At the top of his stairs, he opened the door to his sitting room. He had expected nobody - Maude hadn’t come to the door, so Denton figured he’d decamped - but at the far end of the long room, just in front of the window through which his attacker had vanished three nights before, a mysterious figure could be made out, crouched, indecipherable, as if caught in some dubious act. The hair on the back of Denton’s head prickled, and he reached for his pistol, slow as he was to recognize the figure’s necromantic gown as Atkins’s tattered Indian robe, then to recognize Atkins’s face above the collar, and finally to understand that the seemingly disembodied helmet above the face was a black bowler resting on a swathing of bandage.

‘You gave me a start,’ Denton said.

‘Nothing to what you gave me, Colonel. I might of shot you.’ Atkins was coming forward, now holding up a hand with the derringer in it. ‘Copper brought this by.’

‘You’re supposed to be in hospital.’

‘Couldn’t lump it another day.’ Atkins took off the hat, revealed a kind of turban. ‘Shaved my head. I look like a bleeding fakir. So I had to wrap it in something, didn’t I? Old scarf of yours, hope you don’t mind.’ He put the hat on again. It sat about two inches above his forehead. ‘Reckon if I’d been wearing this hat when the bastard hit me, I’d never have had to go to the hospital in the first place.’

‘You’re a sight for sore eyes, Atkins.’ Denton found himself smiling. He touched Atkins’s shoulder. ‘Glad you’re back. Where’s the boy servant - what’s his name? - Maude?’

‘Sent him packing. Wet behind the ears. Did you know the only experience he’d had was as a footman in some jumped-up manufacturer’s manse? Family hopped off to the Continent for a year, gave him his marching orders. Too young to be out alone. All right if I sit?’

‘Well, of course—’

‘Bit wobbly still.’ Atkins fell into the armchair and put the derringer on the table, which still showed the damage from the bullet Denton had fired, the flash mark a burn like a black teardrop. ‘I’ll stagger back downstairs presently.’

‘Like hell. You’ll take it easy until you’re fit. In the meantime—’ Denton, still standing, reacted away from more movement down the room. Atkins’s door had swung open and an indeterminate shape had appeared. Denton snatched at the Colt pistol. ‘What the hell’s that?’

‘Oh—’ Atkins turned, looked down the room. ‘I was getting to that.’

Denton stared into the gloom. Something that might have been a recently sheared sheep seemed to be standing there. ‘What the hell?’ he said.

‘Yes, well - he’s a comfort to me. Frankly, General, I’m jumpy. No point in denying it. Old soldiers know better than to fake the courageous. I still jump at shadows. Can’t stand for anybody to be behind me; I think that chap’s going to brain me again with the doorstop. So, see, I was glad to have Rupert’s company.’

‘Rupert.’

‘Prince Rupert. Loan of a friend who’s in the dog trade. Racing, and so on.’

Rupert didn’t look as if he did much racing. He was in fact, one of the fattest dogs Denton had ever seen. He was also big, ugly and enthusiastic. He had almost no tail, but the rump around the stump vibrated with what might have been joy. He was mostly black but with a white face, and mostly rounded, except for a head and muzzle that were oddly angular. His eyes were more like those of a pig than a dog, slightly slanted, rather smaller than you’d want if you were designing a dog, and pale blue. He went straight to Atkins and tried to hoist his bulk into Atkins’s lap. Atkins managed to push him down; he sat, staring at Atkins, his stump whisking the carpet. ‘Bull terrier in that head,’ Atkins said. ‘Intelligent breed.’

‘I see some Rottweiler in the rear end, myself. The middle looks like whale. But, if he’s a comfort—’ Atkins’s confession of fear had reminded him of his own nerves when alone in the house, the loading of the revolver. He shoved the revolver back into the overcoat pocket.

‘Pardon me saying it, Colonel, but it looks like you’re carrying an anvil in that overcoat.’

‘My revolver.’

‘So I saw. Your tailor would have a fit.’

‘It isn’t really a pocket pistol. But I’d as soon not get stabbed again.’

‘Hand over that coat and I’ll do something to fix it. Open the bottom of the pocket, is my notion - run the barrel down there, maybe sew something like a holster into the pocket to hold it upright. You’ll look like you’re carrying the blacksmith’s hammer instead of his anvil.’

‘The real way to carry it is on its own belt around your waist.’

‘Yes, well, that ain’t the fashion in London these days. Take what you can get, I say - hand over that coat.’

Denton, grateful, put the overcoat in Atkins’s lap and said, wanting to make some gesture, ‘You’d like the dog to keep you company for a while?’

‘Well - to stand watch, as it were, Colonel. Only until—’ He pointed at the layers above his scalp.

‘Dogs have to be fed, watered, walked, cleaned up after—’

‘I’ve done latrine duty before, General. He eases my mind, if you know what I mean.’

‘I think I’ll have the Infant Phenomenon back until you’re well. No, no - I’m not going to have you busting a seam somewhere by going back to work too early - no—’

Atkins made pro forma objections - no recent footman going to mess in his household, couldn’t cook, left a shocking amount of litter, no taste - but gave in easily enough. The man was exhausted, aching and nervous; even a boy on his first job would be a help.

‘But the dog,’ Atkins said with spirit, ‘I feed the dog! Because dogs cleave to them that feeds them.’

‘Well, don’t let him cleave too closely. He’s a loan, correct? Temporary? Until—?’ He, too, pointed at Atkins’s turban and hat.

Rupert grinned from one to the other and, with a satisfied sigh, collapsed at Atkins’s feet.

And, hidden by the others, a long envelope from his typewriter, Mrs Johnson. He slit it with a pocket-knife and pulled out several sheets, all but one covered with typed names and addresses.

Denton looked at the lists - looked and despaired. The addresses were all over Greater London and there was no way to tell one from another - which might be promising, which not. He had promised Guillam he would hand the list over; now that he saw it, he was quite willing. The job of sifting through it would be enormous, too much for one man. Guillam was welcome to it. But he was disappointed, he realized. Let down.

‘I’m going out,’ he called towards the stairs.

‘I’m staying in.’ Atkins’s swathed and bowlered head appeared. ‘Unless you’ve got other plans for me.’

‘You’re convalescent. You want the derringer?’

‘I’ve got Rupert.’

Denton carried his bag up to his bedroom and bathed and changed and, after sending a note off to the employment agency to send Maude back, made his way down to New Scotland Yard, the revolver riding uneasily in a mackintosh while Atkins doctored the overcoat.

Guillam was there but wasn’t available; then he was available, but he was somewhere else in the building. Denton, not sure whether he was being toyed with or was simply suffering the inevitable effects of bureaucracy, made himself calm and chatted with the almost elderly constable who served as porter. Made sympathetic, the man sent off a much younger constable to make ‘a special effort for this gentleman’, with the result that Denton was eventually led through the ants’ nest that was New Scotland Yard to an office door, behind which sat four detectives, one of them Guillam.

Guillam saw him, jerked, bobbed his head in a kind of greeting. When Denton was standing by his desk, Guillam, head down now over paperwork, grunted. After thirty seconds, Denton said, ‘Could I sit down?’

Guillam looked up, bobbed his head towards a chair against the wall - the only spare one in the room, testament to the rarity of visitors - and Denton got it, lifted it one-handed and carried it back and set it down. He sat, crossed his legs, watched the top of Guillam’s head. Five minutes later, Guillam said, ‘Well, now.’ He stared at Denton. ‘To what do I owe the honour of the visit?’

Fighting irritation, Denton took out the sheets Mrs Johnson had sent him. ‘You wanted the addresses of the R. Mulcahys in the London directories.’

‘I did?’

‘You said you did.’ Denton hadn’t quite succeeded in hiding his annoyance. ‘I told you I was having it done, and you said it was evidence and you wanted it.’

‘I might have said something like that. All right, chuck it in the basket.’ He bobbed his head towards a wire basket on the far corner of his desk. ‘That’s it?’

‘You’re not even going to look at it?’

‘Willey’s manor, not mine. I’ll send it to him.’

‘Today?’

Guillam’s head had already gone down twice, as if he was going back to his paperwork; now, it stayed up as he eyed Denton. ‘When I get to it.’

‘Isn’t it more important than that?’

‘That’s for me to decide.’ Guillam’s head went down. ‘G’day.’

‘I’d think Sergeant Willey would want it as soon as he can get it.’

Guillam’s look was ugly. ‘Willey’s got other things to think about!’ he roared. The other detectives looked at each other, grinned. ‘It isn’t going to run itself over to the City just because you paid for it!’ He touched his pen to his fingers as he counted. ‘A day to get logged here. A day to send it with the messenger’s lot to City Police. A day for them to log it. A day for it to get to Willey, who’ll take one look and chuck it into a basket identical to mine and hope it gets buried until he’s got nothing better to do! Now mind your own business, Denton!’

Denton had one of those instantaneous internal debates - hit the man? No, don’t hit a copper in his own office. Erupt in curses and threats? No, they’d laugh at him. Complain to his superiors? - and stood, his overcoat over his good arm. ‘That does it, Guillam. If I had my hand around Mulcahy’s neck, I wouldn’t deliver him to you.’ He started out, turned back. ‘You’re one rotten cop.’

‘Go to hell.’

Denton strode out. He heard laughter before the door closed behind him. He knew his face was flushed and set; he was barely able to be polite to the old constable in the lobby. He wanted to kill somebody. Barring that, complaining was all that was on offer. He headed for the Annexe and Hector Hench-Rose.

Before Denton had digested the Sir Hector, he was in the office and looking at the man himself. Surprisingly, Hench-Rose was wearing deep mourning. Denton, despite seething over Guillam, took in the black and wondered what had happened, a mystery best taken care of at once. ‘I take it you’ve had a bereavement,’ he said. ‘I’m so sorry.’

‘Only my brother,’ Hench-Rose said in a chipper voice, ‘and I couldn’t stand him. Rather a swine, in fact. However, he was nice enough to make me rich and pass on the title to me. You may now address me as Sir Hector.’ He guffawed.

‘I thought the Queen did the knighting with a sword.’

‘Baronetcy, not a knighthood. Hereditary.’ Well, that explained the flunky.

‘I’ll never understand England.’

‘That’s what you get for rebelling against us. You’re a sight for sore eyes, I must say - how’s that arm?’

‘I’ve had worse.’

‘The black hanky is quite romantic. Also the pallor - is that loss of blood? You’ve come to ask me to lunch, I hope.’

‘I’ve come to complain about an ass at the Yard.’

‘What, only one?’ Hench-Rose roared. ‘I may be leaving the police, actually. The Yard is losing its fascination for me, now I’m wealthy.’

Denton said something about Guillam and stupidity in general and then added, a little desultorily, that he hoped the London police weren’t too much for Hench-Rose.

‘Not that at all; police are all right as far they go, not too bad when you’ve got a sinecure. Trouble is, I’ve got a grouse moor and my own mountain now.’ He smiled, waggled his eyebrows. ‘What I’m trying to work out with the powers that be is something that would allow me to drop in one or two days a week, keep my hand in. Advisory or consultative, that sort of thing. Not during the shooting season, of course.’

Denton had seen one or two men like that in the publishing business, partners who came and went like ghosts making visitations. They, however, had money invested in the firm. ‘Maybe,’ he said, ‘you should buy into Scotland Yard.’

‘What? Oh, not possible. Can’t buy a government entity.’

‘I was joking.’

‘Oh? Really? Oh, I see!’ Hench-Rose laughed. Perhaps in retaliation, he said, ‘Do you know you’ve dog hairs all over your clothes? Your man is not doing his job.’

‘It’s his dog - long story.’To change the subject, he said, ‘You were having a good time at Westerley Street the other night. Did you get to the variety at Greenwich?’

‘What? Oh, I did see you, didn’t I! One forgets. Yes, yes, that charming girl. No, I didn’t, as a matter of fact. Got dragged to the Adelphi to look at the tarts - some real smashers there, quite remarkable, but no good to me after Yvonne. My word, that girl’d exhaust a monkey! No, oddly, I was asleep in my own bed by one o’clock.’

‘So much for your night on the tiles.’

‘Well, it started rather handsomely. You didn’t stay at Westerley Street, did you?’

Denton told him about the hugger-mugger trip to Paris. Hench-Rose seemed scandalized by the idea of going to Oscar Wilde’s funeral, muttered something about public morals. Denton said, again to change the subject, ‘Does the name Janet Striker mean anything to you?’

‘Striker.’ Hench-Rose had a vast family and was probably sorting through third cousins and in-laws by marriage, his eyes cast up. ‘Mmmm-no - wait—’ He swung around to look out of the window, one finger on the end of his nose. ‘Striker. Yes, by God!’ He swung back. ‘There was a Striker - let’s see; it was a long time ago - I was billeted at Salisbury, I think, not so bad as it sounds because of the trains, possible to be in London at the weekend - and there was a tale. Mmm. Woman who killed her husband, as I remember. Must have, because she went to prison. Yes, that was it. Newspapers very circumspect; you had to read between the lines, understand that a lot of very racy stuff was involved. Yes, Striker. Interest you as a novel or something?’

Denton dodged the question. He told himself it couldn’t be the same woman. Hench-Rose asked again if Denton was taking him to lunch; Denton answered that he thought that, as Hench-Rose was now rich, it was his turn. That seemed to delight Hench-Rose, who grabbed a black hat and led the way out, heading for his club. As they were going out, Hench-Rose said, ‘Ah!’ and turned around to stop Denton with a finger to his chest. ‘I’ve made up a quip. It’s rather good.’ He grinned.

‘Let’s hear it.’

Hench-Rose cleared his throat, the rigours of creativity making him flush. ‘All gals are divided into three parts: mothers, tarts and the ones we’re allowed to marry. Eh? Eh? Rather good, isn’t it? “All gals are divided”?’

Denton didn’t get it. It had to be, he knew, one of those references that Hench-Rose had learned in school, therefore must have something to do with Latin. He said, ‘I’ve told you, I left school when I was twelve. I don’t get it.’

‘“All gals” - get it? “Gallia est omnis divisa—” Eh?’ Hench-Rose could never accept the idea that Denton hadn’t been to an English public school. ‘“All Gaul is divided into three parts”! All gals!’ He chortled, but, seeing Denton’s in-comprehension, stopped, became deeply gloomy. Halfway through lunch, he explained his joke again, a process that he said was like taking out one’s own gall bladder, and he added - unwisely - that Denton lacked a sense of humour. Denton made the mistake of saying that he didn’t think that Hench-Rose’s joke displayed much sense of humour, either. Hench-Rose, now annoyed, said that Denton didn’t know any more about humour than he did about women, as shown by the fact that Denton ‘was wasting his time on some stupid bint who had got herself murdered.’

Denton’s jaw set and he was about to say something ugly when Hench-Rose, his face red, almost shouted, ‘And another thing! That Striker woman! She murdered a man, and you’re asking me about her as if you’re interested in her!’ His voice rose; heads turned towards them. ‘Everybody said the husband was as nice a chap as you’d ever want to meet, and she murdered him. Or as good as - she might as well have put the pistol to his head and pulled the trigger herself! She’s obviously an awful woman! Awful!’

Then Hench-Rose realized that he had been shouting and had committed that worst of crimes, calling attention to himself. He seemed to shrink in his chair and, with his face almost in his plate, he mumbled, ‘Fellow feels strongly about certain things. Things have to be said.’

And Denton, who liked Hench-Rose no matter what, felt his own anger evaporate, and he said in a gentle voice, ‘You said it for my own good, Hector. You’re a good fellow. Should I try the spotted dick?’