The lane had been shabby; the alley was noisome, narrow, dark, and half-choked with refuse. A rat, disturbed by the earlier passage of the pickpockets, hissed at him from a mound of rubble; he swung the bottle and sent the rat flying into the wall, which it struck with a satisfyingly juicy thump before falling limp at his feet. He kicked it aside and went on, bottle at the ready and hand on his dagger, listening for any sound of footfalls ahead.

The alleyway forked, with a jog hard right, back toward the lane; he paused, listening, then risked a quick glance round the corner. Yes, there they were, crouched at the ready, sticks in hand. The girl, curse her, had a knife or a bit of broken glass in her hand; he saw the light glint from it as she moved.

A moment more, and they would realize he was not coming down the lane. He stepped silently past the fork and made his way as fast as he could through the rubble of the left-hand alley. He was obliged to climb over stacks of wet refuse and worm sideways through the hanging goods in a fuller’s yard, to the gross disfigurement of his suit, but emerged at last into a wider thoroughfare.

He didn’t recognize the street, but was able to see the dome of St. Paul’s looming in the distance, and thus to judge his way. Breathing somewhat easier in spite of the mephitis of dog turds and rotten cabbage that surrounded him, he set his steps eastward, and turned his thoughts to the next item on the day’s agenda of unpleasant duties, which was to resume the search for a break in the clouds obscuring the truth of Timothy O’Connell’s life and death.

A note had come that morning from the enigmatic Mr. Bowles, to the effect that no further connexions had been discovered to exist between the late Sergeant and any known agents of a foreign power. Grey wondered grimly just how many unknown agents there might be in London.

Constable Magruder had come in person the night before, to report a lack of result from inquiries into the Turk’s Head, scene of Saturday’s brawl. The tavern’s owner insisted stubbornly that O’Connell had left the place drunk, but moving under his own power—and while admitting that a brawl had occurred on the premises on the night in question, insisted that the only damage done had been to the window of the establishment, when one patron had thrust another through it, headfirst. No witnesses had been found who had seen O’Connell later in the evening—or who would admit to it.