"...and the bloke in charge always comes on Thursday nights and never shows his face and I swear that's all I know! Now please stop! Please get dat savage away from me! Pleasepleasepleasepleasepleaaaase!"

Amy watched the figure of Whitlock cowering on the ground, his eyes—or at least the one that wasn't swollen shut—fixed onto Karim. He looked rather pitiful. Which balanced things nicely, since she felt very pity-empty.

Narrowing her eyes, Amy stepped forward. "Who are ye callin' a savage?"

"I'm sorry! I'm sorry!"

Karim harrumphed. "I don't need you to defend me, woman!"

Amy flashed him a grin. "Oh, I know. I just do it 'cause it pisses ye off." To judge by the expression on Karim's face, she had been correct in that assumption. But enough fun for now. Narrowing her eyes, she turned back towards Whitlock. "Are ye sure dat's all ye know about da organization?"

I...I swear," he wheezed. "Please...please..."

Amy stared at for a moment longer. Then, taking a deep breath, she gestured to Karim—whereupon he promptly tightened his grip on the man's throat.

"Gnnrglsnrg!"

"For yer information," Amy elaborated, "dat meant ye can let 'im go."

"Oh, I know," Karim responded. "I simply did not feel like it."

Amy felt her lips twitch.

"Anything else ye wanna ask?" she asked, glancing at Patrick. "Anythin' about da organization?"

"Not really, Ain't like 'e seems ta know much, anyway."

Hm. His language lessons really were coming along nicely.

"All righty. Seems like we're done."

Karim loosened his grip, and, for the first time since we'd started, Whitlock breathed a sigh of relief. Or just breathed in general.

"Except," I added, "for one thing."

He tensed.

Smiling widely, Amy took a step forward. "Ye see...I 'appened ta notice dere's one name dat isn't on da list." She placed a knife against his throat. "Ye had a girl called Leona 'ere. Where da 'ell is she?"

Whitlock's eyes narrowed.

"Da Barringtons wouldn't care about a single brat! Why would ye wanna know?"

Amy intensified the pressure on the knife just a bit.

"Who's da one askin' da questions 'ere?"

"Ye! Ye are!"

"Smart fella. Now, start talkin'!"

A calculating sparkle appeared in his eyes. "Ye seem ta care an awful lot about dat wench."

"Talk!"

The sparkle went up in a vicious fire of triumph.

"Are ye sure ye really want me to?"

Amy swallowed. Hell! That look in his eyes...

"What 'appened ta 'er? What da bloody 'ell 'appened ta 'er?"

He grinned. Amy could practically see his thoughts in his eyes. She wants ta know da truth? Fine by me. I'll tell 'er every bloody detail, and enjoy it!

"Aye, dat one..." His grin widened, and a shiver went down Amy's back. "I remember 'er. And why she wasn't on da list."

The cold shiver intensified. "Why? Why wasn't she?"

"She was...a special order." Whitlock gave a chuckle that made Amy want to punch his teeth in and stuff them down his throat. "A special order for a very special client. 'e's got some very interestin' proclivities."

"You...!"

She wanted to kill him. Oh, how she wanted to! But she couldn't. Not before she'd squeezed every single bit of information out of him!

Didn't mean she couldn't motivate him, though.

"You!"

Wham!

Her fist slammed into his jaw with enough force to tare his throat out of the surprised Karim's grip.

"Talk."

Wham!

"Now."

Bam!

A ragged chortle came from Whitlock's throat. "Ye really wanna know, don't ye? And ye 'ave no idea...boy, are ye gonna 'ave a fun day when ye see 'er again. Or what's left of 'er at dis poi—"

Wham!

"Shudupshudupshdup!"

"What's da matter?" He chortled again, blood trickling out the side of his mouth. "I thought ye wanted me ta talk?"

Amy started pounding a cheerful marching rhythm on her new favourite drum. And yet...he didn't say much. For all his vicious little hints and jibes, he hadn't really said anything of substance. Narrowing her eyes, she gazed at him, and there it was. Hidden under his bravado: fear. More than just fear of his own organization.

"Who is it?" she demanded, a cold tingle travelling down her spine. "Dis 'special client'...what kind of monster did you 'and 'er over to?"

He stayed silent.

Oh yes. She had been right. He was afraid. Terrified.

And not of me. Well...we'll just 'ave ta change dat, won't we?

"Doesn't seem like he wants to tell us anything useful," Karim growled.

"Agreed." His Lordship nodded.

"Oh, 'e'll tell us," Amy said, speering Whitlock with her gaze. "'e'll tell us everythin'."

Whitlock's lips twitched. Not like a man who smiled, but like a half-dead rat's tail. It was the face of a man who had nothing left to lose.

"Aye? And what makes ye say dat? What are ye gonna do? No matter what ye threaten, in da end it ain't worse dan what dey'll do ta me if dey find out I've betrayed 'im!"

"Oh, I wouldn't be so sure about dat." Smiling a bright smile, I leaned forward to smile at him. "What about if we..." Leaning forward, I whispered into his ear.

All colour fled from his face like the French froggies at Waterloo.

"Ye...ye can't!"

"I can," she told him. "And I will."

"Please! Please, no!" He crawled forward, his eyes wide with terror. "I'll do anythin'! Anythin'!"

"What did you say to him, woman?" Karim asked, clearly, and reluctantly, impressed.

Amy smirked. "Try ta guess."

"Please..." He whimpered, clutching at the hem of Amy's dress. "Please...!"

"I've no idea." Patrick shook his head.

"Simple." Amy sent him another, even more brilliant smile. "I invited 'im ta yer 'ouse."

"Huh?"

Patrick stared at her—then understanding spread across his face. "Ah."

"Ah?" Karim demanded. "Ah what?"

"Simple." Amy smirked. "If I threaten ta 'urt 'im, it won't do no good, 'cause 'is 'employers' could do much, much worse. But if I 'invite' 'im ta yer place, if we wine and dine him and treat 'im like a king, what do ye think dose employers of 'is are gonna think?"

Karim's eyes suddenly lit with understanding, and considerable delight to boot.

"Oh yes." He flashed a grin like a deadly sabre. "Let's wine and dine him. Good idea."

"I shall extend my utmost hospitality to him," Patrick added.

On the ground, Whitlock gave a groan.

Amy raised an eyebrow. "So? 'ow about it?"

"I'll talk! I'll talk! Just make sure to cut me bad enough and beat me black and blue!"

"That," Amy graciously allowed, "I can do. Now talk!"

He glanced up at her, clearly hesitating. That was put to an end fast when she placed the knife at his throat again.

"Consider dis a representation of our warm 'ospitality. For the last time—talk!"

He swallowed, and slowly parted his dried lips.

"She's bin taken down south. Ye can go after 'er if ye want, but ye'll be dead if ye try. Da man who's got her..." He shuddered. "Nobody would wanna mess with 'im. 'is name is..."

***

Ding-dong...

The doorbell echoed through the empty street. In this quiet, upper-class residential area, nobody was up and about at this hour of the morning—except perhaps the man standing in front of this house's front door, who seemed to be rather impatient for some reason. In the faint morning sunlight, one could just make out his bulky figure figure. He was wearing a crumpled coat, an unkempt, too-large moustache and an expression that made one wish his moustache were even bigger so it could cover more of his face.

"Get yer arse out here, Day!"

Ding-dong! Ding-dong! Ding-dong!

Somewhere inside the house, floorboards creaked. Moments later, the door opened far enough to reveal the distinguished face of the butler, dressed in a somehow equally distinguished nightgown and pointy nightcap.

"Good Morning, Inspector. How may I help you at this early hour?"

"That damn aristocrat rogue! Where the hell is he?"

"If you are referring to His Lordship, my honourable master..."

"You bet I'm referring to him! And I plan to do a whole lot more than just referring! When I get my hands on him....!"

"I fear Lord Patrick is still abed, Sir."

"Oh, he is, is he? Had a late night last night, did he?"

"I wouldn't know, Sir."

The inspector's moustache twitched. "Of course you wouldn't. But I tell you what you will do: you'll get your butlery butt in there right this minute and get your 'My Lord' out here, or I'm gonna smash the door in, understood?"

"Very clearly, Inspector. Please wait here. Do you have a card?"

"No, I don't have a bloody card!" the inspector roared. "Now get that headstrong idiot out here, or I'm gonna go in there and drag him out of bed myself!"

"Certainly, inspector. I shall go directly."

The door closed in his face, and measured, dignified footsteps retreated down the corridor. The inspector, meanwhile, chewed and his pipe and glared at the door, looking not quite so dignified. In an astonishingly short time for someone who was supposed to still be in bed, someone's footsteps approached from the other side, and, moments later, the door opened. Well...at least it opened just far enough to reveal Lord Patrick Day's face in the crack.

"Inspector! What a pleasant surprise!"

"It is, is it?" The inspector's moustache twitched. "I had a surprise myself this morning. Though I don't know whether I would call it 'pleasant'."

A concerned expression appeared on His Lordship's face again. "You don't say! Nothing untoward has happened, I hope?"

The moustache started twitching faster. "Not to me. But, remember that man you informed me about the other day? Whitlock, I think his name was?"

"Yes?"

"Turns out that last night there was an incident involving a man with the exact same name."

His Lordship's aristocratic eyebrows rose as high as the tower of Big Ben. "No! Really? What a coincidence."

"Yes, it is, isn't it?" The inspector's eyes narrowed. "Last night a gang of ruffians broke into the house of a certain Gordy Whitlock and turned him into a punching bag."

"I say! Really?" Patrick's mouth dropped open in surprise.

"Yes. We even found blood at the scene. Though, funnily enough, no dead or injured apart from Whitlock, and he wouldn't say a single word about what happened."

"How strange! What a mystery!"

The inspector's eyes became narrower and narrower, until his face looked like a collection box with two slits, and a huge back brush attached below.

"That's not what I'd call it. That man called Whitlock you told me about in your note the other day, the one you said committed horrendous crimes that needed to be punished immediately...What did you say his first name was again?"

"Oh..." His Lordship scratched his chin, thoughtfully. "I don't think I mentioned that in my note."

Taking a step towards the cracked-open door, Pritchard leaned forward until his bulldog face was only a foot or so away from Lord Patrick's. "Would you mind telling me now?"

"Oh, well...I can't seem to remember off the top of my head. I've been really forgetful lately. If someone didn't remind me, I'd forget my head half of the time..."

"That could be a useful skill." The inspector took another step forward. "In case someone were to be hanged at Tyburn!"

"Oh dear. Yes, that might be the case. What an elucidating statement."

"Are you sure there is nothing you want to tell me, Day? Nothing you want to confess?"

"Hm...no, I can't think of anything."

"Is that so?" Puffing out a cloud of pipe smoke from his pipe, the inspector took a step back. "Well...in case your memory improves, do drop by and say hello, will you? For some reason, I would suddenly love to see you at the police station, Your Lordship."

"My goodness. You don't say."

Pulling his pipe out of his mouth, the inspector used it to jab in Lord Patrick's direction. "Remember... if I hear of ye even bending the law, let alone breaking it, if ye even put so much as a toe out of line...!"

His Lordship raised his aristocratic eyebrows to new heights of supreme arrogance "What, pray, are you implying, Sir? I am a respectable nobleman."

"Sure you are." The inspector jammed his pipe back between his teeth. "Just in case ye've forgotten—I hate interfering amateurs."

"You don't say."

"And just 'cause we might have found certain tiny pieces of evidence at Whitlock's place, and he's gonna be held on suspicion of human trafficking, don't ye think I won't come down on you like a ton of bricks!"

"Will you indeed, Inspector?"

"Lawbreakers are lawbreakers, no matter whether their titles or descent!"

"Is that so?"

"Even if they happen to be right."

"Oh?"

"Especially if they happen to be right! Amateurs with good intentions who turn out to be right are the worst, 'cause they really piss me off! And ye don't wanna piss me off!"

"In general, I tend to avoid other's urination, Inspector. Don't worry. I shall commit any indiscretions in your jurisdiction."

"Hm. Is that a fact?"

"Yes!" He sent the inspector an innocent smile. "In fact, I won't be staying in London. I, um...intend to go on a little holiday, to a peaceful place out in the countryside."

The inspector speared him with a suspicious gaze for a long moment—then nodded. "Excellent. See that you don't come back for a few weeks. Or better yet, months. Maybe you'll even decide to settle their permanently. Wouldn't that be great? The fresh country air will do you good."

"That sounds like an excellent idea, inspector. Thank you for your advice."

The inspector gave Lord Patrick a last piercing gaze. Then he took a step back and turned. His Lordship breathed a sigh of relief—that got stuck in his throat when Pritchard half-turned to stare at him over his shoulder. Pulling out his pipe one last time, he once more jabbed it in Lord Patrick's direction.

"I'll be watching you!"

Then he turned again and marched away, down the street.

Immediately, His Lordship pulled the door shut. For a long moment, the door remained closed and the street empty. A cat meowed in the distance. Wagon wheels rattled. Birds twittered, greeting the sunrise.

"Is 'e gone?" A voice came from inside the house.

"Yes! Let's move!"

The door burst open again and, Lord Patrick, Amy, and Karim rushed out, around the corner and straight into the waiting carriage.

"Phew! That was close!"

"Shutupshutupshutpup! What if 'e decides ta come back?"

"Then I surmise we shall have difficulties explaining the contents of this." Patting the suitcase in his hand, Lord Patrick handed it to Amy, who stored it on the coach roof—but not without rattling it first. From inside came a unique metal clinking noise. Her eyes lit up with fire. "Ye got da weapons?"

His Lordship nodded. "And you? Did you bring the...house-opening devices?"

Amy smirked. "Ye mean da lock picks and crowbars? Aye, I've got dem!"

"Well, then what are we waiting for! Go, go!"

Moments later, there was only dust left in the street. In the distance, a coach was rolling towards the outskirts of London.

Back on the porch of the house, Mr Griffiths and Mrs Morris stood, gazing after the coach.

"'ow sweet!" Mrs Morris sighed. "Dey've only known each other for a week or two, and already, dey're on a weekend trip to da country! Dis must be love at first sight!"

"Quite so, Mrs Morris!"

"Isn't this just spiffin'?"

"I could not agree more, Mrs Morris."

The housekeeper leaned closer. "Do ye think we should, ye know...write a letter to the old Duchess? Da poor dear is so concerned about 'er son, and..."

"I think that would be premature. Let's give them time. I'm sure that, sooner or later, the two of them would wish to deliver the happy news themselves. Wouldn't that be something to witness?"

"Ye're so right, Mr Griffiths! Yes, of course!" Mrs Morris beamed. "That will be a wonderful surprise for her!"

***

Outside the coach, the houses of London were whizzing by at a prodigious pace. Prodigious—but not nearly fast enough for her! Fingers tapping a fast dancing jig on the rim of the window, Amy stared at the dark facades outside.

"What is the matter, woman?" Karim inquired. "We got away, didn't we?"

He doesn't know. He doesn't know what happened last night after he left.

"None of yer bloody business!" Amy's eyes flicked towards Patrick, His face was just as unreadable as it had been last night, his eyes cast in shadow by a stubborn streak of blond hair.

Damn him!

If only she hadn't staid and listened last night. Maybe she wouldn't know what she knew now. Her mouth flattened into a grim line, as she remembered. Last night...