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“I owe my present post as a Flint and Marsh agent to the Messenger.”
    “That is certainly one way of looking at it,” Sara agreed.
    Beatrice winced. “There is definitely an element of irony involved here.”
    Sara squinted in a thoughtful expression. “Not irony.”
    “Coincidence?” Abigail asked, clearly troubled.
    “You know I do not believe in coincidence,” Sara said. “No, what is going on here appears to be a confluence of small events that all have one thing in common.”
    “What is that?” Beatrice asked.
    “A paranormal element. Only consider the obvious ingredients in this brew—your previous career at Fleming’s Academy, your work here with us, the reappearance of the Messenger after all these months, his unusual talent and the fact that he often investigated cases that had a paranormal factor.” Sara shook her head, troubled. “I do not pretend to comprehend the pattern yet, but there is one, of that I have no doubt.”
    “But what on earth can he possibly want with me?” Beatrice asked. “And how did he find me tonight at that ball?”
    “There is no knowing why he has focused his attention on you,” Abigail said uneasily. “But as to how he discovered you at the ball tonight, that is easy enough to explain. I thought I made it clear—the Messenger always finds what he sets out to find.”
    Sara’s eyes were shadowed. “Obviously he was looking for you, dear.”

Five

    T he traffic was thin and the streetlamps were now set far apart. The smell of the river was strong on the night air. They had arrived at their destination.
    Joshua used the cane to prod the finely dressed lump on the opposite seat.
    “Wake up, Mr. Euston. You have been a great inconvenience to me tonight. I do not wish to spend any more time in your company than is absolutely necessary.”
    Euston groaned and opened his eyes. There was just enough light coming through the partially covered window to reveal the bewilderment on his handsome features.
    “Where am I?” he mumbled. “Benson? Is that you?”
    “Sit up,” Joshua said.
    “Huh?” Euston managed to lever himself upright in the seat. He tried to focus. His bewilderment metamorphosed into alarm. “You’re not Benson. Who the devil are you?”
    “You do not need to know my name. All that is necessary is that you understand the instructions that I am going to give you.”
    “Bloody hell, what are you talking about?”
    “By tomorrow morning you will no longer be accepted in Polite Society. Your name will disappear from the guest lists of every hostess in town. No club will allow you through the front door. My advice would be to sail for America or take a tour of the Continent at the earliest possible opportunity.”
    “How dare you threaten me?” Euston hissed.
    “Let me be clear: I am not threatening you. I never threaten. I give you my word that by noon tomorrow everyone who matters in your world will be aware that you are a fortune hunter and a fraud.”
    “You can’t prove that. The girl’s family would never allow you to go to the police, in any event.”
    “I’m not going to take this to the police,” Joshua said. “There is no need to do so. We both know that Society does not demand proof before it pronounces judgment. The Polite World is more than happy to gorge on rumors and whispers. I promise you that the news that you have been exposed as a fortune hunter who is trying to find himself an heiress will be all over town within a few hours and, no doubt, in the press.”
    “You can’t do this to me. You’re bluffing.”
    “You will discover tomorrow that I am not bluffing.”
    The carriage halted. Joshua opened the door. Fog wafted into the cab, bringing with it another dose of the odor of the river. A single gas lamp glowed at the end of the street but the mist consumed much of the light before it could radiate more than a few feet. Warehouses loomed in the shadows.
    “This is where you get out, Euston,” Joshua said. “Go