“Our first bit of trouble,” Fletcher said, sitting casually in his very formal chair, “is the usual kind from the usual quarter: crime at the behest of the Mastiff.”

The room kept quiet, tension thick all around them. The Mastiff ran London’s underbelly with all the authority and precision of a general on the battlefield. He’d undermined the DPS’s efforts time and again. He’d nearly killed Brogan Donnelly’s wife. He held captive a woman the Dreadfuls were desperate to find and free. He threatened London’s street children and blackmailed people in the highest level of the government. He was dangerous and growing more so every day.

“The bloke’s suspected to have set another fire a few days ago,” Fletcher continued. “Two people were caught in it. He’s outmaneuvering us, mates. And people are dying.”

“Everyone we know of in his network has gone as silent as the grave,” Elizabeth Black said. She was one of their newer members, and no one outside of their membership knew the prim and proper headmistress of a school for young ladies was actually the reigning monarch of the penny dreadfuls, writing under the nom de plume of Mr. King. “If we can’t even get a whisper of what they’re doing, how can we possibly prevent these things?”

“The Mastiff is hiding his work better, but we’re refining our network as well.” Fletcher looked determined but not entirely confident. “Brogan’s father-in-law is proving to be a shockingly good source of information.”

Everyone’s attention turned to their resident Irishman.

“I’ve not the first idea how it is he knows so much,” Brogan said. “I’ve not even any clue where he’s been the last two months, only that he is fully sure he and the children he’s protecting would be in mortal danger if he weren’t in hiding—enough so that he missed his own daughter’s wedding. He sends me information regularly, so I’m hopeful he can discover what we, so far, haven’t managed.”

Mr. Sorokin’s connection to London’s underworld had been a source of great debate in the DPS. No one thought him a villain, but there was little else they were certain of.

Fletcher turned his attention to Martin. “Anything odd you’ve learned about this most recent blaze?”

Martin stood and tucked his hands in his pockets, not in a posture of uncertainty, but simply a trick for keeping himself more still than he usually was. “The Mastiff, assuming he is the one behind this, didn’t wait for the people to be out of their shop, as he’s done in the past. He set the premises ablaze with them still inside.”

“This fire wasn’t a warning,” Stone said. “It was punishment.”