“Egad,” said Britt, the huge bushy eyebrows up and twitching. But then: “And Goliath crosses the finish line! Right-o, chaps, right-o!”

At once a stocky bull-chested gent four inches short of Julian’s height but with a mug like a meat cleaver was snarling up into his face. “Ya murdered my meal ticket, ya bastard! I’ll take your head for—”

He stopped because four barrels did not exactly fit into two nostrils, but it was a near-run thing.

“I wouldn’t cause a scene, Arthur,” Britt cautioned. “And good advice to all my friends gathered here.” He was already reaching for the money bowl. “This gentleman before you once fought three duels in one day in Salisbury, and you can see he’s very much alive and kicking.”

Julian was aiming that deadly stare into the eyes of the late Alfonzo’s owner. Matthew saw Julian wipe his offending hand across the front of the other man’s coat, leaving a streak of ill luck. “Give him a decent burial,” Julian said.

There was some more muttering and a few half-hearted threats were thrown across the table, but Britt took it upon himself to give a coin each to the owners of Goliath, Jimmy Jack, Brisket, and even dead Alfonzo’s owner, who brightened up considerably on his way to the bar.

“Next race in five minutes!” called the bug-wigged man in a sing-song voice that said this was not his first time around the track. “Masters, bring your contestants forward! Gamblers, get your bets on the table!”

Matthew stood nearby, close enough to hear but out of Britt’s line-of-sight; he was just meandering around beside the table as if contemplating his next bet.

“So good to see you, dear boy!” said Britt. He cast his gaze upon the saddlebag. “Travelling far tonight? And still flirting with disaster, are we?”

“Yes, travelling far … and only flirting.”

“It’ll catch up with you! Mark it, and you know what I’ve told you if you keep up your dangerous walk upon the precipice! Every day you have the chance to start anew and afresh!”

“Yes, I recall,” said Julian. “And as I recall, your own precipice is equally as dangerous as mine. Well, I’ll start anew and afresh tomorrow. For now I have to ask you some questions.”

“Oh?” Britt produced a red velvet purse from within his coat and began to put his winnings away. “Pertaining to what?”

“Pertaining to what Royal Navy admiral has decided to go into competition with Professor Fell.”

Matthew saw the man’s fingers pause in their deposit of the silver.

“You know who I mean,” Julian went on. “I want a name.”

“Dear boy,” said Britt, who dropped the last shilling into his purse and closed the bag with its drawstring, “a question of that nature is best directed to Mother Deare. She should know far more than—”

“Mother Deare is dead. The admiral’s name. What is it?”