It was well past midnight before Benson's patience was rewarded. The servants door opened and a small figure crept out into the night. A woman. Benson crouched down while she passed him by and recognised her as Doris Kettle, the cook's assistant. Barely more than a girl, she had been working for the Cranstons for only a few months. Benson decided that she was either the daughter, sister or sweetheart of one of the villains and had taken the job precisely so that she could learn the location of the Solomon Bottle. He waited for her to pass by, then emerged and followed silently behind her.

He could be wrong about her, of course, he mused. It was possible that she had some legitimate reason for setting out a this time of night. It could be that she always went home after spending the day in the Cranston house and that her departure had been delayed by his visit. It might be that the real traitor was even now leaving the house, going in the opposite direction. Well, that was just the chance they took in this line of business, he told himself. If the real police had been carrying out an operation like this they would have had several constables watching the house, but he had no-one other than himself. He had no choice but to take a chance.

The woman walked for two or three miles, her feet tip tapping their way along the stone pavements lining the streets as she left the wealthy residential districts behind and entered a far less reputable area whose streets were darker and whose houses were smaller and packed more closely together. Benson was encouraged to see her looking behind herself from time to time, as if she were scared of discovery. Or perhaps she was just scared of falling foul of muggers and footpads, a not unreasonable fear when walking the streets of a big city after dark. Now and again a dark figure lurking in the shadows did stir at her passing and Benson prepared to go to her defence, but the figure always lost interest after getting a better look at her, perhaps thinking she had nothing worth stealing and wasn't good looking enough to be worth ravishing.

After walking for an hour she came to a building and knocked urgently on the door, once again looking around to see if anyone was watching. A long minute passed during which nothing happened and she knocked again. This time the door opened and she hurried through without waiting to be invited. As soon as the door had closed again Benson hurried out of cover and ran across the street, finding a spot under the front window where he could listen without being seen.

The occupants weren't in the front room, but the inside door linking it to the rest of the house was open and the faint sound of raised voices could be heard. He couldn't make out the words, but it was clear that an argument of some kind was taking place. Benson's imagination filled in the details. The woman would be telling them that they'd stolen the wrong bottle and the occupants would be reacting with anger, saying that the people who'd hired them had said nothing about a second bottle. The voices rose to a higher pitch. Had they figured out that she'd been tricked and were berating her for being so gullible and stupid? If so the front door would be opening soon as they checked to see if she'd been followed...

Benson ran away from the window and hid behind a horse trough, just in time as the door opened and a grim, fierce looking face looked out into the night. He looked this way and that, but saw nothing but a cat running across the street and a scattering of cherry blossom petals being blown by the wind along the gutter. He looked some more, staring intently at every possible hiding place, and at one point he stared straight at Benson. The investigator froze, knowing that part of him was visible but hoping that his dark coat would look like just one more shadow.

There was silence broken only by the sound of the wind through tree branches and, somewhere, the hooting of an owl, and the man finally seemed satisfied, going back in through the door and closing it. Benson ran back to the window to resume listening, but the voices were quieter now, as if the dispute had been settled, and he retired to his hiding place again, just in time as the door opened for the third time. Doris Kettle emerged and hurried off down the street back the way she had come. Returning to the Cranston house before she was missed.

The villains would be in a quandary now, he knew. Either the bottle they'd stolen had indeed been a decoy, in which they could expect to be hearing angrily from whoever had hired them, or they'd just escaped a ploy by the police to make the woman lead them here. If they still had the bottle on them they'd be examining it carefully, looking for any sign that it was a fake. If they'd already passed it on to Exercitus Dei they'd be fearing that the church would come back to them in fury, demanding either their money back or that they procure the correct bottle. What would they do? Benson didn't really care. All he'd wanted was for the traitor to lead him to the thieves, and his little ploy had succeeded splendidly. Now he had so find out where the bottle was presently located.

The argument he'd overheard had told him that there were two, possibly three people in the house. The brief glimpse he'd had of the man at the door had revealed a man he could take easily in a straight fight, but he might end up having to fight the three of them at once. He might take the chance if the situation were desperate enough, but a prudent man shortened the odds as much as possible before taking action. He decided to send for reinforcements.

He'd passed a vagrant while following the woman, a pitiful looking wretch who'd looked as though his last decent meal had been some days ago, and he walked back to find him, hoping that the criminals wouldn't leave the house while he was gone. Finding the vagrant, he prodded him awake with the toe of his boot. A straggly bearded head with sunken, hopeless eyes emerged from the filthy blanket covering him and stared fearfully up at the tall stranger. "I ain't done nothing!" He protested.

Benson dug into a pocket and drew out a silver coin. "The price of a hot meal if you do a little job for me," he said. "I need you to find a man and tell him to come here at once. His name is Andrew MacNally and he lives at 205 Cotton Street. Tell him Benson needs him, I'll be down that way waiting for him. He'll give you another coin like this one when you deliver the message."

He had to repeat the names and the address three times before he was sure the vagrant had them, and then he watched while the wretched man toddled off down the street towards the cotton district. Once he was sure the man was actually going to carry out his mission he returned to the villain's house and resumed his watch. He was relieved to see that there was still a light in one of the windows, and a shadow passed across the curtains as a man walked past it. Go to sleep, he mentally urged him. Plenty of time in the morning to do whatever you decide to do. In the meantime go to bed. It'll be much easier to take you down if we surprise you in your sleep.

The rest of the night crept past with glacial slowness, and it wasn't until the glow of dawn was starting to appear in the eastern horizon that MacNally finally turned up. The big man, a former cohort of Benson from the 63rd (West Suffolk) regiment of foot, came strolling down the street as if his wandering feet had just happened to carry him this way. When he spied Benson he turned and crossed the street, not caring who saw him, and Benson, seeing that hiding was no longer an option, rose and went to meet him half way.

"Benson!" said MacNally, not in a whisper but not too loudly either. The voice of a man who didn't have a covert bone in his body. A man who wasn't up to anything, who just happened to be out in the street and spotted a friend. Anyone who heard him wouldn't think he had come prepared for violence, wouldn't think he was trying to take someone by surprise. He had the rare ability to go completely overlooked by making no attempt to stay unnoticed.

Benson didn't have that talent and so he said nothing until he was close enough so speak low enough to not be overheard. "Thank you for coming," he said. "I need some help with two or three bad guys. You up for it?"

"You came when I called, that time in Dublin. Now it's my turn. Just point me at them."

"Thanks Andy. There's two or three of them, in the house with the green door. They killed a man the other day, put two more in hospital. They stole something. I need to know where it is. I need them to talk."

"By the time I'm finished with 'em they'll be singing like Lottie Collins. We going in now?"

"If you're ready."

"I'm always ready."

"Okay, let's go."

They approached the house, keeping a careful watch on the windows to make sure they weren't seen, and Benson kicked the door open with a single powerful blow from his right foot. They stormed in, wanting to catch the occupants before they could recover from the shock. They found the first man in the back room. It was the man Benson had seen at the door. He had been half asleep in a tattered, threadbare armchair in front of a roaring wood fire, a half drunk bottle of beer in his hand. He had time to rise from the chair before the two men reached him and he threw the bottle at them, but MacNally dodged it and felled the man with a single blow from his fist. The man stumbled back and fell unconscious to the floor.

They heard running footsteps on the stairs and turned just in time to see a second man with a pistol in his hand. Benson drew his own gun, a six shot revolver, but didn't want to shoot him unless he really had to. He fired one shot at an empty stretch of wall, just to make the man pause and take cover, then ran forward. The villain fired a shot that went past his head but then Benson was on him, bringing his gun down hard on the man's hand, making his give a cry of pain and drop the weapon.

"I've got him," he told MacNally. "Check upstairs."

The Irishman nodded and took the stairs three at a time, his gun in his hand. As the sound of him treading the floorboards came down to them Benson ordered the villain to get to his feet. He took him into the room where they'd found the first man and told him to sit in one of the table chairs. By the time MacNally returned, Benson had tied both men to chairs and was about to join his friend on the hunt.

"No-one else in the house," he said. "Looks like you could've taken them both by yourself after all."

"Never hurts to be careful."

He went into the kitchen and returned with a pan of water that he threw into the first villain's face. He returned to consciousness with a cough and a splutter, then struggled in the chair in a vain attempt to free himself. "What's this all about?" the second man demanded. "We ain't done nothing!"

"I am Inspector Tebbit of Scotland Yard," said Benson, showing him his forged identification, "And this is Constable Jugg." ManNally raised an eyebrow at this but said nothing. "Yesterday night you burgled the home of George Cranston. You murdered a man, injured two others and stole property..."

"It wasn't us that killed him..."

"Shut up, you fool!" hissed the second. "They've got nothing on us."

"We have the confession of Doris Kettle. We picked her up as she was returning to the Cranston house and she told us everything. You chummies are going to Forest Bank for housebreaking, theft, assault and murder..."

"It was Gideon who killed the butler!" blurted out the first villain. "Nobody was supposed to get hurt! We was just supposed to creep in, grab some nick knack and creep out again. The butler wasn't supposed to be there."

"Where is this Gideon character?" demanded Benson.

"I dunno. We never saw him before. He hired us for this job, paid us and left. I don't know where he is now. If I did I'd tell you."

Benson turned to the second villain, who confirmed the story. "What can you tell me about this Gideon?" he asked.

The first villain started to speak, but the second interrupted before he could say anything. "Evil looking bastard. Scar over his face. Shaggy hair like a great black dog. Spoke with a southern accent like he came from Portsmouth or something. Wore a blue coat like those sailors wear. Could be he used to be a sailor, I thought."

Benson frowned sceptically. The first villain had been about to give an accurate description, he thought, but the second had made up a lot of complete fiction. He looked back to the first villain, but his face had a closed look, as if he now thought better of betraying their third man. For a moment Benson considered separating the two villains and beating the truth out of the first, but they had no way of confirming anything he said. He was pretty sure that the name, Gideon, was the truth, though. He'd just have to be satisfied with that.

"Did he say anything else? Any useful information you can give us might help you avoid the hangman's noose."

"Nothing, I swear it!"

"Where is the item that was taken from the house?"

"Gideon took it. Once the job was done he paid us, took the bottle and left. That was the last we saw of him. It was him who killed the butler. Whacked him over the head with that great cosh of his. Was 'im did for the other two as well. Never saw a man wield a cosh like he did, and he was grinning when he did it, like he was enjoying it. Scared me he did, and I don't scare easy."

Benson gestured for MacNally to follow him out. "I don't think they have anything else useful to tell us. Best we just leave them there. We can call the police, tell them there's a couple of villains here to pick up."

"That bottle they mentioned. That's what you're after?"

"Yes. We were hired to find and recover it. Looks like we hit a dead end, though." He drew a heavy sigh. "I hate having to report failure. Still, who knows. Maybe Gloom's had better luck."