Rip remembered a college class he had taken at Texas A&M-Corpus Christi, online in the metaweb. The professor divided everyone up into groups, then gave each group certain tasks.

Afterward, they were asked to think about the roles people naturally fell into. There were leaders, facilitators, gatekeepers, expeditors and record keepers.

The point of the exercise, as best as Rip could remember, was that people tend to gravitate toward group roles. Nature abhors a vacuum, and all that.

A man in the crowd stepped up and began ordering people around. Rip figured this guy was falling into the natural leader’s role.

He made sure Rip and Blair had room, turning people away from the Sir Winston’s corpse. He sent others on errands, making sure the police were notified. He checked on everyone to see if they needed medical attention.

Rip did not even get the guy’s name until a phalanx of officers stormed into the room holding batons. An older man wearing a faded fedora and a drab gray overcoat led them into the room. He stopped with the blue-uniformed men lined up behind him.

“I’m Chief Inspector Sperry. Who’s in charge here?”

The man who had been ordering everybody around stepped up and shook the inspector’s hand.

“I am. Thurmond Threadgill, secondary executor for Brooke & Company.”

He cleared his throat and glanced at Blair and the body lying on the floor.

“The primary executor is recently deceased, thanks to those foul creatures.”

Sperry turned to the officers behind him and said, “Nobody leaves without a statement. Get to work.”

The men nodded and split, approaching all the businessmen in the room at once.

“If there is anything I can do, Chief Inspector, please know that I will personally see to it that all the resources of our fine organization will be at your disposal. Please don’t hesitate—”

“Please give your statement to an officer, Mr. Threadgill.”

“I . . . it appears they are all busy, at the moment.”

Sperry glanced over his shoulder and watched as a woman officer walked into the room, looking around.

“There you are, Officer Paulson. Please take Mr. Threadgill’s statement.”

The woman nodded and pulled out a notepad and pencil.

Threadgill’s face dropped.

“A female peeler? How droll.”

“Not a laughing matter at all, I assure you. Ms. Paulson is a sworn officer of the law, and highly competent. Now, if you will excuse me.”

He cut away from the protesting Threadgill and made his way over to where Blair sat, silently crying. Rip stood watching her, feeing helpless.

“Lady Brooke, if you please. We must move forward.”

Sperry gently took her hand and helped her up. She sat her father’s head down gently on the floor.

When she stepped aside, Sperry took off his overcoat and laid it over the top half of the body, covering Sir Winston’s face.

Blair buried herself in Rip’s side, and he held her, one arm wrapped tight around her waist. Her grief-wracked sobs made him feel even worse.

Sperry glanced down at Rip’s bullet-pocked front, the shirt stained with blood, and the swelling bruise on Rip’s jaw.

He sighed and pulled out his own notebook and pencil.

“What happened?”

He listened as Rip quickly recounted recent events from his perspective. He frowned when Rip told him about the woman in the carriage and underlined something in his notes. His eyes narrowed to a thoughtful squint when Rip finished.

“You say you left a man unconscious out on the street?”

“That’s right. I heard the police whistles and figured they would detain him. I wanted to get back here to Blair as quickly as possible.”

“There was no one out there when we came in.”

Rip raised an eyebrow.

“Dang it. I knew he was enhanced, but I thought he’d stay down for a few minutes. I ruined a gun, I hit him so hard. Repeatedly.”

“I am familiar with the name, Wallace Biggin. I would very much like to interrogate him, since he is our primary suspect in more than a few murders.”

“What’s his story?”

“Former military, Royal Army. Served in South Africa.”

“So, he was enhanced for his service?”

“No. He was not an officer. He was a fusileer. If he was enhanced, our boffins certainly didn’t do it.”

“But you haven’t been able to catch him since he came back to Ethinium and started causing trouble.”

“We are aware of his affiliation with the Luddites. And witnesses have placed him at the scene of various crimes attributed to them. And, yes, that includes some murders. Particularly of industrialists. They attacked you two and Sir Brooke not long ago, if my memory serves.”

Rip nodded.

“Yes, they attacked the carriage we were in. But in that instance, they used older guns.”

“Yes, the Beaumont-Adams 442. Black powder revolver, five-round cylinder. I remember.”

Rip was impressed, especially since Sperry was not enhanced. He would have to rely on his own memory, not a skill.

Sperry saw the look Rip gave him and added, “I own a handful of older firearms myself. I’m quite familiar with all the guns of Europe down through the centuries. It’s an odd hobby, I admit, but I do find it helpful when dealing with various cases.”

“Everybody’s got to have a hobby. My dad collected older electronics. I knew some people who collected antique firearms, too.”

“Ah. A fellow aficionado, then.”

“Not quite. I prefer modern guns. Speaking of which, I think you’ll find the two rifles from those guys we shot are going to be Mauser semi-autos.”

Sperry glanced over to where his officers were examining the bodies of the dead Luddites. One of them gingerly picked up a fallen rifle, removing the magazine.

“Yes, that is rather out of character. There is another odd element to this whole nasty business, isn’t there?”

Rip rubbed at the bruise on his chin and winced when he brushed the tender spot.

“And what is that, Chief Inspector?”

“How is it, in this tightly packed room, with all these people in here, two men with semi-automatic, state-of-the-art rifles . . . manage to only shoot one man?

Rip’s eyes narrowed in thought.

“Well, I did get shot, too. Not that it counts.”

“Yes, let me consult my notes. The first one came in and shot you specifically. You rolled out of the way, came up and returned fire. The second man, I believe, proceeded to target Sir Winston at the same time Lady Brooke fired at him. Does that sound correct?”

Rip nodded. It was not the way he told the story, but Sperry had connected the dots. He looked down at Blair, still holding to his side. She had stopped crying by now and was following the conversation.

She nodded too, when the chief inspector glanced at her.

Sperry said, “If so, then what we have here is a targeted hit. An assassination.”

Rip watched as Blair’s face hardened into a grim mask.

“I’ll be proceeding with the investigation using that hypothesis. Thank you for your statements. If you will excuse me, I must supervise my squad.”

He filed the notepad away in a pocket and stowed his pencil away. Then he left them, moving to the officers inspecting the bodies and the Mausers.

Rip looked down at Blair, who stared stony eyed at the people in the room.

He tried to remember the stages of grief and failed to recall their order.

But he could tell that Blair had shifted firmly into the anger stage.