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slippery devil—and we’ve not seen the last of him.’
    Once the officers had gone, Cobie rang for Rogers, his secretary.
    â€˜I want to hire an enquiry agent,’ he said abruptly, ‘an honest one. I need to find out about one of our business rivals, so I want a discreet man I can trust—and soon. Not next week, not next month, but yesterday. You understand me? Use your connections.’
    Rogers used them to good effect.
    Twenty-four hours later, a dour ex-police officer, as sardonic in his way as Walker was in his, sat before him.
    â€˜I want you,’ Cobie said, ‘to investigate a man named Sir Ratcliffe Heneage. These papers—’ and he indicated a report he had written ‘—will tell you who and what he is—and what I also believe him to be.’
    Jem Porter took the folder over, and asked, ‘What’s he done, then, that you want to have him investigated?’
    â€˜He likes girl children,’ Cobie told him, eyes hooded. ‘Too much. I want evidence of where he goes for them, who finds them for him, what he does. Anything. And, besides that, anything else which you can find of his doings, good and bad.’
    â€˜I can’t say I’ve come across him,’ mused Porter. ‘I’ve heard whispers, nothing more. He’s not the only one with strange tastes, you know.’
    â€˜I want more evidence than whispers,’ said Cobie, curtly, ‘and the less you tell anyone else of this, the better. Be discreet, be careful, and I’ll pay you well. Report back here to me while I’m in town. When I go to Markendale next week, you may send me a written report there. Our man will be staying at Markendale, too. While he’s out of town, pursue discreet enquiries among the staff of his London home, and among the underworld in the East End.’
    â€˜Understood,’ said Porter. The man before him was paying him enough to inspire loyalty as well as discretion. He said, drawing a bow at venture, ‘These child murders. Will Walker’s in charge of the investigation. I used to work with him. Ever come across him?’
    â€˜Yes.’ Cobie was his laconic business self, offering nothing. ‘By chance.’
    â€˜Good man, Walker. You can trust him. Stood by me when things went wrong. I still see him occasionally.’
    â€˜Ah,’ Cobie said, ‘I’m glad you told me. If you do come across him while you’re working for me, don’t let him know that you are. That’s an unbreakable order. Break it, and I’ll fire you on the spot.’
    â€˜Right.’ Porter nodded. ‘I know which side my bread’s buttered on. Trust me. Mum’s the word, sir.’
    That was that. Everything was now in train, and he and Dinah could go to Markendale with that out of the way, and hope that Porter might find anything—or something—which he could use.
    Dinah’s understanding of her husband had become so subtle that she knew that something was troubling him, even though to all outward appearances he was still as charmingly in control of himself as usual. She wished that he would confide in her, but was bitterly aware that he would not—because of her youth, she supposed.
    It was while this was worrying her that a few days before they left for Markendale Violet arrived one afternoon, everything about her proclaiming that she was ripe for mischief. The way she eyed her sister, the dramatic fashion in which she sat down and ate her tea, almost as though she were playing a society lady on the stage, warned Dinah that something was afoot.
    Violet began innocently enough. ‘Do you see much of Susanna Winthrop these days?’ she enquired casually.
    Dinah shook her head. ‘No, she doesn’t visit us often, and we have only visited her on a few occasions. Recently, on her birthday, of course.’
    â€˜Of course.’
    Violet bit into a cucumber sandwich, and said carelessly,