‘Not in my own person, you understand. I scarcely ever leave these precincts nowadays. But I know some … persons who might be ideal for this.’

I sighed inwardly. Was I to be passed about like a shilling parcel? ‘Go on.’

Dr Fetch’s celluloid hand clacked and hummed as he inhaled his fat cigar. ‘Just opposite St Paul’s there lives a private agent … ’

‘I have been through them all!’ I cried, dismayed.

‘Not this one. She – and her … helpmate – they are the last court of appeal, as it were.’

‘She?’

Dr Fetch drew on his cigar and a fog of smoke burst over his smiling face as white and nebulous as his endless beard.

*

Being the reminiscences of Miss Jenny Flint, lady’s maid of Paternoster Row, London.

It was a raw, nasty day outside, and London was smothered in one of those great, dense fogs that you read about in the Strand. Inside, though, it was quite different. We was in the hothouse that stood at the back of the property. Madam, myself and a Mr Thursday – a smart cove with great black moustaches that almost curled up to the edges of his nose. He sat there in a cane chair, with all of Madam’s rare orchids and exotic blooms towering over him and the sweat running down his face. This was four years on from the business at the Old Pom and we was settled in nicely to our abode, solving mysteries, as I’ve said, and generally having larks.

By this time, we’d been joined by Strax – of whom we was inordinately fond. He was a bit of a daft ha’p’orth, I must admit, and fond of making vague threats but a very loyal companion all the same. I could think of no one I’d rather have in my corner. It was like having a very solid mastiff always at your side. A very solid mastiff, with a great big head like a boulder and three fingers on each hand.

But Strax wasn’t in the hothouse just then. He was out the back tending to the horses. Or shovelling up their leavings, at any rate. Rank has its privileges, you know.

I bobbed a curtsey – just for form’s sake you understand – and offered Mr Thursday a glass of lemonade. He swallowed it like a gasping kiddie on a summer’s jaunt and thanked me, casting an uneasy little glance at the Mistress, who sat opposite in her peacock chair, the usual heavy veil over her face.

‘This city of fogs and chills,’ sighed Madam. ‘It gets into one’s bones, does it not? Sometimes, I long for escape. To feel the sun on my hide once more. To bask naked … ’

Mr Thursday looked even more ill at ease, if that was possible and cleared his throat.

Madam’s smile was visible even beneath the veil. ‘I hope I’m not making you uncomfortable.’

‘I beg your pardon?’