The Knightleys arrived at Marylebone Police Station fifteen minutes later, hoping to process the murder scene before it could be contaminated. Darkus was getting used to the perplexed and disapproving stares he received when dealing with adults, especially police officers, but he didn’t let it break his concentration. The catastrophizer was gyrating and thrumming too insistently for anything to distract him.
On Bill’s orders—which were triple-verified this time, to avoid a further breach—the duty officer led the Knightleys to the cell where the murder had been committed. The rest of the detainees had been moved to alternate accommodation, still drowsy from the nerve agent.
Darkus examined the floor, noting the sharp imprint of Chloe’s stiletto heels in the linoleum, but finding less blood on the floor than he expected. He deduced that Beecham had fallen backward onto the bunk during the attack, resulting in the white shape his body had left on the bedding, which was otherwise soaked in red. If there was a message, it had to be within arm’s reach of the bunk where Beecham had expired. Darkus knelt down to get a better look, and sure enough, on the underside of the mattress of the upper bunk, two words were written in blood:
“Under what wood?” Darkus speculated.
“No,” said Knightley, taking a pencil from his top pocket and pointing up at the bloody scrawl. “There’s a flourish joining the R and the W. It’s one word.”
Darkus realized he was correct. “Underwood . . .”
Knightley suddenly looked spooked. “Yes . . . Underwood.”
“I still don’t see how that helps us.”
“It doesn’t,” Knightley murmured. “It doesn’t help us at all.” He got that faraway look in his eyes; his nostrils flared, and his ears pricked up. But this time there was a pallor beneath his skin; a look of exhaustion, and death. Whatever it was, Darkus didn’t like it.
“What does it mean, Dad?”
“I don’t know—yet. But I did once know a Dr. Morton Underwood. A long time ago.” Knightley went quiet.
“Who is he?”
“We became friends at Oxford.”
“So Bill knows him too?”
“Different colleges, but yes, they knew each other.” Knightley seemed to pull himself back from the honey trap of memory, debating whether to go on. It seemed there was no other option. “He was your godfather, Doc.”
Darkus took a moment to process this. Perhaps he had heard the name Morton before, but nothing stood out in his memory. For the past four years he had been more preoccupied with the absence of his father than the possible existence of a godfather.
“You said ‘was’?” asked Darkus.
Knightley turned a shade paler. “Mort was a child psychologist, a famous one.” He seemed to lose himself in a maze of his own thoughts, then found the thread again. “He took on a patient—a boy from a powerful family. The boy was withdrawn; he wouldn’t go to school, wouldn’t interact with other people. Much of the time he wouldn’t even speak at all. Except to Morton.”
“What was his diagnosis?”
“It never reached that stage.” Knightley paused. “Mort worked with the boy for several weeks, employing radical therapy, hypnosis, that sort of thing. He believed he was making progress. Then something happened . . . ” Knightley trailed off, reluctant to remember any more.
“What happened?” asked Darkus.
“The boy died. He fell from Morton’s fifth-floor office window.”
“How?”
“Nobody knows for sure. There were signs of a struggle. The office had been turned upside down. When the police arrived, Morton was unconscious. He claimed the boy tried to kill him, then jumped to his death. But the family didn’t believe him, and Morton was named as a person of interest.” Knightley paused again. “He hired me to prove his innocence. But all the evidence pointed to one person: him. There was nothing I could do.”
“You never wrote about this in the Knowledge.”
“I was too ashamed.”
“If he was guilty, you have nothing to be ashamed of,” said Darkus.
“No one ever found out whether he was guilty or not . . . Morton disappeared from surveillance cameras near the Millennium Bridge, by the Thames. They found his coat and wallet. The police believed he’d drowned. But his body was never recovered.”
“What do you believe happened to him?” said Darkus.
“I don’t know. I searched long and hard . . . and turned up nothing.” Knightley examined the name written in blood. “But in light of current evidence,” he added reluctantly, piecing together his thoughts, “I have to conclude that Morton might have joined the Combination.”
Darkus frowned, digesting this latest piece of information and adding it to the catastrophizer.
“What did Morton Underwood look like?” he asked.
Knightley paused, searching for the best description. “Medium height, medium build . . . He’d be forty-eight by now. Due to his failing eyesight he wore these glasses . . .”
“And he has a stutter,” Darkus interjected.
“Yes,” Knightley replied, incredulous. “But how could you possibly know that?”
“I have a confession to make . . . ,” Darkus admitted.
“What have you been hiding from me?” Knightley demanded, eyes shining.
Reluctantly, Darkus gave him a detailed description of his encounter with the stranger at the auction house—who was, without a shadow of a doubt, Morton Underwood. Any anger on Knightley’s part was quickly defused by concern for his son’s welfare and the dawning realization of the danger they were now in.
Darkus explained his reasoning: “I knew that if I told you, you’d never let me crack the case.”
“And you decided it was worth risking your life over?” his father protested. “Possibly both our lives, by the sound of it.”
“I’m sorry, Dad.” Darkus frowned. “It seemed like the right course of action at the time. If it’s cost us the case, I have only myself to blame.”
Knightley shook his head sadly. “For the record, our relationship is more important than any case. And I’m perfectly capable of spending time with my son in a nonprofessional capacity. It’ll just take a bit of practice, that’s all. But I fear, for the purposes of this case, and for your own personal safety, we’ll need to keep our detectives’ hats on.”
“If Underwood is behind all this, where do you suggest we find him?” said Darkus.
“Unfortunately, I think we’ll have to wait for him to find us,” replied Knightley. “He made his first approach at the auction. I fear the second will be more forceful. We must return to Cherwell Place and prepare ourselves.”
“So you’ll still be requiring my assistance?” asked Darkus.
“I’ve come to depend upon it,” said his father.