A Most Unlikely Detective

by cozycrimelover

Summary:

Guardian angel Samuel of Great Slaughter is bored, and decides to start meddling in the village life. At first, he observes the villagers in cat form, but after a while he wants to be involved more directly and so he crafts the persona of Sam Gillespie to join the local police force. Sam tries to hide his true form from the sharp eyes of Sister Boniface, Peggy and Felix.

Chapter 1

The village of Great Slaughter lay cradled among the gentle folds of the Cotswolds, its honey-coloured stone cottages glowing warmly beneath the tender light of dawn. The air was cool and damp with the memory of night, carrying with it the mingled scents of freshly baked bread, dew on wild thyme, and the faint tang of chimney smoke. Cobblestone lanes wound lazily between houses, their gardens bursting with late roses and hollyhocks that leaned companionably against low stone walls.

The new week stirred to life with all its familiar rituals. Mr. Button, the stout butcher with forearms like oak trunks, could be heard banging about in his shop, laying out trays of lamb chops and pork sausages, his white apron already marked with the day’s work. Across the green, the postman was making his steady round, whistling as he tucked newspapers into letterboxes, pausing here and there for a quick word with early risers. From behind lace-curtained windows came the muffled clatter of crockery and the cheerful scolding of mothers urging their children to finish their porridge before the school bell rang. The sound of bicycles being wheeled out onto the lane mingled with the impatient bark of a terrier tugging at its lead.
It was, by every measure, an ordinary Monday morning.

And yet, high above the village, in the clock tower of St. Vincent’s Convent, something otherworldly stirred.

Samuel, though he preferred the less lofty “Sam”, watched from the shadows of the bell chamber. To the villagers he was invisible, forgotten, just another relic of the past like the weathered and crooked gravestones in the churchyard. But he was more than memory. He had been their guardian for centuries, long before the first stone of Great Slaughter had been set, long before its name had found its way onto maps. Once, the people had lit candles to him and carved his likeness into wood and glass. Now, they went about their lives unknowing, leaving him to his own devices.

It was a dull existence for one who had once moved armies and calmed tempests. These days, his divine interventions stretched no further than righting a toppled bicycle or nudging a stray ewe back through a broken gate. Necessary, perhaps, but not exactly inspiring. And so he watched, and he grew restless.
Lately, however, there had been diversions. The village police station provided no end of quiet amusement. Detective Inspector Harold Williams, stalwart and stubborn as an oak stump, clung to the investigative methods of his youth, while his unlikely counterpart, Sister Boniface of St. Vincent’s, had begun to make her mark. Sam had followed her adventures with growing fascination: the sharp-eyed nun with her odd contraptions and sparkling wit, unravelling mysteries while Williams harrumphed at her unorthodox ways.

This morning, as the convent bells prepared to toll the hour, Sam felt the itch of curiosity prickle through him more keenly than ever. Watching from afar would no longer suffice.

The air shimmered faintly around him, like sunlight on water. A hush fell over the pigeons roosting in the rafters as his tall, radiant form contracted, folded, and reshaped itself. When the light faded, a tabby cat stretched languidly where an angel had stood, its fur striped like old bronze and its eyes glimmering with impossible depths.

Sam arched his back, flicked his tail, and padded softly down the spiral staircase of the clock tower. Emerging into the morning bustle, he wove between the villagers’ legs unseen for what he was, no more remarkable to them than any other cat that might haunt a churchyard.
But he was not any other cat. His eyes saw further, and his mind lingered on matters the villagers would never dream of.
By the time he reached the police station, the sun had climbed higher, gilding the windows with bright panes of gold. Sam leapt onto the sill in a single graceful motion, curled his tail neatly around himself, and settled into the warmth of the glass. To the casual passerby, he was nothing more than a tabby enjoying the morning sun.

But behind those watchful eyes, the guardian of Great Slaughter was very much awake. Sam had not been basking on the sill long when the peace of the morning was disturbed by raised voices drifting through the half-open window. His ears, far sharper than any mortal’s, pricked immediately.

Inside, in the cramped but tidy office of Chief Constable Hector Lowsley, Detective Inspector Harold Williams was marching back and forth like a man determined to wear a groove in the floorboards. His hands were stuffed deep in his coat pockets, his brow furrowed so tightly it seemed permanent.
“Why in heaven’s name,” Harold barked, his voice rising in frustration, “do I have to keep working with that godforsaken nun of yours, Hector? My methods are fine as they are! Always have been.”

Sam, tail twitching with faint amusement, shifted closer to the windowpane.
Hector Lowsley, who had weathered thirty years of Harold’s stubbornness, sat patiently behind his oak desk, a man built for patience if ever there was one. He rubbed the bridge of his nose with thumb and forefinger, the gesture of a friend who had heard this speech before.
“Harold,” Hector said with deliberate calm, “it’s because of her that we now have the highest clean-up rate in the county.”
“Oh, clean-up rate, is it?” Harold snorted, halting his march only to jab a finger in Hector’s direction. “Paper figures! Ticking boxes and filing forms—that’s what it is. I’ve been solving murders since before that girl was born. I don’t need a nun with a chemistry set telling me what mud on a boot means.”
Hector sighed, leaning back in his chair. The early sunlight slanted across the room, highlighting the dust motes that spun in the air between them. His voice softened, as if to coax rather than confront.

“You and I both know it’s more than mud on a boot, Harold. She sees what others don’t. That business with the poisoned marmalade—would you have spotted it?”
Harold gave a harrumph, as though the very suggestion were an insult. “Any detective worth his salt could have put it together. In time.”
“In time?” Hector’s eyebrows shot upward. “The poor vicar might have been six feet under before your ‘in time’ arrived. Be fair, old man. Sister Boniface saved his life.”
Harold resumed his pacing, muttering under his breath, the stubborn set of his jaw betraying him. “Not the point… not the point at all…”
Hector allowed the silence to hang for a moment, then added more gently, “You’ve always been one of the best, Harold. But times are changing. Methods are changing. I don’t want you left behind.”
For the first time, Harold faltered. His steps slowed, his shoulders slumped ever so slightly, though his words were still barbed. “Left behind? At my age, Hector, that’s hardly encouraging.”

The Chief Constable’s expression softened with a flicker of genuine fondness. “You know that’s not what I mean. You’ve still got plenty of fire in you—heaven help us all. But you could do worse than let the nun teach you a trick or two. Even I’ve had to admit it.”
Sam, perched on the sill, purred silently to himself. The quarrel between the two men was as old as their friendship, Hector’s measured good sense pitted against Harold’s proud obstinacy. Yet beneath the bluster Sam could hear the truth: affection, respect, the kind of bond forged over decades of shared work and shared burdens.

But what intrigued him most was not their quarrel, it was the nun at the heart of it. Sister Boniface. She, Sam suspected, might prove rather more interesting than either man yet realised.

Sam’s ears pricked again at the sound of a new voice at the doorway, lighter, brisker, threaded with curiosity.
“Am I interrupting something?”
Sister Boniface stood framed in the doorway of the Chief Constable’s office, adjusting her glasses with the absentminded air of someone whose thoughts were already three steps ahead. She carried a slim folder pressed against her habit, her cheeks faintly flushed from the walk across the courtyard.
Sam’s gaze sharpened. Here she was at last, the nun who had so confounded the Detective Inspector and, by all accounts, invigorated the quiet little police station with her peculiar genius. From the sill, he studied her with keen feline eyes. She had the look of someone both rooted and untethered, rooted in her vocation, untethered in her ideas. It intrigued him. Mortals so rarely combined the two.
Hector Lowsley looked up with obvious relief, as though the very sight of her might prevent Harold from erupting further. Harold, for his part, groaned audibly and rolled his eyes.

“I come bearing gifts,” Sister Boniface announced, stepping fully into the room. She placed the folder neatly on CC Lowsley’s desk. “The results of the analysis of the substance found on Mr. Knight’s windowsill are in.”
DI Williams heaved a sigh that seemed dredged up from the soles of his boots, then flicked his hand in a gesture somewhere between permission and surrender. “Go on, then.”
Boniface opened the folder, her eyes scanning quickly over her notes before she spoke. “The sample contained sawdust, mixed with an ethanol–water solution carrying a complex mixture of volatile and nonvolatile congeners… along with several aromatic compounds of interest.”
She paused deliberately, her gaze flicking toward DI Williams, who now looked as though someone had asked him to recite Latin at a fête. After a moment’s silence, Harold cast a longsuffering look at Hector, his eyebrows climbing in unison with his patience dwindling. The expression said plainly: This is exactly what I mean.
Sister Boniface cleared her throat, her eyes twinkling just slightly. “In other words: sawdust mixed with a very specific type of rum.”
At that moment the door creaked, and a head of tidy auburn hair appeared round the frame. WPC Peggy Button, her hat perched precisely above her bun, leaned in with the quiet eagerness of someone still new enough to her post to be perpetually attentive.
“Oh!” Peggy brightened, her voice carrying the cheerful lilt of recognition. “I often see Mr. Smith with a bottle of rum in hand. Might be worth testing his.”
“Very good, Peggy!” Sister Boniface said warmly, beaming at the young constable as though she had just solved the case herself.
Harold groaned again, though this time with less venom, and waved a hand toward Peggy. “Go on then. Fetch a sample. Let’s see if the man’s guilty of bad taste in drink as well as anything else.”

Peggy nodded briskly, disappearing as quickly as she’d arrived, leaving behind the faint scent of starch and fresh paper.
Through it all, Sam had not moved. His tail curled neatly around his paws, his golden-green eyes fixed on Sister Boniface. Unlike the men, she had noticed him the instant she entered the room. Her gaze had lingered for a heartbeat too long, her lips twitching with what might have been amusement.
Now, as Harold resumed muttering and Hector rubbed at his temple, Sister Boniface glanced once more toward the windowsill. Her head tilted almost imperceptibly. “And who,” she murmured half to herself, adjusting her glasses again, “might you be?”
Sam blinked slowly in return, the deliberate feline gesture of acknowledgment. In that moment, he was almost certain she knew—if not what he was, then at least that he was something more than an ordinary village cat.

The thought delighted him.

Chapter 2

The following morning dawned pale and cool, with a thin mist still clinging to the hedgerows. Sam, having watched the village stir to life from his perch on the convent clock tower, decided his curiosity could wait no longer. If Sister Boniface was half as clever as Hector claimed and half as infuriating as Harold believed, he wished to see her at work with his own eyes.

Padding silently through the cobbled lanes, he made his way toward St. Vincent’s. In this smaller form, the convent seemed to rise above him like a fortress, its red-brick bulk far more austere than the honey-coloured cottages of the village. The building caught the morning light in a way that made the stone glow faintly, but the shadows beneath the arches were deep and secretive. Sam’s sharp eyes noticed everything: every ivy tendril, every bird in the eaves, and most pointedly, the weathered slab of stone beside the heavy oak doors. Its carving, softened by centuries of wind and rain, still bore a faint inscription: In honour of our guardian angel, Samuel.

Sam paused, a wry smile tugging at the corners of his feline mouth. Forgotten, perhaps, but not entirely erased. He flicked his tail smugly and padded on.
Inside, the convent corridors were alive with the rustle of habits and the echo of sandals on flagstones. He slipped between the sisters as they hurried about their morning tasks.
“Look, a cat!” cried Sister Peter, pausing mid-stride to tug at Sister Reginald’s sleeve.
“What’s he doing here?” Reginald wondered aloud, bending slightly as though to coax him closer.
Sam had no intention of being fussed over like a household pet. With a quick dart and a flick of his striped tail, he vanished down the passageway toward the one place he meant to be.

The laboratory smelled of polish, paper, and faintly of rum. Sister Boniface was already at her bench, her sleeves rolled up, goggles perched on her forehead, as she studied a row of glass beakers lined neatly before her. The morning sun slanted through the tall windows, striking the vials and making them gleam like tiny jewels.
“Hello there,” she murmured without looking up, her tone absent but warm. When she glanced over, her green eyes caught him squarely. “Come to shield yourself from the wind, have you?”
Sam leapt lightly onto a stack of books at the edge of the room and settled himself, his paws tucked neatly beneath him. From there he observed, his gaze never leaving her as she adjusted flasks, made careful notes, and pipetted tiny measures of liquid into waiting test tubes. She worked with the patience of a scholar and the precision of a surgeon, yet there was something lively, almost playful, in the way she approached her task.
After a while, she gave a small triumphant hum. “Bingo,” she muttered, peering through the light at a test tube that had bloomed with colour. She removed her goggles and glanced at Sam with the faintest hint of a smile. “Might as well bore you with it,” she said, resting her hands on the bench. “Peggy was right. Mr Smith’s Zacapa rum matches the residue we found at the scene exactly.”

Sam’s whiskers twitched, though his expression remained serene. He, of course, had known from the first whiff. Angelic senses left little room for doubt. Still, it pleased him to watch her arrive at the truth by her own peculiar path.
Sister Boniface sighed, gathering her notes together. “Better head to the station and tell DI Williams.” She pursed her lips in a wry little grimace. “Though I expect he won’t be thrilled to see me.”
Sam blinked slowly at her, as though to say she should go all the same. She gave a small laugh, almost embarrassed, as if caught speaking to herself. Yet her gaze lingered on him for a while, before leaving the room briskly.

That afternoon, Sam strolled through the village at a leisurely pace, tail flicking with satisfaction as he soaked in the warmth of the sun and the gentle rhythm of Great Slaughter. The lanes were alive with the usual afternoon bustle: Mrs. Cartwright’s terrier barking at a delivery boy, a group of children chasing a hoop down the cobblestones, and the faint scent of fresh bread drifting from the bakery on the corner. Sam wove smoothly between the legs of villagers and carts, his amber-green eyes taking in every detail with the quiet amusement only a cat or a centuries-old guardian angel could afford.
As he rounded the square, he spotted Peggy Button slipping into her father’s butcher shop. Curiosity nudged him forward. She paused at the counter, her auburn hair catching the sunlight as she leaned in close to Ted Button, who was wiping his hands on his apron. Sam padded softly to a shadowed corner near the doorway, ears twitching as he settled to listen.

“So there’s going to be a detective sergeant joining the police forces soon,” Peggy said, her voice low but full of excitement. “From Bermuda, of all places. Imagine that, Dad, someone actually exotic.”
Ted Button chuckled, drying his hands carefully before leaning on the counter. “Bermuda, eh? Well, I hope he likes a proper English breakfast, girl. None of that island nonsense on my watch.”

Peggy grinned. “I’m sure he’ll survive. But it’ll be nice, having another pair of eyes around. Maybe he’ll finally keep DI Williams on his toes. Oh, and you’ll be pleased to hear, Mr. Smith has been arrested for breaking into the bakery yesterday. That was my idea, Dad, to make sure we had enough evidence before bringing him in. And I also suggested that Sister Boniface test his rum to see if it matched the sample from the crime scene. It worked perfectly.”
Ted Button laughed, the sound warm and familiar, the kind that filled the small shop and made Sam’s ears flick at pleasure. “I’ll hold you responsible if your new colleague gets lost in the village on his first day. You’re supposed to show him the ropes, not scare him off.”
Peggy rolled her eyes, leaning forward to pat her father’s arm. “Don’t worry, Dad. I’ve got it covered. Besides, I’ll make sure he knows exactly where to find the best meat. Speaking of which…” She glanced down at Sam, who had chosen that very moment to stroll into the light, tail upright and whiskers quivering.
“Well, hello there, little fellow,” she said, bending to scratch him behind the ears. “Come for a treat, have you?” She reached into a small dish at her father’s side and offered a piece of freshly cut meat. Sam’s nose twitched, and he accepted it with delicate precision, savoring the taste while keeping one eye on Peggy.
“You’re lucky, you know,” Peggy said softly, more to Sam than to her father. “I saw you at the station yesterday. You seemed… unusually observant, always watching everything, as if you knew far more than you let on.”

Sam flicked his tail in acknowledgment, settling comfortably on the counter. Her words amused him. She had no idea how true they were. He had been watching, always, and he noted the careful way she handled her father, the warm affection in their easy banter, and the way she took her work seriously without ever letting it harden her.

Peggy stood and adjusted her skirt. “Well, I suppose I should go back to the station. I’ll have to make sure our detective from Bermuda can find everything, right now it is still quite a mess.”
Ted Button smiled, a mixture of pride and gentle warning in his gaze. “And make sure you don’t scare him off, girl. That’s an order.”
“I’ll try, Dad,” she said, waving lightly as she left. Sam followed her with his eyes, intrigued not only by her kindness and careful attention to her work but by the mention of this new detective. A stranger from across the sea, arriving soon in the village, what stories, what disturbances might that bring? Sam’s whiskers twitched with anticipation. It seemed that even in this quiet corner of the Cotswolds, life never remained quite as ordinary as it appeared.
With the last sliver of meat savored, Sam leapt lightly onto a windowsill to watch Peggy disappear around the corner, already planning how best to observe this new arrival when the time came. The village hummed around him, sun-warmed and oblivious, while the unseen guardian of Great Slaughter settled back into his silent vigil.

Chapter 3

A few days later, Sam lay sprawled across a wooden bench in the village square, paws tucked neatly under his chest, his fur glinting bronze in the early morning sun. The stillness suited him, a moment of quiet between observing the endless dramas of mortal life. He had just closed his eyes when the air shifted. First came the sounds of clattering hooves and laughter, then the chorus of fiddles and pipes, and soon the entire village erupted into the cheerful chaos of celebration.
The Mangold Wurzel Festival had begun.

Sam cracked one eye open, his tail flicking once against the wood. Bunting fluttered from every lamppost, stalls lined the square with pies, jellies, and towering jars of pickled vegetables, people dressed as haystacks, and children darted about with painted faces. To the villagers, this was tradition, joy, community. To Sam, it was another display of the endearing absurdity of humankind.

“Mortals and their dilly-dallying,” he thought with a faint purr of amusement. “All this fuss over nothing at all.” The angel-cat yawned widely, about to drift back into a light doze, when a shrill scream cut across the merriment. The music faltered, the laughter stopped, and a ripple of panic coursed through the crowd. Sam’s ears swiveled sharply, his body instantly alert. Within moments he had leapt from the bench and padded swiftly down the cobbled lane toward the commotion.
By the time he arrived, so had DI Williams, his hat slightly askew as he pushed through the knot of onlookers. Gasps and murmurs filled the air, for what had begun as a harmless game at a fairground stall had taken a grim turn. The puppet at the coconut shy, a jovial stuffed figure with a painted grin, had lost its head. Quite literally. And inside, hidden grotesquely where stuffing should have been, was the body of a woman.

Sam’s gaze lingered on her pale features, now exposed for all to see. Grace Pearson, he heard someone whisper, the name passing quickly through the crowd.
Before Williams could bark an order, the familiar sputter of a motorbike engine drew attention. Sister Boniface appeared on her red Vespa, her habit fluttering behind her in the breeze, a sidecar rattling along beside her. In it sat a young man, newly arrived, his expression a mixture of awe and confusion as he took in the spectacle of both the crowd and his eccentric driver.

“That will be Detective Sergeant Felix Livingstone,” Sam mused, his whiskers twitching with interest. “A new player enters the stage.”
They parked near the edge of the square, and while Felix climbed out awkwardly, brushing dust from his trousers, Sister Boniface strode forward with purposeful steps. DI Williams gave her a look of long-suffering exasperation as she approached, but said nothing.

“Inspector,” she said brightly, adjusting her glasses as she surveyed the grim scene. “Rather unfortunate start to the festival, don’t you think?”
Williams grumbled under his breath, too low for most to hear, though Sam caught the words. Something about “insufferable nuns.”
Unperturbed, Sister Boniface reached into her bag and produced three pairs of white cotton gloves, two of which she handed with cheerful efficiency to Williams and Felix. The latter took his pair with polite confusion, clearly uncertain why a nun was distributing investigative equipment. Williams, scowling, tugged his gloves on with brisk, almost angry movements.

Felix hesitated, glancing between the inspector and Sister Boniface as though he had stumbled into some elaborate village joke. “Forgive me,” he began carefully, his accent smooth and lilting, “but I did not expect the nun who collected me from the station to also be… involved in matters of police investigation.”
“Oh, you’ll find Sister Boniface indispensable,” Williams muttered dryly, though his tone suggested quite the opposite.
Sam, watching from beneath a nearby cart, licked one paw and drew it leisurely over his ear, outwardly the picture of feline indifference. But his keen eyes missed nothing. He noted the way Felix shifted uncomfortably, torn between courtesy and incredulity. He observed the tightening of Williams’s jaw, the clipped manner of his movements betraying irritation he could barely contain. And he studied Sister Boniface, calm and entirely in her element, bending to examine the body with a concentration that silenced the muttering crowd.

“It appears,” she announced after a moment, her voice clear but solemn, “that the victim was suffocated with sawdust. And here, ” she leaned closer, plucking delicately at the face, “the murder weapon”, as she dislodged a doll shoe from the victims nose. “Quite unusual.”
A collective gasp swept through the bystanders. Felix blinked rapidly, clearly unsure whether to be horrified or simply bewildered. Williams muttered something indistinct and pinched the bridge of his nose.

Sam, however, flicked his tail once and remained still. Sawdust was unsurprising to him; he had scented it minutes ago already. What intrigued him was not the grim discovery, but the interplay of those around it. Sister Boniface’s calm certainty. Felix Livingstone’s dawning sense that he had walked into a village far stranger than he had ever imagined. And DI Williams, bristling with frustration, his patience stretched thinner with every passing moment.
From his vantage point in the shadows, Sam watched it all, a guardian amused and thoughtful, eager to watch the case unfold, though getting a bit restless about not getting to interfere more directly.

The days that followed the festival were tense ones. The murder of Grace Pearson had cast a long shadow over the village, and the investigation should have been straightforward, but DI Harold Williams’s temper had grown shorter with every passing hour.
Sam, ever watchful, noted how Williams’s clipped remarks toward Sister Boniface became sharper, his sighs louder, his patience frayed thinner than the edge of a butcher’s knife. He needled her in the square, in the convent laboratory, and even at the police station, where Felix and Peggy often found themselves trapped between the two like pawns in a chess game.

One afternoon, as Boniface examined fibers under her microscope, DI Williams loomed nearby with folded arms and a glare that could have curdled milk.
“You will insist on wasting time with all these fiddly tests,” he muttered, his voice low but edged like broken glass. “A good copper knows how to read people, not… sawdust and shoe leather.”

“I am simply following the evidence, Inspector,” Sister Boniface replied lightly, adjusting her glasses. “It tends to be less prone to emotional bias than, shall we say… instinct.”
Felix, standing at the side of the cramped room with Peggy, raised his brows at the verbal volley. He leaned closer, speaking just above a whisper. “Are they always like this?”
Peggy sighed, her arms folded. “Unfortunately, yes. You get used to it after a while.”

Felix shook his head slowly, his accent lilting, his voice warm but tinged with disbelief. “Back home, if we had two officers carrying on like that, the Commissioner would have locked them both in a room until they sorted themselves out. Unorthodox though she may be, the Sister does have a bright mind. I’ll grant her that.”
Peggy smiled faintly, pleased at his observation. “She does more than anyone gives her credit for. But the inspector… well, he does not like being shown up.”
By midweek, Williams’s frustration boiled over. In the convent lab, where Boniface had laid out carefully catalogued samples from the crime scene, he brushed past with deliberate clumsiness, knocking a tray of evidence to the floor. Glass vials shattered, their contents ruined. Later, files from her desk mysteriously disappeared, only to be discovered days later in the bottom drawer of Williams’s own office cabinet.
It was sabotage, plain and simple. And it left Sister Boniface, pragmatic as always, with no choice. That evening, she requested an audience with Chief Constable Hector Lowsley.

The meeting was difficult, even Sam could sense it as he slipped in through an open window to perch on a high shelf. Boniface, measured and precise, laid out her concerns. Lowsley listened, his fingers steepled, his eyes shadowed with worry.
When she finished, he nodded gravely. “Thank you, Sister. Leave this with me.”

Not long after, Harold Williams was summoned. The atmosphere in the Chief Constable’s office was heavy, the kind of silence that pressed into the walls and made the ticking of the clock seem far too loud. Lowsley rose as Harold entered, forcing a smile that did not reach his eyes.
“Harold, old chap. Sit down, would you?”

Williams did not sit. He remained standing, his jaw set, his fists tight at his sides. “What is it now, Hector? Another lecture about the nun?”
Lowsley sighed, rubbing a hand across his brow. “This cannot go on. You know I’ve defended you time and again, but sabotaging evidence, misplacing files…, Harold, you’ve left me with no choice.”

“She undermines me at every turn,” Williams growled. “You know how she is. Insufferable. Always meddling where she does not belong.”
Hector’s eyes softened with something like sorrow. “I know you feel that way, Harold. Truly, I do. But I cannot keep finding excuses for you. You’re a good man, and a good detective, but this village… this work… perhaps it has worn you thin. Maybe it is time you enjoy your free time. Step away.”
For a moment, Harold said nothing. His chest rose and fell, the old friendship between them flickering in the air like a candle in a draft. Then his face hardened.

“I see how it is. ‘Old friend’.”

Without another word, he turned on his heel and marched out of the office, the slam of the door reverberating through the station.
Lowsley remained still, his hands pressed to the edge of his desk, his head bowed. “God forgive me,” he murmured softly, “for doing what needed doing.”
From his shadowed perch, Sam observed the grief etched on the Chief Constable’s face and felt the weight of it. Mortals, he thought, were always bound by loyalties that cut too deep, making duty feel like betrayal.

And yet, Sam also knew this was only the beginning. The loss of Harold Williams was not an ending, but the opening of a door, and he felt an idea forming in his head. And right after the job opening was posted, as by divine intervention, an application under the name of Sam Gillespie, complete with an outstanding track record and impeccable references was found in the police post box.

Chapter 4

The morning sun slanted across the high windows of the village bakery, turning the glass panes into golden mirrors. Sam paused there, studying the reflection that stared back at him. In this guise he had chosen, he looked every bit the polished detective inspector: tousled brown hair that seemed to fall into place by design rather than accident, a sharp jawline softened by just enough stubble to make him approachable, and those storm-grey eyes. Eyes that, if the light caught them just right, seemed to hold a fleeting glimmer of gold.

He straightened his collar with a touch of vanity, then smoothed his jacket. A small smirk tugged at his lips. Mortals liked appearances, and he had always been rather good at playing the part they expected. With a last appraising glance at his reflection, he turned on his heel and strode toward the police station, his step light yet purposeful, a man entirely at ease in his own skin.

Inside, the station was alive with the ordinary hum of the morning: typewriters clacking, a constable answering the ringing telephone with a harried “Great Slaughter Police, how may I help?” and the faint smell of ink, paper, and fresh polish rising from the desks.
“Morning, all,” Sam announced as he swept into the room, his voice carrying a confident warmth that made several heads turn. He leaned casually against a tall cupboard crammed with old files, crossing one ankle over the other.

Peggy looked up from her paperwork and blinked at him, momentarily taken aback. Then, with a professional briskness, she rose and approached, hand extended. “Ah, you must be the new detective inspector.”
Sam took her hand with a firm but not overbearing grip, flashing a smile that was both charming and unreadable. “DI Sam Gillespie. A pleasure.”
Before Peggy could say more, Felix pushed back his chair and stood. He smoothed his tie, his accent carrying a warm lilt as he said, “Detective Inspector. Welcome to Great Slaughter. Felix Livingstone, Detective Sergeant.”

Sam nodded, shaking his hand as well. “Good to meet you both. But before we get too comfortable, I should probably introduce myself to the big boss.” He tapped his knuckles lightly against the cupboard and, without waiting for their reply, walked with that same unhurried confidence toward Chief Constable Lowsley’s office.
As the door closed behind him, Peggy arched a brow. “He seems very sure of himself,” she murmured.
Felix folded his arms, his expression thoughtful rather than dismissive. “Let’s not judge him too quickly, Peg. Confidence is not always arrogance. And I admit, I am curious how he will take to… certain local peculiarities.”
Peggy’s lips curved in the hint of a smile. “You mean Sister Boniface.”
“Exactly that,” Felix replied, lowering his voice just enough to make Peggy chuckle. “I doubt he’s fully grasped just how involved a certain nun tends to be in these investigations.” He leaned back in his chair, a wry smile tugging at his lips. “She practically solved the last case at the Mangold Wurzel Festival single-handedly. Forensics, insight, intuition.., she’s invaluable. Frankly, I don’t know how we’d manage without her.”

At that precise moment, the door opened, and Sister Boniface entered, her arms full of files. Her habit brushed neatly against the floor as she moved, and her face carried the same determined cheerfulness that seemed to radiate from her whenever she was in her element.
“Morning, all,” she called brightly, setting the files down with a soft thump. “Is there any word yet on our new inspector?”
Peggy nodded toward Lowsley’s office. “As a matter of fact, yes. He’s in with the Chief Constable now.”
“Ah, excellent,” the Sister said, her eyes sparkling with interest. She brushed a fleck of dirt of her wimple and busied herself with her notes, though they suspected she was already constructing questions for the man she had not yet met.

It did not take long. The door to Lowsley’s office opened once more, and Sam reappeared, his stride as steady as before. He took in the sight of the nun, the files at her side, and the unmistakable curiosity in her eyes.
“You must be Sister Boniface,” he said, extending his hand with easy politeness. “I’ve heard much about you already. DI Sam Gillespie. I look forward to seeing your methods in action.”
Sister Boniface clasped his hand warmly, her smile genuine. “Likewise, Inspector. And I hope you do not mind if we begin at once. The suspicious white powder collected inside and outside of Mr. Jackson’s shop was analysed last night. It turned out to be sodium bicarbonate. Or, as you may know it, baking soda.”

Felix, who had returned to his chair, muttered dryly, “Not exactly a dangerous substance.”

Sam tilted his head, a spark of mischief in his eye. “Unless, of course, you fear a full-scale muffin uprising.”
For a beat, the station was silent. Then Sister Boniface laughed, a clear and delighted sound that filled the room. “Very good, Inspector. Very good indeed.”
Peggy exchanged a quick glance with Felix, who looked faintly amused despite himself. And Sam, watching them all, allowed the smallest flicker of satisfaction to cross his face. He was in.

Chapter 5

Later that day, Felix looked up from a stack of case notes and studied Sam with a thoughtful frown. The Bermudian sergeant had been trying to keep pace with the different rhythms of the Cotswolds, but something about Sam intrigued him more than the cases themselves.
“Tell me, Inspector,” Felix began, his lilting accent softening the words, “have you already found a place to stay? I can’t imagine the station’s filing cabinet makes for a good pillow.”

Sam chuckled, closing the folder he had been pretending to read. “Not yet, no. But I suppose I’ll need one before too long.”
Felix’s face brightened as if struck by a sudden idea. “My landlady, Mrs Clam, has rooms to spare. Strict woman, though. Rather… particular.”
Sam arched a brow, his storm-grey eyes flicking with a hint of mischief. “Particular, you say? Sounds promising.”
“Promising is one word for it,” Felix muttered, half to himself.

By late afternoon, the two men stood in the narrow entryway of Mrs Clam’s boarding house, the scent of lavender polish and boiled cabbage clinging stubbornly to the air. Mrs Clam herself emerged from the parlour with the air of a general preparing for battle: shoulders square, lips pressed tightly, her apron neatly tied around her thin frame.

“So,” she said briskly, looking Sam up and down as if measuring him for trouble. “Detective Inspector, is it? We shall see if you are fit for the arrangement.”
Sam gave her one of his most disarming smiles, the kind that had bent far sterner hearts than hers. His tousled hair caught the late light from the window, softening his features into something dangerously charming. Mrs Clam’s stern gaze faltered, though she quickly recovered with a sniff.

“There are rules,” Mrs. Clam announced, hands clasped firmly in front of her apron, her posture as unyielding as the high-backed chair in the corner. “No smoking indoors. No taking food or drink from the kitchen. No radio or telephone after nine o’clock in the evening. Breakfast is at eight sharp, dinner at six. If you are late, you go hungry.” Felix shifted uncomfortably, casting Sam a sideways glance that clearly said, I did warn you. Mrs. Clam wasn’t finished. “And,” she added, fixing them both with a look sharp enough to cut glass, “no women visiting your rooms. Not that I’d expect either of you to try such a thing under my roof.” Sam inclined his head with impeccable composure, simply folded his hands behind his back and nodded as if she were dictating the laws of heaven itself. “Perfectly reasonable,” he said warmly. “A man ought to have discipline, after all. Keeps him sharp.” Mrs. Clam gave a curt nod, clearly satisfied, and bustled off toward the kitchen, her shoes clicking briskly against the polished floorboards. Felix exhaled, the corner of his mouth twitching. “Well,” he muttered under his breath, “I suppose that’s settled.” Sam’s lips curved into an amused smile as he watched her disappear. No women allowed, he mused wryly. A sensible decree. For an angel meddling in such… earthly matters? That would only invite chaos. Better to leave that particular temptation well alone.

After dropping a small suitcase in his neatly kept room, a space furnished with nothing more than a narrow bed, a writing desk, and a wardrobe that smelled faintly of mothballs, Sam rejoined Felix for an evening walk.

The two men found themselves at the Spitfire, the village pub glowing with the amber haze of oil lamps and laughter spilling through the open door. Inside, the smell of ale and roasted meat wrapped around them like a familiar blanket.

At a corner table, Peggy Button and Sister Boniface were already seated, deep in conversation. The nun gestured animatedly with a pencil, her veil slipping slightly as Peggy laughed.
Felix and Sam collected their drinks at the bar and made their way over.

“Inspector,” Sister Boniface said warmly as they sat, “you must forgive my bluntness, but what exactly is your background? You seem quite young to be a detective inspector.” Her eyes, sharp and knowing, fixed on him in a way that suggested she could pick apart any lie with a glance.

Sam leaned back, one arm draped casually along the back of his chair, the picture of ease. “No trouble at all, Sister. I’ve been here and there. Some work in London, some abroad, a stint up north. But since I grew up in this part of the world, I thought it might be nice to return. This post seemed the perfect opportunity.”
Peggy tilted her head, studying him carefully. “And despite being from the area, you had no friends or family to spend your first night with?” Her tone carried a trace of disbelief, as if she were trying to catch him out.

“Peggy,” Felix said quickly, indignation rising in his voice. “That’s private. You cannot expect him to—”
Sam lifted a hand, smiling gently. “No, no, it’s quite all right. I do not mind the questions.” He paused, his gaze dipping briefly to the rim of his glass. “My family moved away years ago. The truth is, I have not had reason to return until now.”

The half-truth settled between them. He thought fleetingly of his true family, beings not bound to earth and mortal frailty, and a knowing smile touched his lips.
Peggy’s expression softened, though she did not entirely lose her suspicion. “Well,” she said at last, “I suppose everyone has their reasons.”
Sister Boniface’s eyes lingered on him, searching, as if she sensed there was more beneath the surface than he cared to reveal. Sam held her gaze without flinching, his storm-grey eyes glinting faintly gold in the lamplight.
“Indeed,” he said lightly, raising his glass. “We all do.”

Peggy raised her own glass, clinking it lightly against Sam’s. “To new beginnings then. Heaven knows the village could use some new blood.”
Felix grinned, though his grin faltered slightly as he tasted the ale. “Good heavens. Is it supposed to be this bitter?”
Peggy laughed so suddenly she nearly spilled her drink. “Welcome to the Cotswolds, Sergeant. That’s proper beer, not whatever fancy thing they serve on the beaches of Bermuda.”

“It is not fancy,” Felix protested, making a face at the glass before setting it firmly on the table. “It is refreshing. Crisp. This, on the other hand…” He gestured helplessly. “This is as though someone steeped a sock in seawater and left it in the sun.”
Even Sam laughed at that, the sound warm and disarming. “You’ll get used to it, Sergeant. Or at least, you’ll learn to pretend you like it. It’s a survival skill in these parts.”

“Survival skill,” Felix muttered, shaking his head. “I thought I was here to solve crimes, not survive the local brewery.”
The table chuckled, Peggy most of all, while Sister Boniface simply sipped her drink with a serene smile. But her gaze wandered back to Sam. She had been trained to notice details, chemical traces invisible to most, faint residues of scent, the smallest shift in a suspect’s tone of voice. And now, as Sam tilted his glass toward the lamplight, she noticed something curious.

His eyes, stormy grey, caught the golden glow of the pub’s lamps. For a moment, just a flicker, they seemed almost… illuminated. Not with the merriment of drink, nor the simple glint of lamplight, but with something older. There was depth there, age that did not belong to a man who looked scarcely older than thirty five. Knowledge, too, a weight behind the charm.

She leaned back slightly, studying him as Peggy launched into a story about her father accidentally dropping a string of sausages on the pavement one market day. Sam laughed in all the right places, even added a playful remark about dogs being the true beneficiaries of butcher’s mistakes. But the nun’s mind was elsewhere.
There was something in his gaze that did not match the easy laughter, as though the young inspector were a mask he wore rather than a life he lived.
She caught herself staring, and Sam, as though sensing it, turned his eyes on her. His smile widened, all warmth and mischief. Yet for the briefest of instants, before he blinked, that ancient glint flashed again.

“Everything all right, Sister?” he asked lightly.
Her lips curved into a polite smile. “Quite all right, Inspector. Just… observing.”
Sam raised his glass once more, the picture of casual charm. “Ah, well. Observing is half the battle, is it not?”
Sister Boniface inclined her head, though her thoughts churned. Observing, indeed. She suspected that with Sam Gillespie, the more one observed, the less simple the picture became.

Chapter 6

Sam sat at his desk in the station late in the afternoon, long fingers drumming on the blotter in a steady rhythm as he read over the notes for what everyone was now, half-jokingly, half with exasperation, calling the baking soda case. He skimmed again:

Break-in at Mr Jackson’s record shop. No sign of forced entry. Cash drawer emptied.
And the mysterious white powder left scattered about. (powder = baking soda)

He leaned back in his chair, eyes narrowing. The facts tugged at him like a thread begging to be pulled. Something was off. He hated loose ends.
Abruptly, he pushed himself up from the desk, grabbing his coat in one smooth motion. “I’m taking a walk to Sister Boniface’s lab,” he announced in Felix’s general direction.
Felix looked up from the jumble of paperwork he was fussing over. “Now? You just—”
But Sam was already striding for the door, grey eyes lit with a glint of determination. Felix sighed and shook his head.

 

“Knock, knock.” Sam leaned against the doorframe of the convent lab, his figure outlined by the light of the corridor. One hand rested easily on the frame, the other swept briefly through his tousled hair. “Am I disturbing the experiment, Sister? Or could I pick your brain for a moment?”

Sister Boniface startled, jerking her head up from the microscope where she had been carefully studying a slide. “Good grief, Inspector! Do you practice that?” she asked, hand over her chest. “Appearing out of thin air like… like the Archangel Raphael at Tobit’s table.”
Sam chuckled low in his throat, his smile playful. “You could call it that, yes. Though I assure you, I’m far less holy and far more predictable.”
“Debatable,” she muttered, recovering herself, before eyeing him keenly. “What’s on your mind?”

He stepped into the room, gaze wandering over the familiar clutter of glass vials, half-dismantled gadgets, and folders stacked in neat but precarious piles. “Since I never had the pleasure of seeing Jackson’s shop immediately after the break-in, I feel I’m missing pieces of the puzzle. I was rather hoping you might enlighten me. Photographs, diagrams… especially of the locks and any other possible entry points.”

Sister Boniface rose briskly, brushing dust from her habit as she began rifling through a stack of files. “Well, you’ve come to the right place. I’ve catalogued everything. Somewhere. Ah, here we are.” She produced a folder with the air of a conjurer pulling a rabbit from a hat. “It’s all rather peculiar. Fact: the windows, the doors, none show signs of tampering.”

Sam took the folder, thumbing through the photographs with a critical eye. His brows drew together. “Curious,” he murmured, tapping a finger against his jawline. “Not so much as a scratch. Almost as if the thief walked in through the front door.”
“Precisely. Which begs the question,” she added, peering at him over her spectacles, “did they already have a key? Or was one made in secret?”
Sam’s lips curved faintly, amused by the mortal tendency to stumble into truth while calling it speculation. “A good question,” he said instead, while tapping his chin. “And Peggy mentioned something earlier. The locksmith recently cut a few extra copies of Jackson’s shop key, didn’t he?”
“Yes, yes, she did mention that.” Sister Boniface began rummaging again, papers shuffling noisily. “There’s a full report somewhere here… where on earth…”
“Careful, Sister,” Sam interrupted smoothly, grinning. “You’ll bury yourself alive in reports. It wouldn’t do to lose the village’s best scientist under an avalanche of paper.”

She shot him a look over her shoulder. “Better buried in paper than in sin, Inspector. Proverbs reminds us that ‘the house of the righteous contains great treasure, but the income of the wicked brings ruin.’”
Sam’s grin widened. He loved these little flourishes of scripture, tossed into conversation as casually as others might mention the weather. “I’ll take your word for it,” he said lightly, though inwardly he thought how mortals clung to their verses like charms, believing them to be lanterns in the dark. Amusing, and yet he respected the earnestness.

“Here,” Sister Boniface announced triumphantly, pulling out a folder and thrusting it into his hands. “Peggy’s report on who hold keys to the record shop. She’s nothing if not thorough.”
Sam flipped through the list, his eyes sharp and quick. “The locksmith might still have the cuttings, the impression details. That would tell us who might have had access to a duplicate.”
“Precisely,” she agreed, already reaching for her coat. “Shall we?”

Sam lifted his head, studying her with something like surprise. “Now? You want to march off to interrogate a locksmith on a Wednesday evening?”
“Yes, why not? There is still plenty of time before vespers.” She gave him an arch look. “Evil does not rest on the Sabbath, Inspector, nor on weekdays. Besides, if we delay, who knows how much more evidence might slip away?”

Sam chuckled again, that low amused sound. Mortals and their urgency. Eternity gave him a different sense of time, but he had to admit, it was entertaining to be swept up in their pace. He gestured toward the door with a gentlemanly bow. “After you, Sister. Lead the charge against the wicked locksmith.”
Her eyes narrowed with good humour. “Do not twist my words, Inspector. I said nothing about wickedness. Yet.”
As they left the lab together, Sam’s thoughts lingered not on the case, but on the way Sister Boniface’s sharp mind leapt ahead of everyone else’s, guided by both science and scripture. She was a curiosity in herself, and he found himself almost… entertained.

 

A few minutes later, their footsteps echoed down the quiet cobbled lane that led to the locksmith’s cottage. The air smelled faintly of coal smoke and damp leaves, the village already settling into its evening hush. Sam walked with his usual confident stride, hands in his pockets, while Sister Boniface kept pace at his side, her habit brushing the stone walls as they passed.

When they reached the neat little house with its painted blue door and polished brass knocker, Sam rapped lightly.
The door opened to reveal a flustered-looking woman with flour still on her hands. Emma Roberts blinked in surprise, her gaze darting from the tall inspector with his disarming smile to the nun at his shoulder. “Good evening,” she stammered. “Can I… help you?”

“Good evening, Mrs Roberts,” Sam said smoothly, his voice carrying that calm, warm timbre that reassured people before they even realized they were reassured. “I’m DI Gillespie, terribly sorry to intrude at this hour. We were hoping for just a word with your husband, if he’s about.”
She hesitated, brushing flour onto her apron. “Oh…, well, yes, of course. Do come in.” She stepped aside, ushering them into a narrow hallway that opened into the kitchen. “Sit yourselves down, I’ll fetch him.”

Sam inclined his head with another easy smile. “You’re very kind.”
Once she’d bustled off, Sister Boniface leaned forward across the scrubbed pine table. Her keen eyes had caught something in the corner of the room. “Inspector, look there.”

On a side shelf sat a ripped-open paper packet, hastily bundled with string. White powder clung to the edges, some of it spilling into a clear plastic bag.
Sam followed her gaze, his smile twitching wryly. “Well spotted, Sister.” He crossed the kitchen and lifted the packet, turning it in his hands. “Would you believe it? Our old friend baking soda, hiding in plain sight.”

Before they could speculate further, heavy footsteps sounded in the hall. Mr Roberts entered, a stocky man with a thick moustache and the kind of scowl that looked as though it had been etched onto his face years ago. His sleeves were rolled up, and he smelled faintly of metal filings and oil.
“You wanted a word?” he asked gruffly, planting himself squarely in the doorway.

“Yes, if you don’t mind,” Sister Boniface began, her tone polite but steady. “It’s in relation to the recent break-in at Mr Jackson’s shop. You may recall, you cut some additional keys for him not long ago?”
Roberts’s expression darkened. “What about it?” he snapped. “It’s my free evening. I’d rather spend it by the fire than justifying myself to a copper and a nun.”
Sam stepped in smoothly, his tone soothing, his grey eyes steady. “No one’s accusing you of anything, Mr Roberts. We only wondered if you might still have the impression or details of the key lying around. If someone had access to them, it could explain how the break-in was accomplished.”

The locksmith’s jaw tightened. His eyes flicked, just for a fraction of a second, toward the shelf where the baking soda sat. Then he barked out a laugh, short and harsh. “What sort of idiot do you think I am? I destroy every template the moment it’s not needed. Trade secret. Now, if you’ve got nothing better than insulting questions, I’ll thank you to leave me to my evening.”

“Of course,” Sister Boniface said quickly, sensing his rising temper. She gathered her habit about her and stood. “We’ve troubled you long enough. Thank you for your time, Mr Roberts.”

Sam inclined his head politely, though his eyes lingered just a heartbeat longer on the man’s flushed face. “Enjoy the rest of your evening, sir.”
They stepped back into the chill night, the door closing firmly behind them. The streetlamps flickered to life, casting pools of amber on the cobbles.
For a while they walked in silence, the convent lights visible at the far end of the street. Then Sam said quietly, “He’s lying.”
Sister Boniface turned her head, studying him in the dim glow. “You sound very sure. What makes you say so?”

He hesitated. Too quick, he realized. Mortals didn’t see the truth as plainly as he did, the way the man’s pulse had jumped, the sweat that had sprung along his collar, the guilty flick of the eyes. All tiny betrayals as obvious to him as writing on a page.

“Instincts,” he said at last, forcing a casual shrug. “You learn to trust them in this job.”
She slowed her step, eyes narrowing thoughtfully. “The heart is deceitful above all things, but not beyond discernment,” she murmured, half to herself. Then, louder: “Very well. Instincts, then.”

Sam gave her his most easy, careless smile, but inside he felt her gaze still weighing him, measuring him. He excused himself at the convent gate, claiming fatigue and paperwork.

Sister Boniface stood for a moment watching him walk away into the village shadows. There was a strange light in her eyes, as if she were trying to reconcile two pictures of him: the confident young inspector, and something… much older behind his gaze.

Chapter 7

The morning sunlight streamed through the blinds of the police station, casting slanted golden lines across the desks. Sam leaned back in his chair, long fingers steepled as he looked from Peggy to Felix. He had rehearsed his words carefully in his mind, carefully calibrating what to share. Too much detail, and he risked revealing far more than mortals could, or should, understand.

“Peggy,” he began, his tone light but deliberate, “I’d like you to conduct a full background check on Mr Roberts, if you would. Every detail, recent activities, debts, anything that seems out of the ordinary.”
Peggy nodded immediately, taking a notebook, put on her jacket and with a bounce in her step walked towards the door. “Of course, sir. I’ll start straight away.”
Felix leaned back in his chair, brow furrowed. “Curious,” he said after a pause, “that you and the Sister noticed that banged-up baking soda package at the Roberts’ place. Wouldn’t you, if you’d committed a crime, hide that? Or at least tidy it away?”

Sam tapped his chin, considering his words carefully. “Perhaps,” he said slowly, “but what if the person using it didn’t know what it could reveal? Mrs Roberts had been baking earlier; she may have left it out. Or perhaps it was already damaged and hidden before we arrived. Timing, context, it matters.”
Felix shook his head. “And that might explain why Mr Roberts was so on edge. They don’t have sound alibis for the time of the break-in. She claims she was at home alone, he says he was out grocery shopping. Convenient.”

Sam’s lips curved into a faint, almost imperceptible smile. Humans and their imperfect perceptions, always so easy to mislead, yet sometimes painfully revealing. He had to hold back the little hints that sprang naturally to his mind. It was a delicate dance: how much could they handle, and how fast would they catch on?
Some time later, Peggy walked back into the room, excitement threading her voice while getting out her notebook. “I might have found something. Mr Roberts is apparently a gambler. Recently, he’s been losing… badly. But here’s the odd part, he’s been paying off his debts in cash, large sums, and quite suddenly.”
Sam’s eyes glinted with interest. “Bingo,” he said softly, leaning forward. “Fetch Sister Boniface. We’ll want to cross-reference with fingerprints and see if anything else pops up.”

By mid-morning, Sister Boniface had arrived, her stack of files and notes tucked under one arm, and her mind already running a step ahead of everyone else. Sam briefed her lightly, careful not to betray the full extent of his own suspicions. “We have a potential lead,” he said, “but let’s proceed methodically. Fingerprints, pattern analysis, everything.”

When they arrived at the Roberts’ house, only Mrs. Roberts was home. She stood in the doorway with her arms crossed, her expression guarded. After a tense pause, she reluctantly stepped aside to let them in, her reluctance lingering in the tightness of her shoulders as she watched them cross the threshold.
The team spent hours there, moving quietly through the kitchen and workshop, taking photographs, lifting prints, and comparing them to those collected at Mr Jackson’s record shop. Sam held himself back, resisting the urge to point out the tiniest inconsistencies, the subtle signs only he could perceive. Humans needed to arrive at conclusions themselves, even if he knew what lay beneath.

Finally, Peggy’s voice rang out with triumph. “Look at this! Hidden under the floorboard in his workshop, a whole load of spare locks, including a spare lock from Jackson’s shop. He keeps them all ‘for safekeeping,’ apparently. And… oh my. There’s a large amount of cash here too.”
Sister Boniface’s eyes gleamed. “As the Good Book says, ‘The wicked borrows and does not repay, but the righteous shows mercy and gives.’ Perhaps this explains the rest.”

Sam nodded thoughtfully, careful to keep the edge of amusement from his expression. “It appears the answer is simpler than we feared. Mr. Roberts carried the spare lock with him while collecting groceries. When he passed the record shop, temptation overcame him. He used the lock to gain entry and took the money. The baking soda? That probably was nothing but carelessness. He tore the package while stashing the cash, leaving a trail that pointed straight back to him.”
Felix rubbed the back of his neck, his brow furrowing. “So, no mastermind criminal, no elaborate scheme. Just… greed and opportunity.”
“Exactly,” Sam replied, his voice calm, almost detached. “Temptation is a simple thing, Sergeant. Far simpler than people think.”
Peggy let out a sigh. “I’ll admit, I was expecting something more dramatic. Like a criminal network hiding out in Great Slaughter.”
“Reality rarely indulges us like that,” Sister Boniface said, her eyes glinting with dry humour. “Most sin is painfully mundane.”
Sam gave a small nod, his expression unreadable. “Let’s bring him in. I suspect he’ll tell us the missing pieces himself.”

 

The interview room was small and stark, with a single table and three chairs beneath a flickering fluorescent light. The hum of the bulb filled the silence, punctuated only by the faint ticking of the clock on the wall. Mr. Roberts sat slumped forward, a large man who suddenly seemed much smaller, his thick hands clasped tightly in front of him.

Felix sat across from him, pen poised over a notepad. Sam leaned back in his chair, jacket perfectly pressed, his calm presence filling the space. He spoke softly, but his voice carried an unshakeable certainty.
“Mr. Roberts, we know what happened,” Sam said, his eyes fixed on the man. “You had the spare key on you. You passed the shop on your way home. You went inside, and you took the money.”

Roberts flinched, his jaw tightening. “I…” He faltered, glancing between the two men, then dropped his gaze to the tabletop. “I wasn’t… I wasn’t thinkin’ straight. Just… just a few quid, I told myself. I didn’t think it’d hurt anyone.”

Felix’s pen scratched lightly across the paper, but he didn’t interrupt.

Roberts’s voice cracked as he continued. “I’d been losin’ at cards again. Owed money I didn’t have. I thought I could pay it back before anyone noticed. But I… I botched it. Left a bloody trail a mile wide.”
Sam tilted his head slightly, his storm-grey eyes studying the man with quiet intensity. “And your wife? Did she suspect anything?”
The man’s shoulders stiffened. “No! She… she don’t know nothin’. Wouldn’t have stood for it if she did. She’s already put up with enough from me.” His voice dropped to a whisper. “I scare her sometimes. Never meant to, but I do.”

Felix’s pen paused mid-stroke. The room seemed to grow quieter still.

Roberts buried his face in his hands, letting out a long, shuddering breath. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”
Sam stood slowly, smoothing his jacket as he did. “We’ll make sure the magistrate knows the full truth,” he said evenly. “But tonight, you’ll stay here.”
Felix closed his notebook and nodded, signalling for the constable outside.

As Roberts was led away, Sam lingered for a moment, his hand resting lightly on the back of the empty chair. “Temptation,” he murmured softly, almost to himself. “Once the door opens, it’s never as easy to close it again.”

Chapter 8

The weekend dawned quiet and golden over Great Slaughter. The small village, with its honey-stone cottages and climbing roses, seemed to breathe more slowly on days like this. A narrow stream wound lazily through the village, its water catching the light like scattered silver. Ducks paddled beneath the small stone bridge, and the air smelled faintly of fresh bread from Mrs Clam’s kitchen window mixed with the late-summer sweetness of wildflowers at the hedgerows.

Sam, having decided that the troubles of mortals could wait for the day, shifted into his tabby form in the privacy of his room at Mrs Clam’s. His bones melted soundlessly into fur, his shoulders narrowing, his keen gaze now peering from green-gold feline eyes. With an effortless flick of his tail, he padded down the corridor, slipping noiselessly past a row of coats hanging by the door.

Felix, on his way down with a bundle of files under one arm, stopped short. His brow furrowed as he caught sight of the striped cat emerging from Sam’s room.
“What on earth…” he muttered, tilting his head. “Now how did you get in there? Mrs. Clam will not be pleased. Cat hairs in the hallway…” He shook his head, muttering to himself with faint amusement. “Sam really ought to keep the door shut.”
Sam’s whiskers twitched in a smile only he knew, and with no more than a quiet mrrow of acknowledgment and a brush of his tail against Felix’s trousers, he slipped past Felix’s shoes and out into the sunlight.

The day unfolded gently. He wandered the cobbled lanes, weaving between the cottages, pausing now and then to inspect a lavender bush or to sit watching children toss pebbles into the stream. Villagers nodded at him kindly, another village cat, nothing unusual. By the time the sun reached its height, Sam found himself drawn toward St Vincent’s convent.

The great building sat serenely beyond the trees, its weathered stone glowing warmly in the sunlight. Against the convent’s outer wall, a slab of stone caught Sam’s attention. The engraving shimmered faintly where the sun struck it: In honour of our guardian angel, Samuel.
A pleased rumble rose in his chest. With a graceful leap, Sam curled himself upon the stone, the warmth seeping into his fur. His tail wrapped around him, and before long he had drifted into a deep, easy doze.

Some time later, footsteps approached briskly across the gravel. He cracked one eye open to see Sister Boniface striding past, papers clutched under one arm, her brow set in concentration. Yet even in her determination, she paused.
“Oh, hello there, little chap,” she said, bending briefly to stroke his head. “Haven’t seen you in a while.”
Sam purred in response, flicking his tail in silent amusement. If only you knew.

The afternoon stretched long, the sun slipping lower and gilding the convent windows with amber. Sam stirred awake at the sound of voices, familiar voices, drawing near the convent’s fence. Sister Boniface had returned from running errands, and along the way she’d run into Felix and Peggy. One conversation led to another, and soon the three of them were walking back together to the convent, their discussion still animated as they stalled near the convent gates.
“I’m telling you, something’s off about Sam,” Peggy insisted, her tone edged with indignation. Her arms were crossed, her red hair gleaming in the sunlight as she shook her head. “No one can make connections that quickly, not without something strange going on. And don’t you think it odd how little he says about his past? That whole story about his family all moving away…, it doesn’t sit right with me.”

Felix sighed heavily, pushing his hands into his pockets. “Peggy, you’ve known the man a week. A week. Maybe give him a chance before declaring him an enigma wrapped in conspiracy. There could be a perfectly ordinary explanation, something he simply doesn’t want to share with new acquaintances.”
“But Felix,” Peggy pressed, “you’ve seen it too. Haven’t you? He just… knows things.”
Felix hesitated. “I’ll grant you, he’s sharp. Sharper than most. But sharpness isn’t a crime.”

“I’m inclined to agree with Peggy,” Sister Boniface interjected, her voice thoughtful, not accusatory. She looked out across the convent gardens as though replaying memories in her mind. “The other day, he appeared at the lab as though out of thin air. No sound of footsteps, no knock, nothing. And then there’s his eyes…” She trailed off, frowning slightly. “There is something in them. Old. Knowing. As though he’s seen far more than he lets on.”
Sam stretched languidly upon his sun-warmed stone, amused at their earnest musings. Mortals, piecing together scraps of mystery, so certain of their suspicions yet so far from the truth. This, he decided, was the perfect moment to intervene.

He rose, arching his back in a slow stretch, and padded deliberately toward the trio. Reaching Sister Boniface, he lifted himself on hind legs and attempted to climb her habit, paws scrabbling at the fabric until she bent down in surprise.
“Oh!” she exclaimed, startled into laughter. “Well, hello, little one. Still here, I see.” She gathered him into her arms, his purrs rumbling warmly against her shoulder.
Peggy looked incredulous. “Since when do cats climb habits?”

Felix chuckled despite himself, but then his brow furrowed. “You know, that’s the oddest thing. I could swear I saw this very cat earlier today… coming straight out of Sam’s room. Bold as brass, just sauntering down the corridor.”
Peggy blinked. “Out of his room? Are you sure? Does Sam have a cat we’re not aware of?”
“I’m not in the habit of mistaking cats,” Felix replied dryly. He gave the tabby a long, considering look. “And now that I think of it, I haven’t seen Sam at all today. Not at breakfast, not in the village. Vanished.”

Sister Boniface’s arms tightened around the cat, though her tone was light. “Perhaps he’s simply enjoying a well-earned day of rest. Even detectives need a Sabbath.”
But her eyes, curious and sharp, lingered on the green gaze that met hers, eyes far too old, far too knowing for any village cat.
Sam purred louder, nestling deeper into her habit, his tail flicking with quiet amusement.

Mortals, he thought, half in fondness, half in mischief. Always looking so close, yet never close enough.
“But,” Sister Boniface went on, stroking the tabby that purred so contentedly in her arms, “seeing as we’re all leaning toward the same conclusion, that something about Sam doesn’t quite add up, how about we take a more… well, scientific approach?” Her tone carried that brisk, earnest clarity that always surfaced when an idea had taken hold of her.

Peggy tilted her head, intrigued. “Meaning?”
“We keep notes,” Sister Boniface explained. “Every little oddity, every curious turn of phrase or inexplicable appearance. We record them, and every so often we compare. Data builds patterns.” She glanced down at the cat. “And patterns reveal truths.”
“I’m in,” Peggy said without hesitation, leaning forward with the eager energy of a conspirator.
Felix, however, raised both eyebrows. “I’m not so sure about this. Shouldn’t we be welcoming to our new inspector, rather than cataloguing his every move like… like birdwatchers ticking off feathers?”

Sister Boniface smiled gently at him, eyes gleaming with that mix of wit and faith she carried so easily. “Oh, Sergeant, it is all in good faith. Proverbs tells us, ‘The heart of the discerning acquires knowledge, for the ears of the wise seek it out.’ A little careful observation never harmed anyone.”
Peggy gave Felix a playful nudge. “Come on, Sarge, don’t be a spoilsport. Think of it as… professional curiosity.”

Felix sighed, half exasperated, half amused. “Professional curiosity has a habit of turning into trouble, if you ask me.”
At that, the cat in Sister Boniface’s arms gave a loud, indignant meow, as though casting the deciding vote. Peggy burst out laughing.
“There, you see? Even the cat agrees!” she said, leaning in to scratch Sam behind the ears.

Sam’s tail flicked with sly amusement. Their 'scientific experiment', as they called it, promised no end of entertainment.
Their little council of curiosity dissolved as lightly as it had formed. Peggy announced she really ought to get back home for dinner. Felix decided to walk the village green before supper, though his faintly furrowed brow suggested Sam would linger in his thoughts.
Sister Boniface remained a moment longer, the tabby still nestled in her arms. With a final stroke along his back she crouched slightly, setting him down on the grass. “Off you go, little one,” she murmured, brushing the fur from her habit. The cat gave a slow blink and sat, tail curled neatly around his white paws, as if content simply to watch.

Turning toward the convent door, she started up the short path, but something caught her eye: the slab of weathered stone where the cat had been stretched out earlier that afternoon. The low sun struck its surface at a different angle now, revealing faint markings hidden under moss and time.
She paused, stepping closer. With the tip of her finger she brushed aside a scrap of lichen, and the worn letters emerged:
“In honour of our guardian angel, Samuel.”

Her brow furrowed in quiet curiosity. She lingered just a breath longer, committing the inscription to memory, then straightened and continued toward the convent.
Behind her, the cat remained seated, golden-rimmed eyes following her with something far sharper than animal idleness. Sam’s tail flicked once, slow and deliberate, as amusement curled at the corner of his feline mind. Some mortals, he thought, noticed more than they let on.

Notes:

This chapter was my favourite to write thus far, heavily inspired by my own two kitties. Though they are much lazier that Sam willl ever be, but I love to think that sometimes the rushed lives of the humans become a bit too much for Sam and he just likes to bask in the sun for a while.

Picture of my cats if anyone is interested: https://www.deviantart.com/cozycrimelover/art/1237795081?action=published%20

Chapter 9

Friday morning dawned clear and golden over Great Slaughter, sunlight spilling through the police station’s small windows and pooling on the worn wooden desks. The air smelled faintly of ink, tea, and the lingering traces of last night’s rain. WPC Peggy Button breezed through the station doors as if she carried her own pocketful of sunshine, her bright voice cutting through the quiet hum of paperwork and typewriters.
“Good morning, all!” she sang, tossing her scarf onto the nearest hook. Her grin was irrepressible as she added with mock formality, “Sirs,” nodding first at Sam and then at Felix, who were hunched over a shared stack of case files.

“Morning, Peggy,” Felix muttered, scribbling something onto a form.
“Did you know,” Peggy began, leaning against the Felix’s desk, “that tonight there’s a concert in the church in the village square? The whole area turns up for it, farmers, shopkeepers, even Mrs. Clam, and she’s picky about her evenings out. I think you two should join me and Sister Boniface. It’s the perfect way to ‘get a feel’ for village life.” Her eyes sparkled mischievously as she said this, flicking a pointed look at Felix.

Felix, instantly wary, set down his pen and gave her a dry stare. “Peggy,” he said in his low Bermudian lilt, “what are you plotting?”
“Plotting? Me?” she said, feigning innocence. “Just encouraging social integration.”

Sam glanced up from his file, grey eyes glimmering with feigned puzzlement. “Splendid idea, Constable,” he said smoothly, rising to fetch himself another cup of tea. “It’s always wise to understand a community’s… rhythm.”
Peggy smirked in Felix’s direction as if she’d won some unspoken game. Felix sighed audibly.

 

That evening, after a hearty dinner at Mrs. Clam’s, complete with her infamous shepherd’s pie, which Felix ate dutifully despite it being slightly burnt and having a quiet suspicion she’d used tinned peas, the two men strolled toward the village square. The night was crisp, their breath fogging in the lamplight as they walked.

“Do you play an instrument, sir?” Felix asked, hands tucked into his coat pockets.
Sam smiled sidelong at him. “No need to call me ‘sir’ off duty, Felix.”
Felix gave a short nod. “Right. Sam.”

“As a matter of fact, yes,” Sam said, his tone almost wistful. “I used to play the harp. My brothers Gabriel and Michael were rather fond of string instruments, so we often played together. We made quite the ensemble once.”

Felix’s eyebrows rose, but before he could press for more, they reached the old stone church. Its heavy oak doors stood open, spilling warm candlelight onto the cobbled square. Villagers were streaming inside, voices low and cheerful. The two men collected their programs and slipped into the back pew, scanning for familiar faces.

Peggy waved them over, and Sister Boniface turned in her seat with a warm smile. The nun’s habit was immaculate as always, and she leaned in to whisper, “I’m glad you made it. You’ll find this orchestra far superior to our convent choir. Poor Sister Reginald has the timing of a broken clock.”
Sam stifled a chuckle, his lips twitching.

The musicians, dressed in black with deep red sashes, were already tuning their instruments, filling the air with rich, dissonant notes. The hush of anticipation settled over the room as the conductor raised his baton.

 

Two hours later, the four of them were walking toward the village pub, their cheeks pink from the warmth of the packed church and the bite of the night air of early autumn.
“Some pieces were truly beautiful, don’t you think, Sam?” Sister Boniface asked as they stepped into the lamplit pub, its polished wood panels glowing golden under the sconces, the hum of post-concert chatter filling the air.

“Indeed, Sister,” Sam said, his tone warm but contemplative. “There were moments when they truly breathed as one, like a single spirit moving through many vessels.”
Sister Boniface glanced at him, pleasantly surprised. “That’s… a rather poetic observation. Sounds almost scriptural.”

Sam’s mouth curved into a faint smile, his voice lowering just enough to be heard above the chatter. “Well, as Psalm 150 says, ‘Let everything that has breath praise the Lord.’ Tonight, they did.”

She blinked at him, genuinely impressed. “I didn’t expect you to quote the Psalms so readily, Inspector. Were you ever involved in church matters?”
Sam’s smile deepened, his grey eyes glinting with quiet amusement. “You could call it that.”
Her curiosity sharpened, but she let it pass, recognizing the edge of mystery in his tone.

“They should hire you as their publicist,” Peggy quipped, breaking the moment with a grin as she pushed open the door of the Spitfire pub.
They found a small corner table and Sister Boniface went to get their drinks, the wood-panelled walls of the pub alive with laughter and conversation.
Peggy leaned forward over her lemonade, her eyes narrowing playfully. “So, Sam,” she began, her tone as casual as an ambush. “Felix mentioned your brothers earlier. Gabriel and Michael, was it? Big family?”

Felix glanced up from his pint with a warning look. “Peggy…” he said in a low voice.
“What? I’m just making conversation,” she protested. “So where do they live now? You don’t mention them much.”
Sam swirled his dark beer with a faint smile, amused by her boldness. “Far away,” he said mildly, his voice carrying the weight of centuries if one listened closely enough. “We don’t see each other often.”

Peggy frowned. “That’s a shame. You seem close.”
Felix’s sigh was audible this time. “Peggy.”
She leaned back with a dramatic huff. “Fine. Be mysterious, then.”
Sam’s lips curved into an amused smile as he watched their dynamic, the protective sergeant and the curious constable. Humans, ever inquisitive, ever endearing.

 

Their conversation was interrupted by a raised voice from the back of the pub.
“Henry, are you sure you should keep on playing the first part for the next concert? You were a bit flat the entire time,” an older woman said loudly.
“Oh, and let you do it, then?” came the scoffing reply. “Then everyone would be thrown off by your atrocious timing. At least me being flat can be fixed by Otto tuning us all better.”

Sister Boniface’s lips twitched. “Ah, the humility of musicians.” She took a slow sip of her cider and added with a knowing look, “As Proverbs 11:13 says: ‘A gossip betrays a confidence, but a trustworthy person keeps a secret.’ Best we don’t eavesdrop, hm?”

She rose, smoothing her habit. “Alas, I think I’ll head to bed. It’s been a long day.” She gave them all a warm smile. “I have to prepare for a primary school class coming to visit the convent and my lab on Monday, so an early night is in order.” She added lightly. “Enjoy your evening, but don’t stay too late.”
With that, she disappeared into the crisp night, leaving the others with the lingering echo of her scripture-tinged wisdom.

Notes:

Here's to me hoping that the dynamics (no pun intended :)) in amateur orchestras in England are similar from my experiences with playing in them in other parts of the world.

Chapter 10

Early Monday morning, Sister Boniface was already immersed in her lab, carefully examining fingerprints from a series of petty thefts reported in the village. The pale autumn sunlight filtered weakly through the tall windows, catching in dust motes and glinting off polished brass instruments, bathing her desk in a soft golden haze. She sat upright on a tall stool, her black habit falling in immaculate folds. Her glasses slipped low on her nose as she peered through the microscope, one hand deftly adjusting the fine focus knob while the other nudged a neatly labelled slide into place with tweezers. A soft, indignant meow at the door caught her attention.

Sam, having excused himself from the station under the pretence of a morning stroll through Great Slaughter, had taken a quieter path. At a deserted corner of the village, he shifted into his tabby cat form, padding toward the convent with an air of feline authority. He was curious about Sister Boniface’s methods and, more privately, about what she might tell the children visiting her lab later that day. He considered how truly precious the children were, untarnished, unguarded, and full of wonder, a reminder of why he watched over the village so carefully.

After a second meow from the corridor, Sister Boniface opened the door and found the familiar tabby sitting with immaculate patience, staring up at her with wide, inscrutable eyes. “Oh, you again,” she said, her tone part amused, part exasperated, as Sam sauntered inside, clearly pleased with himself. He hopped gracefully onto a pile of books on a nearby table, sitting like a small, furry monarch surveying his realm.

“You know,” Sister Boniface mused, brushing a fleck of dust from her habit as she returned to her workspace, “you do not behave like an ordinary cat. You watch my work with such intent, it is as if you intend to take it on yourself someday.” She smiled faintly, almost indulgently, and looked up at the cat as though speaking to a very clever acolyte.

Sam’s thoughts stirred in agreement, a sly glint of mischief in his green eyes. He stretched with deliberate extravagance, then sprang down from his perch and stalked toward the nearest glass phials. With a swift, calculated swipe of his paw, he sent one skittering across the table…, and with a sharp crash it shattered on the floor. He fixed Sister Boniface with a steady, innocent gaze as if nothing had happened.

She let out a resigned sigh, stepping forward to sweep up the shards.
“Oh, crumbs!” she muttered, crouching to gather the broken pieces. “I should probably never have voiced my thoughts aloud,” she added wryly. “And since I have yet to give you a proper name… perhaps Goliath would suit you. Small in stature, yet ever so mighty in mischief.”
A faint smile softened her features as she carefully deposited the shards into the bin.

Sam’s eyes narrowed in polite disbelief. No, this name would not do, he decided silently, his tail flicking with barely contained indignation. He let out an offended meow and darted toward her workspace, plotting minor havoc, but Sister Boniface’s voice stopped him:
“You do not seem to agree with my choice, do you?” Her tone was light, teasing, yet carried an undertone of authority. She paused thoughtfully, tapping a finger against her chin, before continuing, “Let me ponder a moment longer… perhaps a name more fitting your… unique qualities.”

Moments of quiet passed, the only sound the soft patter of rain on the roof and the occasional clink of glass. Then she smiled, decisively, “Yes. We could call you Sam, after our dear Detective Inspector. Mysterious, observant, and a touch mischievous, just like you.”
Sam tilted his head, green eyes catching the morning light, faintly glowing golden around the edges, the gleam of amusement unmistakable. Inside, he allowed a quiet purr of approval at the irony of the situation.

Sister Boniface returned to her workbench, muttering a quiet prayer of thanks under her breath. “As Proverbs reminds us,” she murmured, “‘Even a fool is thought wise if he keeps silent, and discerning if he holds his tongue.’” Her eyes flicked knowingly toward Sam, who perched elegantly nearby, tail curling with mild satisfaction as he watched her carefully weigh each observation.

 

At that moment, a small horde of schoolchildren tumbled into the lab, their chatter bouncing off the walls like marbles on a marble floor. The moment their eyes fell on the cat, there was a chorus of delighted squeals. Little hands reached out, and Sam, flicking his ears with an air of amused indifference, darted across the workbench before leaping with feline grace onto the high windowsill, where no small hand could reach.

“Oh, look at him!” shouted one boy, nearly toppling over in his excitement.
“Don’t scare him!” a girl squeaked, holding her hands out as if he might somehow vanish in protest.

Their teacher, flustered but trying not to show it, clapped her hands. “Alright, everyone, calm down! Let’s form a neat row. The cat will watch the lesson with us.”
Gradually, the children arranged themselves in a semi-circle around Sister Boniface, who stood tall and animated in her crisp habit, her eyes sparkling with anticipation. She raised one finger as though conducting an orchestra, and the room fell into a hushed curiosity.

“Now, my dears,” she began, her voice carrying that unmistakable air of excitement that made even the most fidgety children sit up straighter, “today we are going to learn something quite magical about who we are…, and yes, even about your eyes!”
Heads tilted. Some children whispered among themselves, wondering what she meant.
“Take a look around,” Sister Boniface continued. “Some of you have blue eyes, some have brown eyes, some green, or even hazel. And do you know why?”
A chorus of “No!” erupted.

“Well, it’s all in your genes,” she said, clasping her hands. “Genes are like tiny instructions inside you, telling your body what colour your hair will be, what your eyes will look like, even whether you can roll your tongue!” She grinned. “And today, we’ll start with something simple: eye colour. Suppose we have a pair of parents, both with blue eyes.”

A murmur ran through the children. “Then the baby has blue eyes?” one boy guessed.
“Exactly!” Sister Boniface exclaimed. “Blue is recessive, which means that the child must inherit blue from both parents. Now, brown eyes are dominant. If one parent has brown eyes, the brown usually wins out. But! You could have a brown-eyed parent who carries a hidden blue gene, and sometimes… magic happens!” She twirled a piece of chalk and drew two circles on the blackboard, labelling them “Parent 1” and “Parent 2,” then sketched smaller circles inside to represent their genes. “See here, little blue and big brown. If both parents carry blue, there’s a chance a child might surprise you with blue eyes even if the other is brown!”
The children leaned in, wide-eyed. “So a baby could look like… a mix?” asked one small voice.

“Precisely, dear! A marvellous mix, like a little painting of both parents inside a tiny pair of eyes.”
From his perch on the windowsill, Sam observed the lesson, his tail swishing lazily. His sharp green eyes flicked from one face to another, noting expressions of awe and curiosity. And then, his gaze lingered on a familiar figure, though not consciously at first.
Mary Farnsworth.
She stood near the front, her golden hair neatly braided into two tight plaits, bouncing slightly as she shifted from foot to foot. Something about her struck a quiet note of recognition in Sam. It took a fraction of a moment before he placed it, he had seen her just last Friday evening, sitting quietly in the concert hall beside her little sister Esther, watching her parents perform. Her father Otto Farnsworth, the conductor, had waved to her from the podium, while the tuba of her mother Rose Atkinson, glinted under the stage lights.

Now, in the bright morning of the lab, her small face seemed almost luminous. Her features echoed her mother’s exactly, soft yet confident, but her eyes were a warm, rich brown, not the piercing blue that Rose Atkinson’s gaze was known for. Sam tilted his head, noting the subtle difference without thinking too hard about it; it was simply an impression, a gentle curiosity lingering at the edge of his mind.

Oblivious to Sam’s scrutiny, Mary’s attention was fully captured by Sister Boniface, who now picked up two coloured beads to demonstrate further. “Let’s pretend these beads are genes. Red is dominant, blue is recessive. If I mix one red and one blue… what do you think will happen?”
“Oh! Red wins!” shouted a girl near the back.

“Indeed! But the blue is still there, waiting,” Sister Boniface said. “Hidden genes can pop up in the next child, the next generation, even sometimes in surprising ways. Isn’t that wonderful?”
The children clapped, some bouncing with excitement. Even the smallest whispered “Wow…” as if a tiny revelation had blossomed in their minds.
Sam settled back on the sill, tail curling around his paws, content to watch the fascination unfold below. Sister Boniface’s enthusiasm filled the room, the children’s eyes bright and minds alive.