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in Lupus Street. One in Turpentine Lane, behind the railway depot. Another where Denbigh Street crossed Belgrave Road. The fourth in Buckingham Palace Road. No witnesses. Someone said they’d heard a scream in Lupus Street. Nothing exceptional in that.
    â€œOne moment, young lady.”
    As yet, Thackeray hadn’t fully identified with his role, so this enquiry from behind passed him by.
    â€œYoung lady.” The voice was closer this time, and insistent.
    He turned. Too quickly. His shaven chin rasped against the collar.
    The speaker was male, average in height, wearing a top hat and long grey overcoat. His black beard was almost as handsome as the one Thackeray had sacrificed. “Are you looking for company?”
    Oh, glory, Thackeray thought. A genuine client.
    â€œDon’t be shy of me, my dear.” The accent was educated, the tone kindly.
    Thackeray shook his head and pointed into his mouth as if to show his throat was sore.
    â€œHave I made a mistake?” the man asked. “I assumed – seeing you out on the street so late – that you are here for a purpose. That – not to put too fine a point upon it – you are a lady of the town.”
    Thackeray shook his head and tried to move away, but the man stepped closer.
    â€œThere’s no need to be afraid, my dear.” With a ceremonious air he slid his hand under the beard and revealed that he, too, was wearing a high collar, except that his was clerical. “You see? I am a minister of the gospel, the Reverend Eli Mountjoy, on a mission of salvation to rescue poor, deluded creatures like yourself from the toils of sin. I urge you now to forsake the path of wickedness and accompany me to the Terminus Wash-house in Lupus Street, where my devoted wife Lettice is waiting to plunge you into clean, warm water and wrap you in a blanket.”
    â€œNo thank you,” Thackeray said, appalled at the thought. “And after that we shall share a bowl of reviving eel-broth and speak of how you may be saved.”
    â€œI’m not what you take me for.”
    â€œHow often have I heard the same denial from unfortunate women like you,” the Reverend Mountjoy said. “The key to the Kingdom has to be earned, you know. You must first admit what you are.”
    â€œI’m a policeman in disguise.”
    The minister felt in his pocket and put on a pair of spectacles. “Did I hear correctly? A policeman?”
    â€œKeep your voice down, for pity’s sake,” Thackeray said.
    The tone altered abruptly. “I thought there was something peculiar about you. What’s the matter with you, dressing up as a tart?”
    â€œI’m on the trail of Razor Bill.”
    â€œOh, yes?”
    â€œThe killer. You must have heard of him. It’s supposed to be a trap.”
    After a pause, the minister said, “The best of luck to you, then. I’ll be about my business.” He was soon out of sight.
    Thackeray glanced across the street to where Cribb was supposed to be. If Eli Mountjoy had been the killer – and he could have been for all Cribb knew – the speed of the response had not been encouraging. Some people were over there for sure, but they hailed a cab and got in. It all seemed worryingly quiet now. A mist was coming off the river. The dampness increased Thackeray’s discomfort. He decided to walk on a bit, swinging his hips in the spirit of the
Police Code. ‘It is highly undesirable for detectives to proclaim their official character to strangers by walking in a drilled style, or by wearing regulation boots, or by openly recognising constables in uniform, or saluting superior officers.’
No one would accuse him of walking in a drilled style. He’d already fooled the Reverend Mountjoy.
    The hip-swinging became a touch less energetic when Chelsea Barracks came up on his right. It wouldn’t be wise to over-excite the army. In fact, he didn’t care to pass the