I. What's Past is Prologue

Cantor found Molly Halter to be a surprisingly apt pupil. During the walk back to the hotel, she had already begun discussing the magical theory and applications of power that were used in the quasi-animating interrogation magic involved in speaking with the dead. Cantor was quite willing to “talk shop,” as it were, and hurry the lesson along – especially given that he was sweating proverbial bullets at this unexpected delay.

Neither Dozy nor Valentina seemed worried, so Cantor was inclined to trust that the time-table that had been established over the past few days had enough flexibility to work in a quick magic lesson. Especially if it got them on the good side of Shetland Yard!

Then again, from what Cantor understood, there was a strong probability that the rest of his living friends already had contingencies in place to go ahead with the whole “rescue Jon Quill” business if Cantor himself were unavoidably detained. Even so, Cantor would much prefer to be in the process of leaving first Lunadun and then Albion. Though Hive Naught was actively helping him hide, it was only a matter of time before Doctor Fether found him. And that was a confrontation Cantor would rather avoid entirely if he could manage it.

“Oy, think little miss resurrectionist ‘ere c’n actually learn that spell o’ his?” Magpie sounded doubtful. She and Fairweather both had also been quite curious to see Cantor’s interactions with what he thought of a “normal” haunting. It had been their first time witnessing such an encounter. Morari had seen Cantor deal with troubled spirits once before.

”I suspect she can.” Morari adopted the tone he used for academic lectures. “Her special talents seem to lie in extracting information from the dead. Doubtless she already knows several spells that might overlap, in terms of magical discipline, with Cantor’s corpse speaking spell. She might not attain mastery of it as soon as she views Cantor’s notes in his spell-book, but (if my past forays into magical education are anything to go by) it shouldn’t take her more than a few hours of study and work before she’ll be able to replicate the spell.”

”That is good, sir. A few hours and we will still be well on target to extract Jon Quill. ‘tis fortunate that events at Shetland Yard proceeded so smoothly. You did not … ?” Fairweather’s question trailed off. There had been discussions about Cantor potentially using a touch of enchantment to smooth the way, should it become necessary.

Cantor shook his head at the shade and muttered, “I didn’t have to. Thank Celestia.”

“Hmm?” Molly glanced at the empty spot on the sidewalk that Cantor had just spoken to. Seeing nopony there, she arched an eyebrow. “Not more work, I trust? Not that I would mind the delay.”

Valentina frowned at Molly and tightened her grip on Cantor’s foreleg.

Cantor blinked. “What? Oh, no. Just … uh … “

“Don’t say ‘talking to yourself.’ I shan’t believe it.” Molly grinned.

Cantor flushed slightly. That had been what he was about to say. Not a very original conversational dodge, he knew, but goodness knows he was worn out by the feats of magic he had been performing.

“I suspect he was talking with one of his current …” Dozy paused slightly, “hmm, traveling companions.”

“Traveling companions? I’d love to hear more about that.”

“I’m sure you would,” Valentina and Magpie spoke in unison, and with a similarly sharp tone. Fairweather chuckled.

Cantor sighed. They were walking by an old church, Saint Maretin's-in-the-Fields, and the stairs there looked too good to pass up. “Mind if I take a moment?”

Molly perked up, “What? In the crypts? They've got a cafe down there.”

Cantor gave her a slightly troubled look. “No … on the steps. For a rest. My bad leg is … tired.” Cantor barely stopped himself from saying ‘killing me.’

“Ah. Right. Sorry.” Molly looked a tad embarrassed and appropriately contrite.

Inspector Tobias snorted, more with amusement than impatience. “She’s always like this. If it’s dead, and there’s a mystery, she’ll poke at it until she’s found out all she can.” Tobias frowned suddenly, he seemed to be considering whether or not to continue. Then, with a shrug, he added, “Are there spooks with us at the moment?”

Cantor had plopped down on the stone and was rubbing at his rear legs. Dozy adjusted his shades and hat as he casually leaned against the black iron fence. He still wore his young Hoofrey Bogart disguise. Cantor found himself thinking that should a distraction and a quick getaway become necessary, all Dozy would need to do would be ditch the hat, coat, and glasses and there’d soon be a swarm of auto-graph seekers and paparazzi crowding around in no time at all. It was one of several contingencies they had worked out on the assumption that the Chief Inspector might decide to have Cantor picked up and held rather than let him continue to roam free.

Cantor grinned at Tobias and Molly. “Actually, yes. We are presently in the company of three spirits. Before you ask no, they’re not the usual sorts of haunts I deal with and no, I’ve not yet been able to lay them to rest. They’re helping me, I’m helping them, and we’re trying to sort out the whys, hows, and wherefores of their unnatural awakening. It’s a right mess.”

“Oy, if’n yer makin’ introductions get on with it!” Magpie was perched on the sill of one of the church's second floor windows and carefully watching the street. She was also eyeing the announcement of a new display of paintings at the National Art Museum which lay just across the road.

Cantor chuckled. “We have Magpie here, who just told me to get on with making the introductions. She’s a clever girl from Manehattan. Unfortunately she was murdered about two centuries back.” Tobias and Molly glanced up at the seemingly empty space Cantor was pointing to.

His hoof moved to indicate two other apparently empty places in quick succession, “Here we have an old scholar, Morari the Maneless. And there is somepony you may have heard talk of recently, Admiral Fairweather.”

“Charmed.” Admiral Fairweather gave an off-hoof bow.

“Admiral Fairweather says he’s charmed to meet you.”

Tobias looked a bit skeptical, but said, “Always a pleasure to meet a Wonderbolt. If you don’t mind my asking, does this business with your friends here have anything to do with the affair in Canterbury or the business with the Ashmulean?”

Dozy shrugged. “Maybe. We’re not sure.”

Cantor nodded, “There are some indications that there may perhaps be some sort of connection between the magic in that knife Carl used and the sort of magic that’s begun disturbing the long dead – waking them up in a most terrible fashion, and keeping me from being able to help them go back to sleep. It’s possible the Pony of Shadows may be indirectly involved too.”

Molly gave a low whistle, then shook her head. “Troubling stuff, to be sure. Also: do you always water down your answers with so many qualifiers? That string of ‘maybes’ and ‘perhapses’ was quite impressive!”

”She’s gotten ya pegged neat and tidy!” Magpie was clearly amused.

Cantor was surprised and he thought his expression likely showed as much. “Huh. At a guess, when I’m not sure about something, I’d rather not make definite statements.” His half-grin was on the apologetic side of things, “I’d hate to mislead somepony by accident!”

“Just mislead them on purpose, eh?” That was Tobias. Dozy fought back a laugh.

“Uhm. Yes.” Cantor.

“Good to know.” Molly nodded. “Also, if you lot know of anything you haven’t thought to tell us about the Ashmulean break in or Canterbury, Tobias here can take back an addendum or two to your reports. I’m sure a few more papers won’t weigh down old Toby!”

“That depends on how heavy that clay tablet is, Molly.” Tobias had adopted a serious tone.

“It’s surprisingly light, actually,” Dozy chimed in. “Alas that we don’t have anything else to add that wasn’t in our earlier statements.”

”Odd.” Morari muttered.

”How so?” Fairweather was watching the sky, frowning at the clouds.

”The tablet, from what I’ve seen, seemed a bit on the dense and heavy side. Would you agree, Cantor?”

Cantor nodded and climbed carefully back to his feet. “Enough rest. Thanks for the breather. On to the hotel.”

Valentina offered her fore-leg, but Cantor waved it off with a, “I’m feeling considerably better.” The way her mouth scrunched up indicated she was inclined to disagree, but she said nothing as she started trotting along beside him.

Magpie was grinning. And she elbowed Fairweather, who very studiously ignored her. Morari rolled his eyes.

“So, your usual haunts – you said they were fixated on some unfinished business.” Molly was also trotting alongside Cantor.

“Yes. My friends here don’t have anything like that, though.”

“Do you think your usual sort of haunts lie? Or are is it just that they can be mistaken?” Molly was quite curious.

Cantor shot her a sidelong glance, “I don’t really know! Why in the world would you ask such a thing?”

Molly shrugged, “That ‘Jane Doe’ – you said her name was Abigail? Well, either she was lying about the nature of her death or she was mistaken.”

Cantor blinked in surprise. “How would you know that? Most spirits know how they died.”

“Toxicology analysis. She had been drinking, true. Rather a lot. And she did fall in the river and drown. But there was considerably more than just an overabundance of cider in her system when she went into the water.”

Cantor just stared. Molly continued, with a sort of clinical dispassion – which Cantor suspected would be a handy trait for somepony who spends her time analyzing the oddities of the deceased, “So the question is did she know she had been drugged? If she did, did she know by who? It could have been a suicide and she just didn’t want her sister to know. Or she could have been slipped something without her knowledge. Or, for that matter, she could have known who drugged her and she was trying to protect him … or her.”

“Any chance you could talk to her again for us?”

Cantor shook his head, feeling a bit rattled. “Sorry … she’s gone.”

“Pity.” Molly blinked as Cantor stared at her, aghast. Molly hastily added, “Er, that is, it’s not a pity that she’s at peace – but it is a pity we didn’t have the foresight to talk with her a bit more. Could have gotten a better idea of where to take that investigation from here. Thanks, though – you were of great help.”

“Always glad to be of service,” Cantor’s reply was delivered with an undertone of confusion, he wasn’t entirely sure what to make of this filly.

Molly grinned, “Any chance you could teach me how to see hauntings while we’re studying that spell?”

Cantor sighed and shook his head. “No. Sorry. Tried to, repeatedly, back at Nighthaven. Never found any sort of spell or ritual that could duplicate it. And as for how I do it … well, like Merivale said, I just do it.”

Tobias grunted and then added “Just as Merivale said, its kind of like how a pegasus can stand on clouds, right? I asked a pegasus how they did that standing-on-clouds trick, once, and they gave me that very answer: they just do.”

The hotel came into view. Not much further now.

“I say,” Dozy chimed in, “You wouldn’t happen to know when those documents we requested will be delivered, would you? It’s been several days now.”

“Documents?” Molly was clearly confused.

Tobias’ tone was studiously blank, “The files in question are being redacted. They will shortly be available for Cantor’s use. I believe the Chief Inspector expects to be kept abreast of any developments resulting from them.”

Cantor managed to keep from smiling. Among the other reasons that Dozy and Bogart had been slow to deliver the tablet and cloth had been that Shetland Yard was being slow to deliver on the unusual files Hive Naught had requested from the Yard.

“What documents?” Molly poked at Tobias.

He frowned at her, but addressed his answer more to Dozy. “Hive Naught asked for case files of the largely unexplained and buried sort, specifically anything that might relate to ghosts or hauntings. The Yard has some, and – given Cantor’s performance today – I suspect they’ll be somewhat more willing to hasten them along. You’ll get them. And soon. That’s a ‘soon,’ soon, rather than just another way of saying ‘stop-bugging-us-about-it-‘cause-it’ll-be-never,’ soon. Cantor might find some leads there to help out his own restless friends. And he might find a few leads to help reopen some cold cases.” Molly drew a breath, but Tobias spoke over her, “Before you ask, no – they didn’t break open the black vault. So don’t get your knickers in a twist because you called dibs!”

“Black vault?” Valentina was the picture of wide-eyed curiosity as she took Tobias fore-leg.

”Clever girl!” Magpie sounded amused.

“Eh, collection of files and old spell books from the last necromancer Shetland Yard employed. Molly’s been bugging the Chief Inspector and petitioning the Superintendent for access since the second week she started working for the Yard.”

“Hang on a tick, are you saying Shetland Yard actually employed a bona fide necromancer back in the day?” Dozy sounded incredulous.

“Unofficially? Oh yes. Admittedly the last one was about ninety years ago. It wasn’t widely known. Nor did the Yard admit to her presence. Still doesn't, truth be told, even though there have been a few questions asked about the subject from time to time. Really it is something of an open secret.” Molly smiled. “When you deal with the sort of investigations the Yard is involved in, having somepony around who can interact with the dead can be a huge help. Ponies with Cantor’s sort of gift don’t come along every day. Many ponies would consider all mediums, spiritualists, and intermediaries of his ilk to be charlatans of one sort or another … but on rare occasions they are the real thing.”

Molly’s smile dropped away. “We’ve dealt with fakers before, you know. And right now, Cantor, you do look like the real thing. But if you have been conning us, I shall be quite put out.”

Cantor hoped he didn’t look as worried as he felt.

Molly continued, “But assuming you aren’t a faker, well then – perhaps once your troubles with Bedlam are sorted out you can apply as a consultant with the Yard. Assuming your usual ‘free lance’ spiritualist gigs aren’t providing enough excitement.”

Cantor let out a bark of laughter. Enough excitement? Just getting away from Doctor Fether was going to be excitement enough for quite some time – and the clock was ticking on that front.

As they entered St. Maretin's Lane (and a pair of zebra guards fell in line with Dozy) Cantor found himself hoping devoutly that he would be able to get Molly properly trained and out the revolving door before he had to catch his train out of Lunadun. He’d rather not have to explain to the Yard that he was fleeing the country. But flight was fast becoming necessary. Dealing with Fether would otherwise involve delays … assuming he could be dealt with at all … and what with concerns about Grogar’s possible return, spending months disputing his psychiatric state in the courts of law were simply out of the question.

“It is so kind of you to see me on such short notice, Doctor Fether, and I must commend you on your choice of a neutral ground for our little chat. The pastries here are simply divine! Are you sure you wouldn’t like a biscuit? No? A brandy?”

Ziggler was all smiles and pleasantry, lounging on a couch drawn up to a small antique table.

Doctor Tarrant Fether didn’t trust the old showpony any further than he could have thrown him. Not that there seemed likely to be any throwing going on. Not in such a public place as this gentlecolt’s club, nor with Burl and Horst both busy trailing Jon Quill.

“Thank you, no. I understand that one of your troupes is currently aware of the location of Cantor Mortalis?”

“Ah, yes, dear Cantor. I must tell you the story of how we first met sometime. It’s a trifle sordid, though it didn’t turn out nearly as scandalous as one would expect when the term ‘grave robbing’ pops up, and, I assure you, all of the legal difficulties have been quite settled.”

“How charming. Where is he now?”

Ziggler blinked, his expression of wide eyed innocence was overdone, of course.

“Why, I’m sure I don’t know!”

Tarrant Fether frowned. Even knowing of the earth-pony's skills as an actor, he strongly suspected Ziggler might actually be telling the truth this time.

“But I suspect I could find out,” Ziggler continued.

Tarrant’s smile was for politeness sake only. “Please do.” Tarrant began to rise from his chair.

“But …” Ziggler poured out another glass of brandy for himself. He signaled a waiter for another bottle. “Oh, and do sit down,” he waved a hoof at Doctor Fether.

“Yes, Mr. Ziggler?” Tarrant’s tone indicated that his time was valuable and Ziggler’s credit was soon to run out.

“But I wish to be sure everything is above board when it comes to dear Cantor’s detention and treatment. Did you bring the papers I asked?”

Tarrant Fether stared at Ziggler, it was the sort of gaze that seemed to bore through a pony. But Ziggler was used to harder looks than that.

“I did.” Tarrant Fether produced a plain folder and proceeded to lay out its contents on the table.

Ziggler looked through the papers. He tsked and tutted and hmmd. He read over the documents very carefully, taking his time. The waiter returned with a fresh bottle of brandy. Ziggler kept a mental note of exactly where this uniformed stallion was in the room. There were certain things Ziggler didn’t want him to overhear.

“Well, well, well … I see you are quite thorough, Doctor Fether. Everything appears to be in order.”

“Yes. It is. I will have Cantor. I will assist in his recovery.”

“Perhaps you will at that.” With a sigh, Ziggler slid the folder back to Tarrant Fether. “You do realize that dear Cantor will be contesting this. Our mutual friends have retained a solicitor for him.”

Fether’s eyes narrowed slightly. Outwardly there was no other display of emotion. But Ziggler suddenly felt quite uncomfortable – if anger were heat, Ziggler suspected he’d be blistering from the force of Fether’s reaction. Regardless of his expression Ziggler wasn’t cowed. No, Ziggler had anger enough of his own simmering beneath his plump, jolly exterior.

“I see.” Doctor Fether’s voice was cold.

Ziggler’s smile was intended to disarm hostilities. It made no impression on the good doctor whatsovever. Still, Ziggler continued, “Now, now. No need for that. Regardless of what you may think, Doctor Fether, I am entirely uninterested in causing you trouble … nor in getting between you and my dear, old friend Cantor.”

Fether raised an eyebrow in somewhat less than polite skepticism. He was right to be skeptical for Ziggler was lying.

Time for a touch of truth, to help the lies go down easier, Ziggler thought. “Cantor is a dear friend. You are clearly quite driven. There’s no profit in getting between you. Further I suspect that you may be right in that he needs professional help. But my own voice in the proceedings was overruled, which is why he hasn’t been delivered to you. Nor will he be.”

“Obstructing Bedlam’s attempts to secure a madpony can lead to legal trouble, Mr. Ziggler. Substantial trouble.” Doctor Fether’s slight frown returned.

Ziggler looked around carefully. The waiter was elsewhere in the club. Good, he had a few minutes unsupervised for what was to come next. “Quite right! And that’s one of the things I wished to speak to you about – on my own initiative, I assure you.”

“Go on.”

“I, that is myself independent of Cantor’s other friends, wish to be assured that your interest in Cantor won’t extend to causing problems for those who have been aiding him in his continuing refusal to accept your generous offer of free room, board, and medical care.”

“Why do you think I would be inclined to acquiesce to this request of yours, Mr. Ziggler?”

At first glance, Ziggler’s grin was all ingratiating smarm … but underneath the expression hinted at wickedness and cruelty, fed by his personal anger. Fether’s analytical gaze dissected the expression in a heartbeat.

“Because, Doctor Fether, if you don’t leave my friends and I alone, I’ll personally make sure that regardless of whether or not Cantor Mortalis is ever institutionalized again you, Doctor Tarrant Fether, will never, ever, ever have him under your personal care.”

Ziggler spoke softly, but with an iron assurance. This was no casual threat. Then again, Fether knew that Ziggler was good at bluffing.

“I don’t believe you.” Doctor Fether decided to call the bluff now, rather than later.

Ziggler sighed, then produced an old newspaper and tossed it across the table. One of the articles had been circled in red.

Fether glanced down at it and blinked. Given good doctor’s immense self-control, Ziggler was as pleased as if the unicorn had recoiled in horror.

“I’m sure a medical ethics’ review board would be entirely unwilling to let you treat a pony (mentally disturbed or not) when you are the one who is personally responsible for the aggravated assault …”

Then (quite suddenly) the jovial tone dropped entirely from Ziggler’s voice. The fat earth pony’s eyes flashed with a deep rage as he snarled, “ … not to mention maiming …”

Ziggler paused and took a deep breath. He unclenched his teeth and regained control of his tone before continuing “… of this theoretical patient. Which is to say nothing of leading a mob on, what did the article say? A witch hunt? And one that left two buildings in ashes in addition to sending a pony to the hospital.”

Ziggler’s smile was a mask, as was his friendly tone, “Oh no, Doctor Fether. Should this information come to light, I’m quite sure that your superiors in Bedlam would arrange matters so that Cantor wouldn’t ever be treated by you. That is assuming they didn’t voluntarily transfer him to some other institution so as to avoid any hint of … impropriety.”

Another pony might have lashed out (verbally, physically, or magically) in the face of Ziggler’s revelation, but Doctor Fether just gazed expressionlessly at Ziggler. Ziggler could almost hear the turning of wheels and gears as Fether considered the various possibilities.

Several minutes passed in silence. Ziggler recovered the old newspaper and tucked it away.

“Very well, Mr. Ziggler. I will … overlook … Hive Naught’s role in maintaining Cantor’s current fugitive status. Nor will I seek restitution upon them should Cantor succeed in escaping Albion. Is that sufficient?”

Ziggler blinked, again adopting an expression of innocence. In part because their waiter had returned to the bar from the backroom. Ziggler was reasonably certain that stallion hadn’t seen the business with the newspaper.

“Did I say Hive Naught was involved?”

The evasion wasn’t good enough. And that was confirmation enough for Doctor Fether.

“Kindly don’t insult my intelligence, Mr. Ziggler. You’ve said your piece, and we have established that I shall not seek to harm your business interests. Is that all? I have considerable work to attend to. Cantor isn’t an easy pony to catch.”

“Actually no. I’ve got another condition of sorts for you – this one a friendly warning.” Ziggler’s tone sounded friendly enough, but once again the undercurrent was anything but.

Fether sighed. “More threats, Mr. Ziggler?”

“Call it advice. If, in spite of my associate’s efforts … in spite of Cantor’s own capabilities … you do wind up in possession – even temporarily – of my dear friend Cantor, you would be best served not to harm him.”

“I don’t harm ponies, Mr. Ziggler. I heal them.”

Ziggler snorted with disbelief. “Oh yes, and I know of several of the ‘treatments’ available to doctors working over somepony saddled with the sort of diagnosis you’d give my dear friend Cantor. Shackles, collars, isolation, ice baths, scalding steams, starvation, beatings, leeching, psychotropics. But let me assure you that if you Cantor comes to any real harm while in your care … if, Celestia forfend, you opt for ‘surgical intervention’ or the ‘shocking cure’ … well, Cantor’s pleas for restraint will not keep some of my more volatile associates from taking matters into their own hooves.”

Ziggler leaned forward, “Oh no, harm Cantor and I will push them to go after you.” Ziggler, his smile falling away, sat back. “Not that they’d need pushing. Count yourself lucky that we’ve kept them well leashed thus far.”

Fether’s frown had deepened, not at the threat, but due to the result of his ongoing calculations.

“You started with the stick, Ziggler.”

Ziggler started to sweat. Fether had caught on faster than Ziggler had planned. And Fether had dropped the false courtesy of addressing the earth pony as “Mister.”

“My information about you, Harold Ziggler, indicated that you should have started with a carrot. And that the carrot would be a particularly enticing one. Only if you suspected I would refuse it should you have fallen back on the stick. You’re changing up your usual modus operandi. I have to wonder, why is that?”

Ziggler grinned nervously. “Oh, there are reasons, of course.”

Fether’s eyes widened. “Of course. Smoke and mirrors. Slight of hand. You’re the distraction.” Doctor Fether abruptly stood up.

“Good day, Harold. I believe our business here is concluded. You have delayed me too long already.”

Fether was right, Ziggler thought, but Ziggler hadn’t quite delayed him as long as he was supposed to … at least not yet.

“You haven’t asked about the carrot, Doctor.”

Fether hesitated, “You have one?”

“I do.”

From half way across the room, their waiter shot Ziggler a worried glance. Ziggler ignored it.

“If you don’t wish to test my patience further, Ziggler, you will share it. Now.”

Ziggler leaned in again, gesturing for the doctor to bend down. When Fether did so, Ziggler whispered in his ear.

“I can tell you where Cantor is going. Once he’s out of Albion, his resources will be much curtailed.”

Fether laid a hoof on Ziggler’s shoulder and squeezed. Hard.

“Where?”

“Tambelon. In the Badlands.” Ziggler winced as the doctor withdrew his hoof. That was going to leave a mark.

Outside the chimes of a nearby church struck the hour. Fether left the club with unseemly haste.

Ziggler grinned as he raised his brandy glass, a silent toast to the departing doctor. “Cheers, old bean! You should find some very interesting reports waiting for you back at your desk.”

The waiter, who had approached to once again refill Ziggler’s glass, raised an eyebrow. “Sir?” The implied question had nothing to do with either the food or drink available.

Ziggler noted the faint green shimmer that slid across the fellow’s eyes and said, with a certain smugness, “Pity Fether wasn’t at his office half an hour ago, when he could conceivably have done something about it all, eh?”

“You do realize that Thretan is going to be in one of her moods when I tell her that you’ve informed Fether where Cantor’s headed.”

Ziggler shrugged, “Pah! I’ve done her a favor.” The waiter raised an eyebrow in a silent (and unbelieving) inquiry.

The old show pony sighed at the disguised changeling, “This way we avoid trouble with Bedlam, Cantor gets out of the country, and I will bet good money that Fether is now going to personally follow him to the Badlands.”

Ziggler’s smile was calculating and cruel. “If Thretan feels that strongly about the matter, well … the Badlands aren’t exactly what one would call ‘safe.’ Accidents happen there all the time. I’m sure Thretan still remembers how to arrange for a most unfortunate ‘accident’ to happen to Doctor Tarrant Fether. An untraceable accident that won’t lead to trouble for us here in Albion. And there’s no need for dear, sweet, naive Cantor to know anything about it.”