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“I ’eard you.” Without another word, Ikey turned and walked away.

John was torn between annoyance and amusement as he watched the boy vanish into the night. “You’re welcome, you knurly little sod.”

Letting the boy go was a mistake. John knew that. But at the moment, he didn’t give a damn. He wanted a drink, food, and sleep in whatever order they came. A flicker of dizziness reminded him that he’d been on his feet for thirty-six hours straight.

Sleep first, he decided. The lodging house where he leased a room was less than a half mile away. The thought of bed nearly made him tremble with longing.

But as he turned to head south to Deansgate, his attention was caught by a movement at the cartway entrance. A dark form materialized in the iron-colored mist like a phantom turning to flesh. John went still as a stranger approached.

The man, who appeared to be in his thirties, was dark-haired and clean-shaven, wearing a deceptively simple black overcoat that might have been made by a Savile Row tailor. He carried a leather Gladstone bag with a locking clasp—the kind that cost the equivalent of John’s entire annual salary. Despite his smart attire, he had the seasoned air of someone accustomed to venturing into dangerous areas at night.

“Detective Pembroke?” the man asked, coming to stand in front of him.

“What do you want?” John was in no mood for politeness.

“I’ve come from London to speak with you.”

Definitely not a toff. He spoke in an Irish brogue and his nose was thickened at the bridge where it had once been broken.

Looking vaguely apologetic, the man continued, “I was told by the chief constable that you’ve just finished an extra shift to cover for an injured patrol. I’ll try to be brief.”

“Tomorrow. At the moment, I’m too weary to remember my own name.”

“I’m afraid it has to be now. More than one urgent matter is calling for my attention back in town.”

Although there was no arrogance in the man’s tone, John gave him a surly glance and asked, “An important man, are you?”

“I’d not say important, so much as busy.” The stranger smiled slightly as he introduced himself. “Ethan Ransom, of the Metropolitan District.”

Well, damn.

As an assistant commissioner of the Metropolitan Police Department, Ransom was one of the most powerful men in London. He’d been put in charge of major investigations and issues related to national security, a position that had heretofore been reserved for middle-aged men.

“Let me talk for a few minutes while you have dinner at the place of your choosing,” Ransom said, “and I’ll pay for it.”

Realizing there would be no putting him off, John muttered, “There’s a pub nearby. But it serves rough company.”

“I’ll manage,” Ransom said dryly. “I started as a fourth-class constable with a beat in a slum district.”

“Come on, then.”

It was a short walk toward Castlefield, a system of warehousing, docks, and yards built around the Bridgewater Canal to support the city’s mills and looms. They passed cramped lanes and blind alleys, and rows of tumbledown terrace houses packed cheek-by-jowl. Once the area had been fashionable, but it had given way to a tide of poverty and crime. Now respectable homes had been converted to brothels and shops, their broken windows stuffed with paper and straw.

The bitter cold had done nothing to deter the usual nighttime crowd near the docks. Laborers, clerks, and railway men lined up in front of food stalls and gin shops. Costermongers moved through the crowd with trays slung from their shoulders on leather straps. They sold fat pickled cucumbers, slices of brown bread, or brined and salted whelks ladled into waxed paper cones. The smell of frying fish billowed from a shopfront threshold before a wintry gust whisked it away.

They came to an ancient timber-framed Tudor building with a battered sign that read: The Hammer and Louse. Inside, the pub was packed with iron-founders, railwaymen, and dockworkers, all intent on filling their bellies after a long day. A vast open fireplace shed light and warmth over painted matchboard walls and comfortably mangy furniture. Smells of shag tobacco, sweat, and treacle ale thickened the air.

John led the way across the sandy floor to an unoccupied table in the corner, exchanging a few nods with acquaintances. Although he was a recognized member of the Manchester force, being a plainclothes detective allowed him to mingle more easily than if he wore the regular constable’s uniform.

A sturdy tavern waiter came to the table, grinning as he beheld John’s soot-blackened face. “How’s the world been using ye, Pembroke?”

“Well enough,” John replied. “And you, Fred?”

“Can’t complain.” The waiter’s friendly gaze encompassed them both. “Are ye wanting dinner, lads?”

“Aye, bring a plate of whatever’s good tonight,” John said, his stomach hollow with anticipation, “and a pint of ale.”

“Same,” Ransom added promptly.