For that matter, what had happened to Greathouse and the girl, who evidently had accompanied that big oaf to London because she was in love with Corbett? Lillehorne had expected them to show back up at the Old Bailey to press their presence and oppress himself, but … no, they had not.

It was obvious to Lillehorne that Lord Puffery had decided the association of Albion and Corbett still warranted publication to a bloodthirsty audience. How Lord Puffery had gotten that story to begin with was no doubt easily explained by one of the coach’s guards giving over the tale for a few coins. He might have done the same, had he been confronted by Albion that night. But larger questions remained: what need did Albion have of Corbett, and where were they?

The cups of hot coffee came. “Mr. Chomley says the bill is square,” the serving-girl offered. “He says he wants no trouble with the law.”

“There shall be none,” Lillehorne replied, but he couldn’t help giving the girl’s ample bottom a push with his cane when she turned to walk away. In that instant of misdirected attention Nack grabbed up the Pin and squinted hard over its bounty of print in the yellow lamplight.

“This has been a strange time,” said Lillehorne, who decided to sip his coffee and rest his eyes from any further inflammations of the names Albion and Corbett. “Judge Archer is still missing, you know. All that in the Gazette about him being kidnapped from the Cable Street Hospital in Whitechapel, and him suffering from a gunshot wound. Well, what was he doing in Whitechapel and who has him? Somebody with a grudge against him, to be sure. And then the clerk—Steven Jessley—doesn’t come in to work one morning and it seems the address he has given on his employment papers is false. No one can find him, either. It makes no sense! Nack, are you listening to me?”

Obviously he was not. “Says here a wall was busted down off Union Street and they found an old sea trunk with ten shrunken heads in it. Can you fathom such a thing?”

“It is beneath me,” said Lillehorne. “I no longer can trust Lord Puffery.”

“Can you trust this?” Nack began to haltingly read. “Word comes to us … that the missin’ Italian opera star … Madam Alicia Candoleri … has been spirited away by her lover … the pirate Redjack Adams … taken to his secret hideout … Paradise Cove … more to come.” Nack looked up and grinned, a frightening sight. “Ain’t part of your job supposed to be findin’ her?” His grin fractured as his brain came up with a thought. “Hey. Might be she run off with this pirate and don’t want to be found.”

“I’m not sure she wanted her escort and coach driver to be murdered, as they were,” Lillehorne reminded the other. He took another sip of the strong black coffee. There were over two thousand coffee houses in the city; part of his mind was wondering where else he might get free cups. “The situation of Madam Candoleri concerns me, but until someone comes up with real news I and the street constables are equally at a loss to speculate.”