“I hear,” Nack replied, in a small voice. “But I sure as hell ain’t gonna go ’round rootin’ nobody outta no holes.” And he added, for emphasis, “Me bein’ just a fledglin’.”

“To Hell with this!” Lillehorne started to crumple the sheet between his hands but saw something else that snagged his eye. “Here’s the only item worth a damn in this paper! The weather prognosticator predicts we’re in for a season of storms! Ha! Would you expect summery sunshine here on the eve of winter? Who couldn’t make such a prediction? Lord Puffery must’ve taken that task upon himself as well as the job of stirring up Parliament against the High Constable … and against myself, who has to bear the weight of it! Oh, I also can be a prognosticator and see what the weather will be like tomorrow at that office!”

“I’m needin’ ta’morra night off,” said Nack, as if nothing else had been discussed since he’d first mentioned it. “You done vowed. You won’t go back on your word, will you?”

Lillehorne didn’t answer, but just sat glowering at Nack until the little red-faced bully picked up his club from the table, stood up and said, “I’m headin’ to home. I’ll walk my route tonight, good and proper.”

“I’ll count on it,” came the terse reply.

“By your leave, then,” said Nack, who turned the cur’s-fur collar of his coat up around his neck, gave his master a quick and ungainly bow and headed for the door.

On the street, flurries of snow blew through the evening’s gathering dark. As the dark had fallen, so had the temperature. The blue December eve was speckled with the lamps of passing coaches and carriages, and in the windows of shops that remained open late to catch the passing crowd, which had much dwindled since Nack had followed Lillehorne into Chomley’s parlor.

Nack thrust his free left hand into a pocket, clenched his ever-present billyclub in his right, and began to trudge against the chill wind toward his cellar hovel a mile north on Errol Street. He kept his head down and his thoughts on how he was going to get through such a cold night on duty, even though his route took him only half a mile; all he had to do was walk a circle and swing his constable’s lantern in an area that was mostly parkland, so what of it? It was fortunate for him that his six hours of work took him past two taverns that stayed open until the wee morning, and tonight he meant to make use of their fireplaces and mugs of warm ale.

Soon his mind drifted to the dice game tomorrow night at the Jackal, his favorite tavern and a place where everyone knew him and all were impressed by being in the presence of a constable, and so he failed to note the coal wagon that had been steadily following him since he had walked out Chomley’s door.

When he turned down the lonely length of Falstaff Alley to take his usual shortcut, he also failed to note the man who came up behind him and with one blow of a leather-wrapped piece of lead to the skull knocked Dippen Nack sprawling upon the rough stones. Nack’s purple tricorn went spinning away and his ornate wig slid down upon one shoulder. He made a gurgling sound and tried to pull himself to his knees, but the assailant struck again and then most decisively Nack lay still.