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collection, they’ll have gone up in smoke.’
    ‘We must start in Holborn,’ said Ackford. ‘That’s where a shop sells the prints that Leo told me about. One glance in the window, I daresay, will give us even more potential suspects.’
    ‘Who owns the shop?’
    ‘Leo said that her name was Mrs Mandrake and he spoke very well of her. The premises are in Middle Row.’
    ‘I’ll get over there at once,’ said Peter. ‘Thank you, Gully. What you’ve told us has been very enlightening. You might care to read what happened when Paul went to your friend’s lodging. Like you, my brother has been dredging his memory.’
    After bidding them farewell, Peter left the room at speed. Paul, meanwhile, passed his notes to Ackford who read them with mingled interest and sadness.
    ‘What an appalling way to take leave of the world,’ he said, forlornly.
    ‘It was not by choice,’ Paul pointed out. ‘He lodged in a pleasant enough house but it was much smaller than I’d expected. If he could afford to publish a newspaper and earned money from his satires, I assumed he’d be a man of means.’
    Ackford chuckled. ‘Then you didn’t know Leo Paige,’ he said. ‘Money ran through his hands like water. He had many virtues but he had one glaring weakness.’
    ‘What was that?’
    ‘Gambling.’
    ‘Ah, I see.’
    ‘It was like a disease with Leo.’
    ‘You don’t need to explain, Gully. I’ve suffered from the affliction myself.’
    It was Paul’s abiding vice. When he had money in his purse – and was at a loose end for company – he’d often gone off to one of his favourite gambling hells, despite the fact that he usually had a run of bad luck there.
    ‘It’s one of the many gifts Hannah bestowed upon me,’ said Paul. ‘She cured me of that particular malady.’
    ‘You’ve been healthier and happier as a result.’
    ‘Tell me a little more about this Mrs Mandrake.’
    ‘All I know is that she’s owned that print shop for ten years or more.’
    ‘How did your friend describe her?’
    ‘He couldn’t praise her enough,’ said Ackford. ‘She was his guardian angel. Leo described her as the most remarkable woman in London.’
     
    There was a small cluster of people gazing through the window when Peter arrived at the print shop. He could hear their laughs and titters. A few of them drifted away, leaving him space to take a look for himself at the caricatures on display. All were well drawn but those in the Parliament of Foibles series had a quiet savagery that set them apart. The text beneath the drawings was clever, amusing and incisive. Leonidas Paige clearly had a way with words. Peter’s eye fell on the print that featured Sir Humphrey Coote. Having been employed by the government during the war, and having spent much time in the company of the Home Secretary,Peter knew most of the leading politicians by sight. He recognised Coote at once and grinned at the satirical treatment he’d received. His grin became a laugh of delight when he saw the burly figure of Micah Yeomans in the cartoon. The Runner was belittled in a way that was bound to arouse his desire for revenge but Peter didn’t for a second consider him to be a murder suspect. Yeomans might not have seen the drawing and, even if he had, he would – instead of breaking the law – endeavour to use it to punish the artist severely.
    Still smiling, Peter let himself into the shop and was met by a short, wiry, white-haired individual dressed in black from head to toe and rubbing his hands together as if washing them with invisible soap. Benjamin Tite appraised his visitor shrewdly then waved an arm to take in the whole shop.
    ‘Welcome to our humble emporium, sir,’ he said. ‘I can see that you’re a man of fashion with a discriminating eye. Feel free to examine our collection. You’re under no obligation to purchase anything, though I sense that something in our window has brought you in here.’ Hand on his chest, he bowed slightly.