The noise of construction was quite constant in the church interior, and despite Sabine’s intentions, Sir John felt sure the only artistry was the colourful language coming from the workers. He was near the entrance and had taken to pacing and glancing occasionally out the front door, interspersing this with comments like “she doesn’t know we’re here” to anyone passing. When he finally saw Marie returning with Miss Henderson and Morag his heart leapt with joy.

“Marie!” he called as his wife arrived in the church and gawped up at the decoration. “You have returned.”

“Oh mon cher, I am sorry I left so suddenly, but I felt sure I could find him,” said Maire.

“It doesn’t matter my dear,” he said, then added, “Find who?”

“My uncle, look he gave me this,” said Marie holding out the compass.

“Oh,” said Phlebotomous, coming to see what the new commotion was, “it’s a sundial!”

“No Mr Bosch,” said Miss Henderson, carefully and slowly. “It’s a compass. See the little needle moving?”

“Oh that’s just to calibrate it,” said Phlebotomous, taking the device. “See I lift up the latitude arm here, open up the gnomon thus and…. Well perhaps you could check it Miss Henderson. I can’t really go out. But make sure it points north, that’s what the compass is for.”

“What a jolly good idea,” said Miss Henderson. “Morag, why don’t you accompany me? Mr Bosch, I expect your little friend needs you.”

“No Osvold is fine,” said Phlebotomous, “I can wait here until you get back.”

Miss Henderson’s eyes rolled up, then shot sideways at Sir John and Marie, who were looking awkwardly at each other. Finally she nodded vigorously to where Phlebotomous and Osvold were hiding from the sun. Phlebotomous looked confused at her then suddenly a surprised look spread across his face.

“Oh!” he said, “I’ve just remembered something very important that I need to do over there.”

He started to walk over to the little hideaway he had built for himself and Osvold.

“It’s best that I don’t tell you what it is,” he said, and walked on a little further before adding, “It is, however, completely safe.”

Miss Henderson sighed and walked out of the building with the compass, Morag following after her.

A silence grew between Sir John and Marie.

“My dear wife…” started Sir John, his voice a little hesitant.

“Oh mon cher, I am sorry for running off and how I have been lately,” said Marie. “Things have been so strange for me.”

“…you seem as if something in the diary has upset you…” continued Sir John, barely registering what Marie had said.

“Yes and… no,” said Marie. “It was not the diary itself but the memories it provoked. I had thought all my life my childhood was a sad one, filled with rejection and alienation. But the diary reminded me I was someone else back then, someone more confident than I am now. And it made me wonder who the real me was.”

“…would you like to talk about it…” Sir John said.

“I should have from the start I suppose, but I started to think that if I wasn’t who I thought I was, who would know the real me. I suppose I closed down a little. I started to think about my uncle, that he would know me better than I knew myself. So I started to search for him in my memories, but I couldn’t see where he was. Then it came to me, I should use my powers to find him. I wasn’t sure how, but I felt sure if I walked the city I could walk my way to him. And it worked and I found him. Oh mon cher, we talked for just a little while, but it made me realise that I am not this girl anymore, that she was the seed of who I am. And then I realised I needed to be who I am now, and be with the people I know now and be…”

“…with me?” said Sir John.

Marie’s face softened and she gazed at her husband. She took his face in her hands.

“Yes, mon cher, with you,” she said. “I need to be with you.”

Marie kissed Sir John and smiled.

“I should find Emile and we should get everyone together,” she said. “We need to find these things that Clackprattle and Pook are searching for.”

Marie went looking deeper into the church and Sir John stood stunned.

“I’m getting rather good at this husband lark,” he whispered to himself.

Miss Henderson walked in just then.

“Mr Bosch, this sundial thing doesn’t tell the correct time,” she shouted across the church. “I think the gnome is broken.”

Marie sat in the old man’s living room as he brought a coffee pot into the room with some old looking biscuits. He served Marie then sat down, barely taking his eyes off her.

“I can’t believe it’s you!” he said. “All these years… and you were alive.”

“Uncle, I am so sorry,” said Marie, “I had no idea we were really related. I thought… you were a family friend.”

“It doesn’t matter,” said Uncle Thierry. “All that matters is that you are alive. Have you been in Paris all this time?”

“For a while, but I live in London now, I’m married to an Englishman,” said Marie.

Uncle Thierry snorted.

“Well, each to their own,” he said, “but how can you stand the food?”

Marie smiled.

“You get used to it,” she said.

Thierry laughed long and hard. Marie thought how she had forgotten his laughter. How it had brightened up her home as a child.

“Uncle,” said Marie. “I wanted to ask you some things. Something about my mother.”

“Of course,” said Thierry, “but in truth I didn’t know her so well.”

Marie looked puzzled.

“But, you are her brother?” she said.

“Ah,” said Thierry, “I know why you are confused. No, I am your aunt’s brother, yes, but your aunt was not your mother’s sister. It was her husband that was your blood relative, Marie. He was your mother’s brother.”

“But… I thought,” said Marie.

“Yes, I think they told you the other way round,” said Thierry. “I don’t know why. Your mother was… well, she was… different you know. Had some unusual ideas.”

Marie looked at the kind face.

“How would you say she was different?” said Marie.

“Well she never stayed still for a start,” said Thierry. “First she came to Paris, then moved to that village when you were born…”

“She was in Paris?” said Marie.

“Yes, yes,” said Thierry, “That’s where she met your father. He died of cholera you know, in the outbreak, when you were still inside your mother. It was a miracle she survived, that you both survived. I guess that’s why she wanted to go back to the countryside.”

“So she came first from the village?” said Marie. “The one where I grew up?”

“No, not at all,” said Thierry, “She came from somewhere South I think. I never knew where. As I said, I didn’t know her too well, Marie. Your uncle didn’t talk much about her either.”

There was silence then as Marie looked into her coffee cup.

“Here,” said Thierry, “I have something for you to cheer you up.”

The old man rummaged about in a big cupboard, grumbling and cursing. Marie smiled at this, remembering other times.

“Here it is,” he said at last and brought forward a small brass object. He gave it to Marie and she stared down at it. It looked like a compass but with other gauges and attachments.

“What is it?” said Marie.

“No idea,” said Thierry. “It belonged to your uncle. He said it was special somehow. Never explained why. Come to think of it he was a little different too. It’s no wonder you’ve run off to England!”

Marie smiled again.

“Thank you Uncle,” she said and started to stand.

“Are you going already?” he said sadly.

“I should get back,” said Marie, “People will wonder where I am.”

“Well, come see me soon,” said Thierry. Marie gathered her things and pocketed the compass.

“By the way.” said Thierry, “How did you find me in the first place? I’ve only lived here five years.”

“It was… a bit of luck,” said Marie. She hugged her uncle and then left.

He pottered a bit around the room, then looked in the cupboard again. Inside he found a small piece of jewellry and held it to the light.

“I knew you were in there somewhere,” he said.

There was a knock at the door and so Thierry dropped the jewellry on the side and went to answer it.

“Marie?” he said, as he opened the door. “Did you forget something?”

Outside stood a short thin man and a larger fat man with a glove on one hand.

“I wonder sir,” said the thin man, “if we may possibly come inside for a short moment to discuss a matter of no small importance.”

The fat man took his glove off and Thierry stared at the strange green colour of his hand.

Sir John and Emile sat in the shop whilst Phlebotomous went to the back to get Osvold. Emile flicked through the paper, a cigarette hanging down from his lip.

“Oof,” he announced, “looks like Marchauld has died.”

“The one from the Clairvoyant Research Institute?” said Sir John.

“Yes, that one,” said Emile, who then smirked. “Hmm, I wonder if he saw that coming.”

Phlebotomous and Osvold came in then and sat down opposite Sir John and Emile.

“Osvold,” said Sir John, “we wanted to ask you about the day M Dinard died. Do you remember that day?”

Osvold nodded slowly and sadly then looked down.

“Yes, of course, you do,” said Sir John. “The last name is his meeting book, perhaps the last person he met, was a Mr Clackprattle. Do you know who that is?”

Osvold looked thoughtful for a while and then leaned over to Phlebotomous and whispered.

“He thinks he’s a very fat man…” said Phlebotomous. Osvold leaned in again.

“…who vexed M Dinard enough to make him use bad language,” said Phlebotomous.

Emile coughed and laughed.

“That describes half of Paris,” he said. Osvold leaned in to Phlebotomous again.

“He was accompanied by a strange short man who spoke in long sentences,” said Phlebotomous. “And he rubbed his hands together a lot.”

“That’s them,” said Sir John, “Osvold, do you know what they wanted? Why they saw M Dinard.”

Osvold looked away again in thought and then turned back to Phlebotomous. He whispered in the fellow vampire’s ear.

“Oh gosh,” said Phlebotomous. “Really?”

Osvold nodded then leaned in again and whispered to Phlebotomous.

Emile turned in towards Sir John then.

“Are you sure these are vampires?” he said quietly. “They’re not what the literature has you believe.”

Sir John smiled.

“I can only assume that Mr Stoker didn’t meet an actual example,” he said.

They turned back to the pair to find Phlebotomous looking paler than usual with Osvold holding his hand. Phlebotomous was wriggling about in his chair.

“Oh dear, oh dear,” he said. “This sounds bad. It seems that Mr Clackprattle was asking Dinard about how to find some kind of magical weapon. It seemed to be in four parts?”

Phlebotomous glanced at Osvold who nodded.

“The parts were all hidden in Paris and M Dinard was in possession of a map to the parts. It was this he was planning to sell to Mr Clackprattle on the day he died.”

Sir John looked concerned.

“Osvold, do you know if Mr Clackprattle came here? If he got the map?” he said.

Osvold nodded once.

“And do you know if there is a copy of this map.” Sir John continued.

Osvold shook his head and looked to his feet.

“This is indeed bad,” said Sir John to Emile. “This weapon must be something special for them to go looking for it. If they have a map and we don’t…”

“You’re sure?” said Emile, addressing the vampires. “There was no copy?”

Osvold leaned into Phlebotomous again.

“Mr Clackprattle was apparently insistent. He paid a large sum of money to make sure it was the only copy. M Dinard said that it was only because of this money that he could deal with … what was that word Osvold?”

Osvold leaned into Phlebotomous again and whispered something. Phlebotomous went a light pink.

“I don’t think I can say that out loud,” he said. “It’s rather rude.”

Emile’s mouth dropped open and the cigarette fell from his lips into his lap.

“Merde,” he said and retrieved it.

“It was something like that, yes,” said Phlebotomous.

“It was a set-up, that’s why he was killed!” said Sir John. “So no one else could look for this weapon.”

Osvold leaned into Phlebotomous again.

“Then we are, how do you say, stuffed in a hole,” said Emile. “Do we just wait until he finds it?”

“We have to do something,” said Sir John.

Phlebotomous coughed and they both looked round.

“Osvold says that although there wasn’t a map,” said the vampire, “there were some notes.”

“Osvold,” said Sir John, “do you think we might look at them?”