The boy shuffled across the street, not bothering to avoid the puddles of seeping sewage. As he came up, Garrick could see that his jacket was tattered and closer to dirty pink than red from a hundred rough launderings.

He scowled at Garrick. “Well, it ain’t Christmas Day. And you ain’t no Mr. Scrooge.”

On a normal morning Garrick would have striped the cur’s cheek with his glove, but today he was feeling charitable toward most of England.

“Yes, well spotted, you educated scamp. Now, fetch me a cab to Holborn. Hop to it and there’s a shilling in it for you.”

The boy stretched out a hand. “Shilling in advance, guv’nor.”

Garrick laughed. “In advance? You’ll be getting your payment when I see you on the backboard of my cab. As you so cleverly pointed out, I ain’t no Ebenezer Scrooge.”

As the boy hurried off, whistling the customary three-note cabbie summons, Garrick realized that he had lost his wallet in the wormhole.

No journey can be embarked on for free, he thought. Not even one through time itself. Another thought occurred to him: I hope that boy can wait for payment; I don’t like to commit murders this early in the day.

The morning was not progressing swimmingly for Riley and Chevron Savano. Just moments before Garrick’s arrival in the basement, the time-traveling pair had been swathed in rough burlap, torsos mummified by bailing twine, and manhandled up a flight of stairs.

By the time Chevie shook off the wormhole bliss, she was on her back on polished floorboards with a knee wedged to her throat. She tried to call out to Riley but could do nothing more than croak through an obstructed windpipe.

Apparently her croak was enough to arouse the ire of her captors, as one rapped her on the crown.

“Shush yer gob, miss,” he ordered. “We is tired and hungry men and not in the mood fer shenanigans.”

Chevie responded by heel-kicking her captor in the knee.

How do you like those shenanigans? she tried to say, but all that emerged was a series of grunts.

Her stricken captor howled lustily, to the great amusement of his comrades.

“Aw, Jeeves, did the maiden injure your person?” said one, the chicken-wing man by the smell of him.

“Shall I carry you to a hospital, or is you too far gone?” said another, then spat noisily to punctuate his derision.

The injured party recovered himself, cracking Chevie once more on the head. “Do we need ’em both? Malarkey might be satisfied with one to spill the beans.”

Inside his sack, Riley jerked at the mention of the name Malarkey.

Otto Malarkey? The king of the Battering Rams? How had they come into his sights?

As there was no knee on his throat, Riley spoke to the men. “Which one of you bludgers wants to tell Mr. Malarkey how you murdered his kin?”