“O God, the Protector of all Kingdoms and in particular of the Christian Empire, grant to Thy servant our King Henry always to work wisely for the triumph of Thy power, that being a prince in virtue of Thy institution he may always continue mighty by virtue of Thy grace.”

Hours later, as the sun was struggling against dark morning clouds, Cat and Keziah pulled up in front of a takeaway just off Knightrider. The aroma of grease and grilled meat was thick in the air. The front of the takeaway and the marcà next door were both covered in several layers of graffiti. The top level read “GOONS GO HOME!” and implored “Cretins” to achieve improbable anatomical feats, while faded letters beneath that crude scrawl apparently invoked the Good Queen Mary, presumably for her intercession against the sort of people who wrote the graffiti immediately above and below that invocation.

Old Blackspire, St. Paul’s cathedral, loomed nearby. (The church was ancient, the spire considerably less so.) Closer at hand was a more animated manifestation of the Church in England – Father Peter Alleyne, one of the Constabulary chaplains. He was a reedy old Lancastrian with a limp, a cane and a broad-brimmed hat fixed in place with a cord under his chin, his liver-spotted face forever slightly taut and puckered.

“The girl lived with her grandmother,” Cat said. “Just around the corner. The blue house – you can’t miss it.” It was the only blue house on the street, peeling paint clinging to warping wood instead of black-and-brick like most of the others, sandwiched between two houses flying the red and white flag of England. Across from it was a three storey pile used by a gaggle of the local drug dealers (it didn’t fly St. George’s flag, but one was crudely painted on the front door). The rest of the neighborhood wasn’t much better.

At least, Cat thought, the sots have all crawled out of the sunlight. It didn’t seem right delivering death notification with some vomitous lout stumbling up and down the pavement.