Flint was a money-lender, or at least that was how he would describe his means of income were anyone in authority to ask. He was a neat man, deceptively slight of build for one whose name carried such fear before it. Raven reasoned he did not need brawn himself while he retained Gargantua’s services, but nor did he believe that Flint had got where he was without a level of martial prowess and ruthlessness in dispensing it.

Raven had once owed him a debt, which Flint had commuted instead to what he referred to as ‘an understanding’. The oblique nature of this had troubled Raven from that moment forward, but he understood that when you do a deal with the devil, you generally don’t get to dictate the terms.

He had thought that in the time he was away, Flint might have accrued greater concerns that relegated Raven to an insignificance. How foolish he was to think so. Such men had long memories and an eye for detail where it represented an opportunity to exploit their fellow man.

Flint did not get up.

‘Do take a seat,’ he said, indicating the chair opposite his desk. It seemed incongruous that he should have such a thing, Raven imagining the man to deal entirely in theft and violence. He realised he had forgotten the mundane practicalities attendant upon money-lending.

‘I am not one of your employees, expected to jump when you snap your fingers,’ Raven told him, sending a glance towards the Weasel. He was in no mood for conversational niceties.

‘I wish to discuss your outstanding debt.’

‘I was under the impression that I no longer owed you money.’

‘It is my recollection that, in lieu of the money you owed, we had come to a mutually beneficial arrangement. Your debt is no longer a financial one, but an obligation to assist me – in any way I see fit – remains.’

‘What do you want?’ Raven asked, failing to keep impatience from his voice.

‘Chloroform,’ Flint replied.

‘Then present yourself at Duncan and Flockhart’s on Princes Street.’

The money-lender looked up at him with narrow eyes, a warning that his own patience was limited.

‘They only sell it to doctors and dentists. You know that.’

‘Yes. Because it is dangerous stuff, especially in the wrong hands. What would you want it for? Your more accustomed expedient of clubbing someone over the head produces much the same result.’

‘Strikes me there are ample possibilities, if one has the imagination.’

The Weasel nodded sagely. ‘I read in the newspaper about a man who woke up naked in a whore’s bed, having had all of his money stolen,’ he said. His voice was reedy and nasal, his diction not aided by the state of his mouth. ‘He claimed to have been chloroformed in the street.’

‘I find that extraordinarily improbable,’ Raven replied.

‘That a whore could be capable of such a thing?’ Flint asked incredulously.