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found himself on Curzon Street. He stopped. Where now? There wasn’t exactly a convenient square or communal garden he could linger in. He would cross the road and walk slowly along the street, he decided, and see if anything unusual struck him. Failing that, he still had several miles of Mayfair and Knightsbridge to cover… all was not lost, he supposed.
                    The houses on Curzon Street were typical Mayfair residences; tall, elegant townhouses. He tried to look in the windows as he passed – one advantage of being on foot and the houses opening straight out onto the street. Through some of the windows he caught glimpses of family life. In one, a cat sat on the windowsill, until a small boy in an Eton collar pulled the animal away and hugged it to his cheek. In another, the front door opened to admit a young man twiddling his hat nervously between his hands; no doubt a suitor to a blushing young lady who was probably, at that very moment, having hysterics over what dress to wear to greet him. One house had a maid in the window, dusting furiously. Her sharp little eyes darted to and fro along the street, maybe looking for her own suitor. And there he was, acknowledged Kester – an errand boy cycling furiously past. He slowed down as he passed the house, and took his hands off the handlebars, tucking them in his pockets, showing off to the maid as a smile broke across her pretty face and the boy winked at her in passing. So many lives, with so many little things happening: so many people unaware of the horror that resided in this city.
                    Kester continued ambling down Curzon Street, checking the houses as he went. His heart skipped a beat near the end of the road; one house in particular looked very interesting. It had dark drapes at the upstairs windows and the curtains at the front were almost closed. Kester paused and bent down as if he was fiddling with his boot fastening. He watched the house out of the corner of his eye and tried to catch a glimpse of the people who lived in it. Nothing seemed to be happening in the house. It appeared to be closed up and empty – highly unusual in this area during the Season. If a house wasn’t owned by a family, it was rented out to one. Kester straightened up and looked at the house again. That was one to consider, he thought. He continued to the end of the street and nonchalantly turned around, ready to retrace his steps. He walked more slowly this time, his eyes on the closed up house with the apparently darkened rooms. A couple were walking towards him, the woman linking arms with the man. Neither was speaking and they seemed rather aloof. Kester’s eyes narrowed. He slowed his steps even more and watched the couple turn and walk up to the front door of the shuttered house. The man rapped on the door smartly and they stood for a moment waiting for the door to open. Nothing happened. The couple looked at one another and the man rapped again. Still nothing. Not even a maid or a butler appeared to allow them access; even if the family were out, someone should have been in to answer the door, reasoned Kester. The couple stood for a moment more and the man leant down to the woman, whispering something in her ear. She nodded slightly and the man dropped what looked like a sealed envelope through the letterbox; then they turned around and stepped onto the pavement. They glided past Kester and he stood aside. A chill ran through his body as they passed him. The woman had lowered her head, but too late; Kester had already seen that her eyes were a deep shade of red. 
    The couple turned down the narrow lane of Derby Street. Beyond that, Kester knew, was the tiny street of Pitt’s Head Mews. It was quiet down there. If anybody was walking along the Mews, it was unlikely there would be anyone around to hear their cries. Kester followed the couple, feeling the familiar jostle of the dagger against his hip. If he was wrong, he would