“Gantry.”

“Constable.” Simon eyed Manderley warily. They were in his office at the police station. The constable had been late for work. Simon and Hastings had been waiting for almost a quarter hour.

Hastings was pacing like a caged tiger, as usual. Honestly, the man was good in a fight, but so far he’d proven all but useless at the more mundane elements of secret service and police work.

“Where have you been?” Hastings demanded. “You’ve kept us waiting.”

“Have I?” Manderley seemed almost insultingly unconcerned. As a matter of fact, he seemed rather delighted with the whole thing. “Do accept my apologies.”

“Of course,” Simon said smoothly, cutting off Hastings irritated retort. “I hope all is well?”

Simon was perched casually on the corner of Manderley’s desk. He didn’t want to directly ask about Christy, that wouldn’t do. But he’d been twiddling his thumbs here imagining all kinds of dire situations that might have delayed Manderley at home. He was beginning to think it was not a dire circumstance that had caused his lateness but something far more pleasurable, and a great deal more distracting for Simon to think about.

At his question, the constable turned and focused a sharp look on him. “Everything is fine,” he said. “Why do you ask?” The question seemed to bear more weight than it ought to as Manderley continued to stare at him.

“No reason,” Simon replied. “You are usually punctual, that is all.”

“Sir.” Longfellow stood in the office doorway, addressing the constable as he glanced between him and Simon. “I’ve got the information on our dead body from the other day.” He held up a piece of paper. “Someun’ came to claim the body at the morgue.” His comment broke Manderley’s concentration on Simon.

“Did they?” Manderley asked, taking the paper from Longfellow. “Well, then, who was he? And who claimed him?”

“His name was David Foster, and the lady what claimed him said she was his ma, Alice Gaines. The names are legitimate.”

“Gaines?” Simon asked. “That name seems very familiar.” He tapped his walking stick on the floor while he turned the name over in his mind. “Geoffrey Gaines, Alfred Gaines, Tibby Gaines,” he said under his breath, listing all the people he could recall knowing with that last name. “Oliver Gaines.” He stood up. “Oliver Gaines.” He looked over at Longfellow. “Is Alice Gaines married to Oliver Gaines?”

Longfellow grinned. “She was, sir. But Mr. Gaines turned toes up about two years ago. Rumor has it the wife had summin’ to do with that.”

“Who is Oliver Gaines?” Manderley asked with commendable calm.

“A former soldier, informant, and French courier,” Simon said. “He’s also been known to assist the Russians on occasion.”

“Past tense,” Hastings corrected. “How did you know him?”

“He informed for me, of course,” Simon told him. “Nasty little fellow, but useful. He was married to a madam with a house over in Bermondsey, adjacent to a gin shop. The aforementioned Alice Gaines, I presume, although she went by Fat Linnie on the street. I never met the woman. I long suspected that much of the information he sold was actually gathered by her and her girls in the course of their work.”

“To Bermondsey, then.” Manderley picked up his hat and gloves, which he had only just removed. “Come along, gentlemen.”

“Why are we just standing around here?” Hastings asked for the tenth time, huffing out an impatient breath as he shoved his coat out of the way and put his hands on his hips. There were times when it was painfully obvious that Barnabas had recruited him off the streets, straight out of the orphanage. He’d taught him to speak and dress like a gentleman, but his mannerisms too often gave him away. Luckily, in their line of work that was more often a help than a hindrance.

“Because it behooves us to get the lay of the land before we go charging in there demanding answers.” Manderley answered the question this time. They’d been taking turns. “One can learn a great deal by simply observing, Mr. Hastings. I suggest you give it a try.”

Ouch. That was a direct hit. The constable’s patience must be wearing thin. Simon had thought he had an endless store of it. Apparently not. He rather enjoyed discovering a chink in Manderley’s armor. Practically perfect paragons were decidedly boring. And Manderley was perfect, or nearly so. Simon had almost forgotten how perfect he was. But he found that it didn’t bother him like it used to. As a matter of fact, he rather liked it.

“I’ll have you know I’m one of the best agents the Home Office has got,” Hastings retorted. “I’m being wasted doing these endlessly idiotic chores instead of real work in a ridiculous effort to punish me for killing someone who deserved to be killed. Now, how is that fair? Or efficient? To waste an excellent agent like myself in such a manner?”

“So you keep telling us,” Simon answered, looking at his thumbnail. He’d snagged it on something, damn it. Now he was sure to put a run in his silk waistcoat. He’d worn his best today, for some reason. Curse Daniel and these favors. “If you really were one of Barnabas’s best agents, I daresay he wouldn’t keep punishing you by putting you on secondary duties such as this. Perhaps you should be asking yourself different questions, instead of questioning his directives.”

He looked up at Hastings and raised his brows with a smirk. He was being deliberately antagonizing, but he was bored, too. He was a smart enough agent to know that Manderley was right, however. He knew from experience that good information came to those agents who waited patiently.

“I am quite sure that I shall be delighted to inform Sir Barnabas that I do not require anyone’s assistance if you two do not stop bickering like schoolboys,” Manderley said quietly.

Thom Longfellow had been ignoring their conversation, silently observing the house, and at a signal from him Robert stepped up beside him, waving Simon and Hastings back. They both melted into the shadows as a large carriage stopped in front of the gin shop across the street.

The carriage was just a tad too large and a bit too fine for this area. Nothing too ostentatious, mind you. But it was in good repair and obviously belonged to someone of means. No hangings were hiding crests on doors or other telltale markings. It would have been absurd to find a peer’s equipage here, and frankly it would have disqualified the occupants as thrill seekers rather than persons of interest in the current case.

But this carriage—this was the sort of thing they’d been waiting for. It sat outside the madam’s house for a good five minutes, the coachman simply perched on his bench while the passengers remained hidden inside. There was a corresponding lack of movement in the house.

“Well, that’s interesting,” Hastings murmured. “Just seeing the sights here in Bermondsey, are we?”

“Indeed,” Manderley agreed in a whisper. He touched Simon’s arm softly, stepping in closer, and Simon nearly jumped out of his skin at the shiver that raced down his spine at the contact. What rubbish was that? He knew it was Manderley behind him. He must be more on edge than he thought.

“What do you think?” he asked, his voice coming from right next to Simon’s ear, his breath a tickle against it. Simon shivered again and scolded himself silently for his foolishness.

He turned his head and whispered into Manderley’s ear, “They’re waiting to make sure no one is around before they show themselves.”

He hadn’t realized how close the other man was. Simon could suddenly feel his body heat against his side from shoulder to hip. It was nerves, obviously. He hadn’t seen action since Africa, and that had been a nightmare from beginning to end. His back began to ache as if on cue.

“Then we shall make sure not to reveal ourselves,” Manderley whispered back, and Simon couldn’t help but glance at him as he spoke. The constable’s lips were quirked in an anticipatory smile. He was enjoying this, enjoying the chase, the mission. Some of his excitement bled into Simon and his nerves settled.

“Indeed,” Simon said with a similar smile as Manderley’s gaze met his. He’d clearly caught Simon’s attempt to imitate his earlier remark to Hastings and amusement flashed through those eyes.

“Why don’t we just rush the carriage and find out who they are and what they’re doing here?” Hastings asked impatiently. “All this waiting is foolish, if you ask me.”

Manderly sighed, and they were so close his breath rushed across Simon’s lips like a phantom kiss. Simon jerked back as if he’d been burned.

Manderley’s brow wrinkled quizzically, but he merely shrugged and stepped away. “Because we will get no answers that way,” he explained patiently. “Most likely they would get away in their carriage, and there’s a high probability someone would get shot. I do not wish to get shot today.”

“It’s that sort of cowardly attitude that allows criminals to boldly walk the streets of London,” Hastings remarked snidely.

“If you weren’t an immature boy who is being petulant about having his wishes thwarted, I’d call you out for that,” Manderley said mildly. “But rest assured I am not pleased with your remarks, sir, and shall take exception to them at a more appropriate time.”

“You’re an idiot,” Simon said more bluntly. “Honestly, are you really the best the Home Office is producing these days? Rush in, start shooting, and get no answers? No wonder Barnabas sent you to Manderley for more training.”

“This snooping about business is not my specialty,” Hastings whispered angrily. “Normally I just kill them. That’s my job.”

Simon understood then. “You’re the new Daniel.”

“Whatever that means,” Hastings said dismissively. “I’m not shagging Sir Barnabas, that’s for damn sure.”

“What?” Manderley burst out in an aggrieved whisper. “Why does every conversation with you people somehow end up at shagging?” He put a hand on his forehead. “I can’t believe I just used that word.”

“It’s a good word,” Hastings said. “Fucking is for the lower class, or so Sir Barnabas tells me.”

“Good Lord,” Manderley whispered to himself, shaking his head.

Simon decided to try a new tack. “Hastings, think of it this way: Sir Barnabas is trying to round out your skill set. Clearly you are proficient at the killing skills, and now he would like you to become more proficient at the snooping about skills. Even Daniel had to learn this side of the business. That’s all this is. So look, listen, snoop, and learn. Less shooting—”

“And killing,” Manderley interjected.

“And killing,” Simon agreed. “And more snooping. That’s all. I’m sure you’ll be allowed to get back to killing soon enough.”

“Yes, well, I suppose you’re right,” Hastings said with a sigh. “Snoop away.” He leaned back against the building and looked up at the dark sky as he blew out a breath. “I’m more a man of action, you know.”

“Yes, we know,” Manderley said. “You mentioned that.” He tapped Simon’s shoulder. “Something’s happening.”

“The sun’s gone down completely,” Simon said, squinting to see across the street. Only a few candles had been lit in nearby buildings and the windows were so grimy the light was useless. Not many stars, either. “That’s what they were waiting for.”

Two men stepped out of the carriage, one tall and large, built like a bull. The second was small and round. The bull came first and looked all around before he helped the smaller man out of the carriage.

“A bodyguard,” Thom Longfellow surmised. Simon had been thinking the same thing. “I know him.”

“I recognize him, too,” Manderley said. “Coggins, Ernst Coggins. He works on the docks, but can more often can be found working as a bodyguard for anyone with the money to pay him. Much more lucrative work. He’s a monster with his fists, and isn’t above using a knife when bare knuckles aren’t enough.”

“So it would be easy for a foreign visitor to find him on the docks,” Simon guessed.

“Why foreign?” Manderley asked. “What do you see?”

“His clothes, for one,” Hastings said. “They look German.”

“Dutch,” Simon said. “I think, anyway. Are there many Dutch around here?”

“No,” Manderley said with a frown. “Not that I know of. I will of course check with the local constabulary tomorrow.”

“Good idea,” Simon said.

“Yes, wonderful idea,” Hastings said sarcastically. “I’m learning so much. But do you suppose, just maybe, we could do something, oh, I don’t know, now? Before they leave again? Possibly?”

“Brilliant idea,” Simon said. “Why didn’t we think of that? Can you go around to the back of the building? Thom, why don’t you join him? Don’t go inside yet. And do not kill anyone. I mean it. Don’t kill anyone. Just find a spot where you can overhear what goes on inside. I’m going to do the same. If the opportunity arises, try to get inside and get a better look at the face of the little one.” He pushed Hastings lightly toward the end of the alley. “But—”

“Yes, I know. Don’t kill anyone,” Hastings threw over his shoulder. “I’ve got it. Christ. You’re as annoying as Sir Barnabas.”