Riley touched the bandage gingerly. “Who is this client? What would he want with us?”

Farley carefully and methodically capped his inks and replaced them in a wooden case.

“This client is a most singular individual,” he said. “A genius in many fields, he is, and a generous benefactor to those who keep him informed. As to what he wants with you, well, that’s a question he will answer in person.”

“Any words of wisdom for me, Mr. Farley? Regarding this mysterious client and how to keep him sweet?”

Farley smiled and his teeth were remarkably white inside wizened lips. “You are a smart one, boy. That is possibly the best question to have asked, when there was only time for one.” Farley thought while he wiped his needle. “I would advise you to keep yourself interesting. Be amusing in your conversation. Mr. Charismo is unlikely to send you back here for as long as he finds your company scintillating.”

Riley stood on the stool and caught sight of Chevie, who was terrorizing the Rams trying to restrain her.

Scintillating, he thought. That shouldn’t prove too difficult.

Then the name mentioned by Farley penetrated his brain.

Mr. Charismo? Surely not Tibor Charismo, the most famous man in all of England. What was his involvement in this whole affair?

Whatever Mr. Charismo’s intentions toward their persons, they were sure to be less lethal than those of either Albert Garrick or Otto Malarkey.

Perhaps we will have a moment’s respite. Perhaps even a bite to eat.

Riley waved at Chevie and smiled encouragingly.

Our situation is about to improve, he wanted to tell her. Be of good cheer.

But Chevie was not in good cheer and would not be for some time; for, lying in the palm of one hand, were the remains of the Timekey, which had been smashed utterly by Otto Malarkey’s surprise blow.

THE ORIENT THEATRE. HOLBORN. LONDON. 1898

Before quitting the Orient in search of the Rams, Garrick checked that his cashbox was still hidden in a steel safe below the conductor’s podium in the orchestra pit. It would be a galling shame to return after dumping the bodies of Percival and his cronies in the Thames to realize they had raided the stash before his arrival.

Garrick loaded all three bodies onto a cart in the yard and made a quick trip across to the low-lying marshes on the Isle of Dogs to lighten his load.

More food for the fish, he thought as the macabre packages slid below the murky waters.

And now, with the day’s donkey work completed, he could attend to more important business. Specifically, to find out who had hired the Rams to do him in. There was one man who would surely be able to answer that question, and Garrick knew precisely where that man would be.

The Hidey-Hole. Is that not how the Battering Rams referred to their infamous club?