When they returned to Sordey Street, Harry spotted a child who could have posed for an illustration of the Artful Dodger. He was lounging against a lamp post, his hands in his pockets.

‘Would you like to earn some money?’ asked Harry.

‘What for?’

‘Information. I’m trying to find a Mr George Briggs, a driver.’

The boy took off his battered hat and stared thoughtfully inside as if consulting the oracle. ‘How much, guv?’

‘One shilling.’

‘Garn.’

‘Oh, all right. Half a crown.’

‘Let’s see the money.’

Harry took out half a crown and handed it to him. The boy crammed his hat on his head. He put the half crown in his jacket pocket. Then he grinned at them.

‘Dunno,’ he said and ran off as fast as his legs could carry him.

But two other boys had witnessed the transaction. One stepped forward. ‘We can find old Briggs for you. But it’ll be half a crown each.’

‘No tricks,’ said Harry. ‘You don’t get a penny until you take us to him.’

The boys set off and Harry and Becket followed. They walked through one miserable street after another. The weather had turned warm and humid. The air was redolent with all the smells of dirt and poverty.

‘We must set up a charitable trust for these sort of people now that we are in funds,’ said Harry. All the money he had earned he had invested shrewdly.

‘If I may be so bold, sir,’ said Becket crossly, ‘charity begins at home.’

‘Meaning?’

‘Meaning me and Daisy would like that little apartment.’

‘You are quite a nag, Becket. I’ll see to it.’

‘Up there,’ said one of the boys, coming to a halt. He pointed up at a tenement.

‘No money until I know he’s there. Which floor?’

‘Up the top.’

‘Then follow us.’

Harry climbed the stairs to the top of the ramshackle building. ‘That door,’ said the other boy, pointing.

Harry knocked. He heard the sound of slow, shuffling footsteps and then the door opened.

A stooped, grey-haired man opened the door. ‘Mr George Briggs?’ asked Harry.

‘Yes, who wants ter know?’

Harry gave a crown to the boys and said, ‘Run along with you.’

Then he faced George Briggs. ‘May we come in?’

‘You’re not from the police?’

‘No.’

‘Come in, then.’

The flat consisted of one room with a bed set into a recess. Briggs sank into a battered armchair. ‘What’s this about?’

‘Do you remember Betty Biles?’

‘Course I do. Prettiest thing to ever grow out o’ this muck heap.’

‘You and your wife witnessed a will she wrote.’

‘I’d forgot about that. She come round here with her brother and she was black and blue. Old Biles had taken ’is belt to her cos she wouldn’t marry Tim Jones. She said she was running away and she was going to be rich and she wanted to make sure anything she got would go to the brother, Jeffrey.’

Harry told him the story of Dolores’s murder. ‘Poor soul,’ said Briggs. ‘I ’eard about that. Fancy her brother doing it! They were that close.’