Sir John and Emile pushed through the drunks and raucous groups spilling from bars, theatres and clubs of the most dubious kind.

“Are you looking for a good time?” said one hideously painted lady to Sir John as he walked passed.

“Not especially,” said Sir John and hurried away. “You know, I thought it might be useful to have Marie or Miss Henderson with us, but I do believe you are right. This place is the worst kind of sordid hell hole. What kind of lascivious swine would gain pleasure from being here?”

“Hey Emile, are you coming in tonight?” shouted a barman as they strolled down Rue Lepic.

Sir John looked shocked at Emile.

“Mistaken identity,” shrugged Emile. “It’s a common name.”

“Hey Planquette!” shouted the barman. “Are you deaf, man?”

Emile looked unmoved.

“That’s a common name as well,” he said. “Half of Paris is called Emile Planquette.”

They stopped in a square and looked around.

“We are pretty much out of Montmartre,” said Emile. “And no sign at all.”

“Hey,” shouted a large man with a red face and big beard, surrounded by a group of men. “What are you two looking for? A woman?”

Sir John scowled.

“Ignore him,” said Emile. “We must have missed something. It seems like we’ve been down every street, though.”

“A boy?” shouted the man. Sir John glanced over, but Emile was impassive, facing away from the man.

“Has the topography changed recently?” said Sir John. “Some change of energy perhaps, to make the map wrong?”

“A sheep?” shouted the man to howls of laughter from the group. Emile pivoted round.

“Monsieur!” he shouted. The man smiled back at him.

“It’s just the lamb here is delicious,” he said.

“Look out,” said Sir John and pushed Emile into an alleyway. The bearded man and his entourage laughed even harder. Emile was about to speak when Sir John put a finger to his lips. Clackprattle and Pook walked by the alleyway. Emile gasped then put his hand over his mouth. The men hid as the two walked down the road a little. Sir John looked at the building their adversaries had emerged from.

“A windmill?” he said.

“Tsch, of course,” said Emile. “The Moulin Rouge. I assume that’s the famous Clackprattle and Pook.”

“Indeed,” said Sir John “and moving with some purpose. I suspect they’ve found the elemental. We should go in at once. I hope we’re not too late.”

“You think they may have completed the challenge?” said Emile. “A physical challenge? But… one is so fat and the other so scrawny…”

“Then there’s no time to lose,” said Sir John. ”Let’s go in there and find out what it is.”

Sir John and Emile strode out of the alleyway. The group around the bearded man regarded them with curiosity.

“You know,” said Emile, “on reflection we probably should have brought the maid.”

Sir John’s response was lost in gales of laughter.

The sun had set and the interior of the art church was lit by candles. The near constant construction work had finished for the day. It  had produced some small cubicle-like rooms made from ornate, organic panels. A huge table had been placed where the altar had once been and scattered on it were many pieces of paper covered in symbols. Around the table stood Emile, Sabine, Marie, Sir John, Miss Henderson, Morag, Phlebotomus and Osvold.

“So” said Emile, “we have good news and bad news.”

“What’s the bad?” said Sir John.

“The bad news is that we have two murderous swine loose in Paris searching for a weapon of immense power. The weapon is in four parts, we think, and they have a map to the parts,” said Emile. “And we do not.”

“That does sound rather bad,” said Sir John, “put like that. What’s the good news?”

“We have the notes that Dinard made when he acquired and studied the map.” said Emile.

“And… they tell us the location of the four parts?” said Sir John.

“Possibly…” said Emile. “We have a small problem with the notes.”

Everyone looked down at the table and the pages covered in symbols.

“It looks Greek to me,” said Miss Henderson.

“It is Greek,” said Emile. “I’ve been translating the notes with Osvold’s help, but it’s a slow process and its hard to be sure we have it right. It seems like either a dialect or…”

“Ancient Greek,” said Sabine. Everyone looked at her.

“How do you know that?” said Emile, looking flabbergasted.

“Because I can read Ancient Greek,” she said, “and Latin for matter. I am quite the scholar of antiquities.”

Miss Henderson rolled her eyes.

“Then what does it say?” said Emile.

Sabine picked up a piece of paper.

“The four pieces are represented by four elements, each one kept safe by a guardian who will set the seeker a task. The task will conform to the element in question, so physical for earth, intellectual for air and so on,” she read. “The elements must be acquired in order, beginning with earth.”

Emile looked shocked.

“It has taken the two of us all week just to decipher one page,” he said.

Sabine shrugged and picked up another.

“Ha! That pompous ass will be back in the shop within the hour when he sees the map. Whoever designed it is a true genius. It is a map of mind states not places. Only someone who has walked and knows the streets of this city can use it,” she read.

There was a murmur from the group.

“Then maybe it is not too bad,” said Marie. “Maybe they cannot read it.”

“They will just hire some urchin,” said Sabine. “For a centime they could crack the code. Dinard was a fool to let them have this map.”

Osvold made a whimpering noise and Phlebotomous patted him on the shoulder. Miss Henderson looked pityingly at the small vampire then shot a look at Sabine.

“Still,” said Marie, “it is some hope. Did Dinard find where the earth part was kept?”

Sabine riffled through the notes reading then rejecting several before reading one in detail. She gave a short high laugh.

“Yes,” she said, “he found it. He says that he didn’t even need to walk the street to find this place. He says it was almost too obvious, stuck between the palaces of desire and consumption.”

“Where is it?” said Sir John.

Sabine looked at all of them and smiled.

“The first element is to be found,” she said, “in Montmartre.”

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?”

Pook sat at the large table and looked across at Bisset with a fixed smile. The Frenchman was studying the map and looking at books piled around him. His jacket was off, his sleeves were pulled up and his elegantly coiffured hair was starting to hang limply over his face.

“How is it progressing?” said Pook.

“Bon, bon,” said Bisset absently.

“Your fraternity certainly requires full use of your abilities,” said Pook. “One would almost think there was… no one else.”

Bisset looked up.

“What do you mean?” he said.

“That your fraternity has no one else in it,” said Pook, “with your ability.”

Bisset stared at him.

“We are an order of quite some importance and many aims. The satisfaction of one man’s obsession is not of great significance to us,” he said before continuing his work on the map.

“And your master is very, very obsessed with this… Jennings,” Bisset added casually. “Why is that?”

“Beyond what he told you, I believe Mr Clackprattle feels personally slighted by Sir John and highly aggrieved at his treatment. He wants some reparation, some public reparation, so it is clear who is the superior,” said Pook.

“And you,” asked Bisset. “What do you seek?”

“I am my master’s servant,” said Pook. “His needs and wishes are my needs and wishes.”

Bisset glanced up at the smiling, implacable face, his eyebrows raising slightly.

“Hmm…” he said. “You understood of course that my masters have needs and wishes too.”

“Indeed,” said Pook. “From our original conversation I inferred you had a use for Mister Clackprattle’s unique talent.”

“I have a list,” said Bisset, “of enemies of the fraternity. You will take the list and remove them. But not all at once, please. And you must follow the sequence of the list.”

Pook’s eyebrows raised then.

“That’s rather a strange way to arrange assassinations,” he said.

“Our reports from the shop say that everyone believed Dinard had died of old age.” said Bisset. “Your master’s talent leaves his victims looking unmolested. The list is by age, the oldest first so as to disguise our purpose for as long as possible.”

“Of course,” said Pook. “I understand. The deaths will seem to be merely the sad passing of an aging person, rather than an underhand act.”

“Just so,” said Bisset, then suddenly “Merde! It’s so obvious! Why didn’t I see it?”

He stood up, sighed and pushed back his hair into some kind of order.

“We have the first location. I will take some refreshment now and some rest,” Bisset said wearily.  He walked away out of the room whilst Pook continued to sit.

When the door closed  Pook looked over at the map then emitted a quick, high pitched giggle. He took a pen and a piece of paper and wrote on it.

“Master, all is going to plan, we will start tomorrow.”

He then walked across to the fireplace, the large fire dying down but still active. He threw the paper into the fire and watched as the smoke rose, twisting into shapes like letters. When the paper was burned and the smoke had gone, Pook went back to the table, picked up the map and left the room. The smile on his face didn’t change once.

Dinard’s shop was empty of people and the dust was dancing in the late afternoon sunlight. From the back room there was a rustling sound and an occasional sigh. The knob on the door to the street rattled.

“It looks like no-one’s in,” said Sir John from outside.

“Good,” said Emile. “Stand over there a minute, will you?”

“If you like,” said Sir John. There was a scratching noise at the door in the lock, then some clicking and finally the door swung open. The sounds in the back room stopped instantly.

“Voila!” said Emile, walking into the shop.

“You can’t do that!” said Sir John, hovering outside the door.

“I just did,” said Emile. “Come on in Sir John and I’ll show you what I saw.”

“I don’t think I should,” said Sir John, still hovering.

“Then I shall bring it out,” said Emile.

“You shouldn’t do that either, it’s theft,” said Sir John. He hopped from one foot to another then sighed and came into the shop.

“I knew you’d see sense,” said Emile. “Besides, this is important.”

“Why couldn’t you tell me before?” said Sir John.

“Well, I didn’t want to scare Marie, and besides I thought you wouldn’t agree to come if I told you what I was planning to do,” said Emile. Sir John sighed again.

“You were probably right,” he said. “What is it you want to show me?”

Emile grinned and then vaulted over the counter. Sir John gapsed and waved his arms in the vague direction of the Frenchman.

“You can’t… that’s not…” spluttered Sir John.

“I was ‘ere the other day, the one after Dinard died,” said Emile from underneath the counter. “I had a book on order from him. I know the tat on the shelves is garbage, but he knew how to get the good stuff too. So I thought I’d try to find his order book and see what had happened to my order.”

Emile stood up and placed a small book onto the counter.

“I didn’t find it,” he said, “but I found something else. His appointment book.”

Emile opened the book and pushed it toward Sir John. The smile had gone now.

“Guess who he saw on his last day?” said Emile.

Sir John looked puzzled at the small book then gasped again.

“Clackprattle!” he said.

“Indeed,” said Emile. “It was maybe a couple of hours before you came in and…”

Emile suddenly stopped and put a finger to his lips. Sir John looked puzzled and Emile tapped his ear. He then darted into the backroom. There was a crashing sound and some shouting and Emile came back dragging a young, thin man with a pale face.

“Who are you?” Emile was shouting. “What are you doing in this shop?”

The young man was shaking and squirming out of the evening sunlight.

“I… I… I…” he said, “I work here, Monsieur, for Monsieur Dinard.”

Emile snorted.

“Well, I haven’t seen you before,” he said. “Who are you?”

“Os – Osvold”, said the young man. Still squirming and shaking.

Sir John stood very still and tilted his head.

“Osvold,” he said slowly, “do you mostly work at night?”

The young man nodded vigorously.

“And did M Dinard look after you… perhaps… bring you… food?” said Sir John.

Osvold’s eye’s dropped to the floor and he nodded.

“I think,” said Sir John, glancing at Emile, “we need to introduce you to a friend of ours.”