “No. I’ll send Miss Doyle for it. She’s a few days of penance left, by my ledger. It will do her good. Miss Poole, you will accompany her.”

Bloody Nightwing.

Elizabeth follows me out to the lawn. She jumps at every sound. “What was that?” she gasps. A frog hops over her foot and she yelps and grabs hold of my arm.

“It’s only a frog, Elizabeth. You’d think it a dragon the way you’re carrying on,” I grumble.

We’ve gone no more than a few feet when Elizabeth gasps and nearly climbs up me.

“What is it now?” I say, pushing her off.

“I don’t know,” she says, her eyes tearing. “It’s so dark! I hate the dark! I always have. It frightens me.”

“Well, I can’t help you with that,” I grouse, and she starts to cry. “Very well,” I say with a heavy sigh. “Go hide in the kitchen. I’ll fetch the hymnal and come back for you.”

She nods and runs for the safety of the kitchen without so much as a thank-you. I hurry toward the chapel, my lamp leading the way. Night animals are tuning up their orchestra of chirps and croaks. It is not comforting this evening but a reminder that many things live in the dark. The dogs at the Gypsy camp start a chorus of barking that trails off into restless whimpering. It makes my nerves jangle.

Right. I shan’t tarry. The hymnal’s what I’ve come for, and I intend to be quick about it. The chapel’s ancient oak door is heavy. I pull hard and it creaks open a sliver to allow me passage. Inside it’s murky and silent. Anything could be waiting. My heartbeat quickens. I prop open the door with a rock and proceed.

The inky blue of late dusk surges against the stained-glass windows, casting patterns on the floor. My lamp sends shards of light through them. I find no hymnals at the back, so I’m forced to make my way down the center aisle, away from the doors and quick escape. I swing my lamp over the pews from side to side until at last I spy what I’m after in the middle of one. A sudden gust of wind bangs the door shut, and I drop the hymnal and hear it slide under the pew.

Blast.

Heart beating even faster now, I crouch on the floor, feeling for the book until I have it. A voice, hard as fingernails rapping on metal, sounds in the dark.

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