‘This is it?’ I stared incredulously at the building down the road which Karim had pointed out. ‘This is where the wealthiest man of the British Empire keeps a document that is so important he has killed people for it?’

‘Second-wealthiest,’ Mr Ambrose commented coolly. ‘I am the wealthiest man of the British Empire, not that reprehensible individual who calls himself a lord.’

‘Oh, who cares?’

‘I do.’

Rolling my eyes, I turned to Karim, ignoring my employer. ‘This is it?’

With both hands, I gestured towards the house. It was a two-story brick building, slightly slanted, with dark stains on the front wall. The noise of cheap piano music came from inside, and over the door hung a sign which designated the establishment to be The Plough and Anchor.

Karim simply shrugged. Lord, I just had it up to here with men who couldn’t open their mouths to give me a straight answer!

Looking around again, I got a fuller impression of my surroundings. The place might not look like what I expected Lord Dalgliesh’s fancy headquarters to look like, but it certainly seemed evil enough to be the lair of a lord of the criminal underworld. The houses around us were dilapidated. Black smoke hung over the area, although none of it actually came from the houses' chimneys, which were cold empty. Washing lines criss-crossed between the roofs, or at least I assumed they were washing lines. The things that hung from them didn’t look much like clothes to me, but I didn’t think anybody would bother hanging old rags up to dry.

In a doorway not too far down the street sat a thin figure, wrapped in just such rags. It didn’t move. I shivered.

‘Where are we?’

My voice wasn’t nearly as forceful as before.

Mr Ambrose looked around, his eyes coolly assessing the neighbourhood. Nobody’s eyes were better for cool assessment than his.

‘Norfolk Street,’ he said finally, pointing to a dirty street sign I couldn’t for the life of me decipher.

‘Where’s that, Sir? I’ve never heard of such a street before.’

‘It’s only natural that you wouldn’t have. It’s near the docks - in the East End.’

The East End.

Every child in London knew that name. The worst fear of every wealthy citizen of London was to get lost and end up right here: in the stinking, rotting liver of London, where all the refuse its heart didn’t want to deal with was dumped until further notice. It was a labyrinth of small streets and dirty houses where poor people crowded together because they had no money to go anywhere else. They looked for work at the docks or at one of the numerous factories. The smoke, unending hard labour and poisonous food slowly killed them off, one by one.

And when they happened to stumble across some unlucky member of the upper classes in their home territory, they weren’t shy about expressing their displeasure at these circumstances. Sometimes with the help of knives and cudgels.

Shuddering, I took in my bleak surroundings once more, then looked back the way we had come. Maybe…

‘Do you wish to return to Empire House?’ Mr Ambrose asked curtly. ‘Karim can drive you back, Mr Linton.’

I hesitated. A scream sounded in the distance. It wasn’t the kind of harmless little scream that came from a sleepwalker just having put his foot in a puddle of water, either. Wind howled through the street, driving the fog past us. It seemed thicker here, somehow, than in the rest of the city. Darker. As if a thousand sinister things were hiding in its depths.

Mr Ambrose seemed to sense my hesitation.

‘It is no problem,’ he said, and there might actually have been something akin to compassion in his voice. ‘You can leave if you are afraid.’

Immediately, I raised my chin and met his eyes.

‘I? Afraid? Of course not, Sir. What do we do now?’

A muscle in Mr Ambrose’s jaw twitched. It seemed, just for a moment, as though he might be going to argue. In the end, though, he turned towards Karim.

‘Where in this building is the file?’ he snapped.

‘I do not know, Sahib. Warren told me that they had found what we had been looking for, and I rushed to you without delay.’

‘I see. Then call Warren. Now.’

Not taking his right hand from his sabre, the Mohammedan raised his left to his lips and put two gnarled fingers in his mouth. He blew twice, and the whistle-tones echoed from the dilapidated houses.

Suddenly, Warren appeared out of the darkness. He was dressed in dockworker clothes and had a man on either side of him.

‘Sir.’ He gave a little bow to Mr Ambrose.

Mr Ambrose didn’t waste any time on social niceties. ‘The file, Warren. Where is it?’

‘I do not know, Sir.’

‘But you said-’

‘I said we had found what we had been looking for. But not the file. Not exactly. We found the man who bought the file from Mr Simmons. The middle man of the deal.’

Mr Ambrose took a step forward.

‘I dislike inaccurate reports, Warren,’ he said, pinning the other man with his eyes of dark ice. ‘I know you have not been in my employ long, so I tell you now: I dislike them intensely.’

Warren swallowed and hastily bowed again, while I tried to hide a grin. I could have told Warren that much. ‘Yes, Mr Ambrose, Sir. Of course, Mr Ambrose, Sir.’

‘This man… He’s in that pub now?’

‘Yes, Sir. The Plough and Anchor, Sir. We have the place surrounded.’

‘By how many men?’

‘A dozen.’

‘Only a dozen?’

Mr Ambrose’s mouth, normally a thin, exquisite line, turned into nothing more than a scratch on his chiselled face. Other people might not have noticed the minuscule change in expression - I, however, had learned to read the signs foretelling of approaching storms.

‘Tell me, Mr Warren, how often have you conducted investigations in the East End before?’

‘Um…’ Warren nervously tugged at his collar. ‘Never before, to be honest, Sir. I was mostly employed in the more reputable parts of London, seeing as my clientele were wealthy citizens. To be honest, I expected that in your employ, too, Sir, I would not be venturing into these-’

‘Your expectations do not concern me, Mr Warren!’

‘No, Sir! Of course not, Sir.’

‘Indeed. Now listen to me. I know this kind of place.’ He indicated the shady street with a sweep of his arm. ‘As soon as we try to grab the man we’re after and drag him out in the street, fifty of his cronies will be on us with knives and broken bottles.’

Knives and broken bottles? Unconsciously, I moved a little closer to Karim and the safety of his large sabre. I was too preoccupied by the mental image of a grinning thug with a broken bottle in his fist to wonder how on earth a phenomenally rich financier would know this kind of place.

‘Is that so? But then what should we do, Sir?’ Warren asked.

‘There’s nothing for it.’ Mr Ambrose, his narrow mouth still nearly invisible, held out his hand. ‘Give me your jacket and cap.’

‘W-what, Sir?’

‘That grimy little jacket and that disgusting cap of yours. Give them to me. I’m going to go in there in disguise and see what I can squeeze out of our friend by means of friendly conversation.’

Warren started at this, flabbergasted. ‘You? You are going to have a conversation, Sir?’

‘Yes! You, meanwhile, go back to headquarters and get backup. Pray that you return in time, before our prey decides to leave!’

‘B-but Sir,’ Warren stuttered, ‘you can’t… I mean… you’re a gentleman of good family. You couldn’t possibly go into a place like this and pretend to be part of that scum in there!’

The look Mr Ambrose gave his subordinate could have frozen lava.

‘I’ve had a lot of practice in dealing with scum. Now give me your clothes.’

Warren was out of his cap and jacket before you could say “God save the Queen!”.’ He handed them to Mr Ambrose, who in return gave him his carefully folded back tailcoat.

‘I don't want to see a single stain on it when you give it back,’ he commanded. ‘It is only ten years old and still in mint condition.’

‘Um… yes, of course, Sir.’

Warren took the jacket, which in my opinion was definitely not in mint condition, handling it like a newborn babe. Mr Ambrose shrugged on the workman’s jacket and placed the cap onto his neatly trimmed black hair, drawing it deep into his face. I had expected the workman’s clothes to look odd or unnatural on him, expected that everybody would be able to tell immediately that this was Mr Rikkard Ambrose, one of the richest men of the city.

I could not have been more wrong.

What the heck…?

My mouth fell open and I stared. I blatantly stared.

The filthy cap and jacket transformed him as if they were a second skin: All of a sudden, he looked darker, rougher around the edges. He looked like a delinquent who would beat the stuffing out of you if you even looked at him wrong. A man who lived hard, and by his own rules.

I had to admit, the look suited him, suited him very well indeed.

At a motion of his hand, Warren and his two associates hurried off down the street. Mr Ambrose looked after them, shaking his head.

‘Were did you find him, Karim?’ he asked, grimly. ‘He has no clue what he is in for.’

Karim shrugged. ‘He had good references, Sahib. This is not the colonies. This is the city. It is not easy to find people good with their guns and their brains.’

Mr Ambrose gave a curt nod of acknowledgement. ‘You two, wait here,’ he ordered. ‘I’m doing this on my own.’

‘But Sahib-’ Karim began, yet one glance from Mr Ambrose cut him off. I, for my part, knew better than to argue. Without hesitation, Mr Ambrose marched off towards The Plough and Anchor, leaving Karim and me behind.

I waited until the door had closed behind him and Karim was looking after Warren, disappearing in the distance. Then I stole away from the giant bodyguard and followed Mr Ambrose into the pub.

I indeed knew better than to argue. Simply disobeying was so much easier.

*~*~**~*~*

Inside, it took a few seconds for my eyes to get used to the dim lighting. But it would take even longer for my nose to get used to the stench. Coughing, I covered my mouth and nose with my hand. Sweat, cheap drink and other fumes I didn’t care to identify formed an aroma in the air that could have knocked out a world champion boxer.

My eyes began to water from the stench. Hastily, I blinked the tears away. I had to keep my eyes open if I didn’t want to get my throat cut here. Quickly, I took in my surroundings.

Several dirty tables stood against the back wall, grouped around a half-open door. A number of dirty sailors and dirty factory workers in dirty clothes sat there, together with a couple of dirty women with very dirty, low-cut dresses, playing dirty cards, and from time to time joining the even dirtier song played by a dirty piano player to my left. To my right, there was a dirty, long bar with large, dirty barrels of drinks behind it, and a bartender whose largeness and dirtiness could easily compete with his barrels. He was polishing a dirty metal tankard with an even dirtier cloth. Several people were sitting at the dirty bar. They too - surprise, surprise - were dirty, and staring into dirty tankards. Only a few, who didn’t have dirty tankards to drink out of, were staring in the direction of the women. But I bet at least their thoughts were dirty.

So, on the whole, the establishment was not really clean as a spring shower, if you catch my drift.

And there, lounging against the corner of the bar as if he were a regular patron of this den of iniquity, was Mr Rikkard Ambrose, one leg leisurely crossed over the other, an elbow resting on the bar, a tankard in his hand. As I watched, he emptied the tankard in one large gulp and slapped the surface of the bar.

‘Aye, this ain’t half bad! Another one, me good fellow!’

I blinked, stunned. Had I just heard correctly?

It was Mr Ambrose’s voice, and it came out of Mr Ambrose’s mouth, but… Mr Ambrose would never in his life call anybody ‘My good fellow’, let alone commit the gross grammatical incorrectness of substituting a ‘me’ for the ‘my’. This kind of behaviour was reserved for the lower strata of society, the people who weren’t the second-richest, or maybe even richest, man of the entire British Empire!

Maybe you’re dreaming, Lilly. Maybe this is a nightmare.

‘Didn’t ye hear me?’ The Pseudo-Ambrose roared like a drunken lumberjack. ‘Another drink!’

A really, really strange nightmare.

‘Don’t you make no fuss,’ the barrel-bellied bartender growled. ‘I’m coming, I’m coming.’

‘You’d better!’ The person at the bar with Mr Ambrose’s voice and looks growled back. ‘I’m dying for a few pig ears!’

Correction: a completely crazy dream!

When the landlord turned his back on the Pseudo-Ambrose - or was it him? It had to be! - to fill a tankard, I sidled up to him.

‘Pig ears?’ I hissed into his ear. ‘What the heck do you want with pig ears? I thought we were here for the file.’

He jerked.

‘You!’ Mr Ambrose’s usual, cold, cultured voice came out of the corner of his mouth and let me tell you, I had never been so relieved to hear it! Hooray! This was not a nightmare, and not a body-snatching double either! Mr Ambrose was still alive and right in front of me!

He, however, didn’t seem so overjoyed to see me. Dark, sea-coloured eyes bored into me. ‘What are you doing in here?’

‘Don’t try to change the subject! What do you want with pig ears?’

He growled. ‘I do not want pig ears. It is cockney rhyming slang for “big beers”. I was ordering a drink whilst trying to fit in with the natives. Now tell me, what are you doing here, Mr Linton?’

I drew myself up to my full height - which, unfortunately, was nowhere near his. ‘I’m coming with you, Sir.’

‘I specifically ordered you to stay outside!’

‘Yes, Sir. That’s why I came in. I find it very hard to be docile and obedient.’

About one hair of his left eyebrow twitched, betraying a desire to rise. ‘Indeed? I hadn’t noticed.’

He eyed me coolly.

‘I have the feeling that it will not do any good to argue with you about this.’

‘You’re right.’

‘And of course you know I can’t argue with you, really, because it would draw attention to us.’

‘You put it succinctly, Sir.’

‘You are a devious individual, Mr Linton.’

I dipped my head courteously, doing my best to conceal a grin.

‘Thank you, Sir. So can I stay?’

‘Agreed. You can remain.’ He leant a bit closer. I had to strain to hear him now. ‘But if you value your life, behave inconspicuously. I will see if I can find our man at the tables.’ With his head, he motioned over to the dirty tables, where the patrons were just now singing a song that seemed to include a lot of ale, men, women, and combinations of the latter two elements. ‘You stay at the bar and mingle with the patrons. Talk like they do, do what they do, and listen.’

At that moment, the landlord turned around with a tankard of ale in his hand. Mr Ambrose grabbed it and was gone before I could answer.

So I turned to the bar and eyed the patrons suspiciously. They were a motley crew - cab drivers, sailors, factory workers, and some shady individuals whose profession I would prefer not to learn. All of them looked even more dishevelled and dangerous up close than they had from afar. The only one who looked even more disreputable than all of them put together was the bartender. He was eyeing me suspiciously, which didn’t really surprise me. In his eyes, I had to be a small, beardless youth in baggy, middle-class trousers. Not his usual customer at all.

Talk as they talk, do what they do…

Well, at the moment, the others at the bar weren’t doing much of anything except slouching. I was wondering whether I should just try to imitate their general silent sullenness when, suddenly, one of the patrons held out his tankard and the bartender turned his suspicious gaze from me and started filling it with a glistening amber liquid. As soon as it was full, the man drank it down in one gigantic gulp.

Do what they do…

Inspiration struck me.

‘Ey, landlord!’ I pounded the bar with my fist. ‘I want some great big pig ears! The fattest, rosiest pig ears you have! Lots of them!’