The address Mr. Fielding investigated must have fallen victim to one of the building schemes. Houses along the street had been cleared away, and a huge new edifice was being erected—a factory or some such. Even at this hour, men crawled over the scaffolding and hammers pounded. The house number Mr. Fielding had given us, 33 Dudley Street, ought to be exactly where the new structure rose.

I stood back and gazed at the building, lanterns swinging from the scaffolding, men shouting at one another as they worked.

“What you want here, missus?”

A large gentleman with a full beard and side whiskers had appeared beside me with unnerving suddenness. He was a belligerent specimen in heavy work boots and thick coat. Lantern light shone on greasy dark hair sticking out from under his cap and an equally greasy beard.

“Just passing,” I said, pretending he did not worry me. “What are they building here?”

“Brewery.”

“I see.” I would have thought London had enough of those already, but ale made money. “Quite a lot of houses pulled down to make way for it.”

“Slums.” The big man spoke with disgust. “Not worth saving.”

“Mmm.” I wondered whether the inhabitants of those houses had agreed.

He took a step toward me in a way I didn’t like. “Shouldn’t be here, missus. Dangerous for a lady.”

“As I say, I am only passing.” I tried to move around him, but he stepped in front of me, blocking my path. “You will have to move,” I said crisply. “I want to go that way.” I pointed behind him.

“No, you don’t.”

Another large man slid off the scaffolding and joined the first. He grinned at me, but it was not a nice smile.

“Best you do what he says and go along,” the second man said.

It was actually immaterial whether I went onward or back—either way, I’d have to make my way to Oxford Street to catch another omnibus or find a hansom, if I didn’t simply walk all the way home. But I was curious as to why these men did not want me to continue down this street.

“I am trying,” I said impatiently. “I want to get to St. Martin’s Lane. This is the shortest route.” I pointed again.

“Not nowadays,” the grinning man said. He had lighter hair than the other, but it too was quite greasy. “Too much building.”

I realized the folly of arguing with them. I’d have to return another time and discover the reason they didn’t want me down this road. Or I’d tell Daniel, who’d be less conspicuous than I was in this area.

“Very well. Good evening.” I gave both men a civil nod, which they did not deserve, and turned to retreat the way I’d come.