The waiter brought Gloom's drink, and he took a sip from it as he looked around the lounge, hoping for a glimpse of Inspector Bailey. He wasn't visible, but the club had a number of alcoves and annexes for people who wanted to have a more discrete conversation. The more likely reason was that the Inspector wasn't there yet, though, and it was quite possible that he wouldn't turn up at all that night. He took his work seriously and wouldn’t indulge in an evening at the club while he had a hot lead to follow. Gloom knew that he might be spending quite a few evenings here, waiting for him. A trip to the police station to see him was out of the question. It had to seem to be a chance meeting if the inspector wasn't to suspect that he had a much closer connection to the case than he wanted to admit.

     He chatted with his friends, therefore, swapping jokes and sharing news and gossip as he waited, and neither of his companions suspected that the investigator wanted anything more than a quiet evening in their company. After a couple of hours had passed they decided to move on to the dining room to have a meal, during which Gloom stared in admiration and astonishment at the sheer quantity of food that Mourne called for on his plate. The annual membership fee that they all paid included all the food and drinks they wanted, and the investigator thought that the club’s owners might well be regretting their decision to accept the accountant’s membership request.

     Gloom himself had only a small meal, as always, and so finished well before either of the other two men. He stayed for another quarter of an hour, though, to be polite as the other two men tackled their suppers and then ordered a second course from the sweets menu. Gloom made his apologies and returned to the main lounge at this point, though, afraid that the Inspector might turn up and leave again without his seeing him.

     There was still no sign of the inspector, so Gloom picked up a copy of the Times that another club member had abandoned and leafed through the pages. He turned to the crossword and completed it in half an hour, then composed a letter in his head that he felt obligated to write later that evening in reply to an idiotic editorial regarding what the reporter described as ‘rebellious and anarchic women’. Gloom didn't think that wanting the right to vote and stand for parliament made women rebellious and anarchic, but the main plank of the reporter’s argument was the Bible’s insistence that women were inferior to men, and no-one could argue against that without standing against the church itself.

     He chatted with other club members on a variety of subjects that they felt was of overwhelming importance and Gloom did not but which he discussed with them nonetheless as if they were subjects that he himself had been wrestling with all his life. Boredom began to hang on him and he felt himself increasingly tempted to broach dangerous subjects just to liven up the evening. Subjects such as what role, if any, the native inhabitants of the other continents should have in governing their lands, or whether the death penalty was appropriate for acts of sexual deviancy. Fortunately, though, he was saved just half an hour before Benson was due to return for him when the inspector finally showed up.

     “Gloom!” He exclaimed in delight upon seeing his wheelchair at the table closest to the room's entrance. “I saw that infernal contraption of yours in the lobby. Why don't you just buy a full sized steam carriage and use the streets like normal people?”

     “Have you seen the price of charcoal?” replied Gloom with a smile as the inspector sat next to him. “It costs a fortune just to keep that little chair running, and that's despite half the country being covered with acacia plantations.”

     “So poor Benson has to walk beside you because you're too much of a skinflint to buy a vehicle with two seats?”

    “I would give everything I own to be able to walk beside him,” replied Gloom.

     “Yes, of course. I'm sorry, old fellow. I wasn't...”

     Gloom waved his apologies away. “I did experiment for a while with an electric wheelchair,” he said. “It would run on batteries charged by windmills positioned on the roof of my museum. Unfortunately, no-one has yet invented a battery capable of storing enough current for a journey of any useful length. Even if I used the most efficient battery that presently exists, it would require one the size of a Hansom cab to take me as far as the first street corner, and would take a week to recharge before I could use it again.”

     “A breakthrough in electricity storage may be just around the corner,” replied the inspector with an encouraging smile. “I read just the other day that the electric company has great hopes for a lead acid battery with which you can carry electricity as easily as a bucket carries water. They hope that they might one day replace the copper cables that are currently being laid all across the city.”

     “It had better come soon, or it will be too late for me to take advantage of it.”

     “Nonsense, you'll outlive us all!”

     “I'll certainly outlive you if you keep driving yourself so hard. You'll work yourself into the grave, my friend."

     “My health is excellent! I intend to go on catching crooks for a good many years yet.”

     “Delighted to hear it. So, how fares the eternal battle against the criminal underworld?”

     “Eternal is right,” sighed Bailey. “I swear that every time we catch a robber or a brigand, two more spring up to take his place. The bobbies on the beat have never been busier. I currently have no fewer than fourteen open murder cases on my hands. I have trouble remembering which suspect or witness belongs to which crime. I’m interviewing a witness and I say ‘When did you last see the Colonel alive?’ and they say ‘What Colonel?’ and that's when I remember that he's a witness to the murder of a barrister's wife.”

     Gloom chuckled. “I sometimes have the same trouble with my cases. I was reading about a case this morning. The young woman in the Cranston house.”

     “Yes, I was assigned that one.”

     Gloom's heart soared with joy. He’d been dreading that the case had been given to a man he didn't know, that he had no relationship with.

     “Nasty," the Inspector continued. "The murderer chased the girl through half the house. He must have really wanted her dead.”

     “Do you have any leads?”

     “Apparently the girl stuck him with a carving knife before she died. We found a trail of blood leading away from the crime scene. It led to where we assume he had a carriage parked.” He frowned. “The killing blow was professional. One stab, straight to the heart. I've only seen that kind of work from a professional assassin, but the victim was a cook’s assistant. Nobody at all. We normally wouldn't even think about investigating the killing of a girl like that.”

     Gloom let the comment pass. “But this is the second killing in that house in just a few days.”

     “Ah, so you know about that, do you? That wasn't mentioned in the papers.”

     “I was a friend of Philip Cranston. When the first killing took place in his house, a mutual friend brought my attention to it.”

     “And you decided to investigate the crime?” asked the inspector, leaning forward hopefully.

     “I asked a few questions. It seems that the manservant interrupted a burglary. The item that was stolen was of special religious significance.”

     Bailey frowned. “If the church is involved, that complicates things,” he said. “If they're investigating the crime as well, they may take it out of my hands.”

     “I'm currently thinking that last night’s victim, Doris Kettle, was planted in the household by the thief to learn the location of the object.”

     “I'm thinking the same thing, which means that the murderer was likely to be the very same man who planted her there. Killed her to stop her from revealing his identity.” Then he noticed the expression on Gloom's face. “You disagree?” he said.

     “I believe that the thief was contracted to do the job by someone who needed his safecracking skills. I believe that it was this person who murdered Doris Kettle, in case the thief had told her who hired him.”

     “And what reason do you have for believing this?”

     “Because my contacts on the streets tell me that the thief was her brother Bartholomew Kettle, also known as Gideon. I don't have proof of that, but my friends are rarely wrong.”

     “Gideon! Yes, he's known to us. If we'd known his real name we might have made the connection ourselves. What makes you think he didn't kill his own sister? He’s certainly capable of such a despicable act.”

     “Because Gideon was not at liberty when Doris Kettle was murdered. He and his gang, two men whose names I have been unable to ascertain, were attacked in their hideout, number 836 Stephenson Road. Gideon’s men were killed, as were two of the attackers, and the surviving attacker took Gideon with him. Some disagreement over the price for turning over the item, I assume.”

     “Your contacts on the streets again? They seem to know an awful lot about this case.” He examined Gloom's face carefully, but the investigator kept his face expressionless until the Inspector looked away. “So that's what that was all about,” he said. “Quite a firefight, by all account. Four bodies on slabs, two of whom we couldn’t identify. One of the neighbours said there was another man present. That was your man, I assume?”

     “Yes. Please don't ask me to reveal his identity.”

     “I don't suppose you have any idea who these attackers were?”

     “I have reason for believing that they were members of Exercitus Dei. The church's ‘problem solving’ agency.”

     The inspector stared at him. “Why would you think that?” He leaned forward, a warning gleam in his eye. “Is there's something else you’d like to tell me?”

     “Only whispers. I keep my ear to the ground and I hear things. One name that was mentioned was Father Anthony. The priest who runs the church on Market Street.”

     “I can’t bring a man of the church in for questioning without more than that.”

     “I know. Were the servants able to give a description of the attacker?”

     “The cook said it was a huge, ferocious looking man with wild black hair and wild, blazing eyes. The footman was a little more helpful. Average height, dark hair. About thirty.”

     “That description fits Father Anthony.”

     “As well as half the men in Manchester. We can't put a man of the church in an identity parade.”

     “I know, but it might be interesting to see if he’s suffered a recent knife wound.”

     The inspector allowed his eyes to lose focus as he thought for a few moments. “The Cranstons mentioned another inspector who called on their house recently. We have no record of any of our people calling on them that day. I don't suppose you'd know anything about that, would you?”

     “I'm afraid not. Possibly it was a man of the church, come to see how much they knew.”

     The expression on Bailey's face told Gloom what he thought of that theory. The investigator thought for a moment that the inspector might challenge him on it, but then Bailey looked away, at the crucifix hanging on the wall. He stared at it for a moment, then turned his attention back to Gloom. “Well, this is all very interesting, but it's not really anything more than your opinion. You haven't one shred of proof to connect any of this with Father Anthony, or with the church at all.”

     “But now that you have someone to focus your attention on, you might uncover some proof.”

     “How sure are you that Father Anthony is involved? How sure really?”

     “There is no doubt in my mind. I know for a fact that he is a member of Exercitus Dei, and that all members of that agency have special licence from Rome to commit any crime, any sin. The acts are wiped from the Books of their Lives as if they never happened.”

     “But that doesn’t mean that he has actually carried out any such acts.”

     “True, I suppose. Still, there is no doubt in my mind that he is responsible. Call it my nose for a guilty man.”

     “If only your nose was admissible in a court of law.”

     The two men smiled. “Will you, as a favour to me, keep me informed of any developments in the case?” asked Gloom.

     “If you inform me of any further ‘whispers’ you might hear on the street.”

     “You have my word, my friend.” Gloom saw the waiter coming in their direction and guessed that he was coming to tell him that Benson had come to collect him. “It's getting late,” he told the inspector. “I should be getting along home.”

     Inspector Bailey nodded. “Good health to you, Sebastian.” He said as Gloom pushed his wheelchair away from the table.

     “And to you, Percy.”