“Pick yourself up, Wildsmith,” he said aloud. He’d done it before, in far worse circumstances. When you’d lost your family, such as it was, and your dominant hand, and your liberty, you learned to shake off minor losses such as a casual one-night lover who didn’t matter anyway. He just wished he had a few more clients to keep him busy while he did the shaking off, because right now the afternoon was stretching very emptily in front of him.

Fine. He’d meant to refresh the classified advertisement he put in the papers anyway, so he’d do it now. He’d pay for more space, enough for a testimonial or two, maybe get someone to lay it out with a few decorative flourishes. He could afford to invest a little more in finding new clients.

He was just drafting the text when somebody knocked.

Landlady, probably. It wouldn’t be a telegram boy and it certainly wouldn’t be Aaron. It was the middle of the day, and he wasn’t thinking about Aaron.

He went to the door and opened it to see an unfamiliar man in a check coat. It wasn’t a nice coat, but he didn’t look like a terribly nice man. The cold eyes, broken nose, and mangled mess of one ear might be clues.

“Hello?” Joel said.

“Joel Wildsmith, graphologist?” the man asked. He didn’t say it nicely.

“That’s right. Who are you?”

“Mind if I come in?” The man had already started moving. Joel stepped back. He had the distinct feeling that if he didn’t, he’d be pushed.

“I don’t think we have an appointment,” he said warily. “Who are you?”

The man was looking around. His cheeks had the broken blood vessels of a drinker, or a fighter, or a rough life, or all three. “Nice place, Mr. Wildsmith. Graphologist? What’s that, then?”

“I analyse handwriting. Again, who are you?”

“You can call me Mr. Twigg.”

“And...do you want some handwriting analysed?” Joel wondered if Mr. Twigg actually wanted something read to him. He didn’t look like he’d paid a lot of attention in school, somehow.

“Nah, nah. Save it for the suckers.”

“Then what can I do for you?”

“Now you’re talking,” Mr. Twigg said. “Only, it’s not for me. See, I work for a fellow named Darby Sabini, if you know the name?”

Joel’s mouth dried. “The gentleman who...” He couldn’t think of a polite way to express leads the biggest gang round here. “Runs things in Clerkenwell?”

“Very good. So I dare say you know Darby and the boys keep an eye on the area. Make sure things run smoothly for small businesses like yourself.”

“I don’t have a business. I just read handwriting.”