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T EN DAYS LATER, MR . Marks hadn’t revealed any of his secrets. Aaron had plunged into the investigation like—well, like a corpse into a canal, but the uniformed officers hadn’t turned up any witnesses to the death; no notebooks had been found; there was no indication where his flush of wealth had come from. The coroner’s report was disappointingly non-committal too. Marks’ injury had unquestionably killed him, but whether he had received it from a paving stone or a blunt instrument wielded by human hand could not be discerned. The coroner also reported that he was a heavy drinker who had consumed a fair amount of alcohol shortly before his death.

It was all rather frustrating, and Aaron was relieved for the change when he got the message from Hollis saying, I’ve found a case for you .

***

H E FELT POSITIVELY nervous returning to see Wildsmith that evening. That was absurd. It had been weeks since the man had turned up at his flat: he’d probably forgotten about Aaron’s existence. Or decided he was part of some kind of police conspiracy, one of the two.

He knocked, and could have sworn he heard an expletive from the other side of the door. Wildsmith answered after a moment. He was in his shirtsleeves, both rolled up to the elbow, despite the late November damp and chill.

“Good Lord. Detective Sergeant. Was I expecting you?”

“May I come in?”

“But of course.” Wildsmith stepped back and gestured welcome.

There was a good fire going. “Not stingeing on coal, I see. Graphology paying well?”

Wildsmith lifted his left arm in reply. It was encased in leather straps from the elbow to the wrist, capped at the end by the holder of his split hook, which had a pencil clamped in it. Aaron had seen similar devices often, but usually just as the metal end poking out of a coat sleeve. Now he saw Wildsmith’s forearm—pale flesh, a little soft, sprinkled with copper hair—strapped around with leather, and felt this was an indignity or an intimacy to which he had no right.

“This thing is blasted uncomfortable under every jacket I own,” Wildsmith explained. “The sleeves are all too tight and the buckles catch, and it’s such a flaming nuisance I sometimes throw caution to the wind and put the fire on. What can I do for you? Tea? Kettle’s just on.”

“You astonish me,” Aaron said, and was a little too pleased to win a startled grin. “Yes, tea, please, if this is a convenient time for a chat.”

“By all means.” Wildsmith gestured at Aaron’s usual chair—not usual , he’d only been here twice—cranked the device to drop the pencil, and went to the tap. His right arm, Aaron couldn’t help observing, seemed significantly more muscular. Use, of course.

Aaron moved over to the table in a vague sort of way rather than sitting at once, in order to glance at the sheets of paper there, covered in writing that looked a little childish in the determined yet uncontrolled shapes. “Practising?”

“Mmm. I spent ages trying to write with my right hand because everyone assured me that would be best, and I’m sick of it, so I need to get used to this thing.”

“Why are you sick of it?”

“Because I’m left-handed,” Wildsmith said with a snap. “ You write with the wrong hand all the time, see how you like it. It reminds me of school. I want my left back, or at least the feeling of using my left.”

Aaron flexed his own right hand. “I see.”

“I came to that decision a while ago, in fact, but it’s taken a year for me to get the hook, Government generosity to our wounded heroes being what it is. And now I have it, I don’t actually want to get used to it, but needs must. I hope you don’t object to me leaving it on? It’s a sod to take off.”

“Why would I object?”

“Some people might call it unsightly.”

“Not in your own home, I hope.”

“You’d be amazed.” Wildsmith filled the teapot. “So to what do I owe this honour?”

“I’ve some news for you, and also a proposal.”

Wildsmith spun around, right hand to his chest. “La, sir! You do me too much honour.”

“Not that sort,” Aaron said, unable to bite back a smile.

Wildsmith mimed a sad face, to absurd effect. “Shame. Go on, then.”

“Firstly, I spoke to my cousin, Paul Napier-Fox. I advised him not to play the fool with the courts and said that I’d repeat what he told me if asked. If you get any further trouble from that quarter, let me know and I’ll deal with him.”

The mockery dropped away from Wildsmith’s face on the instant. Aaron almost wished it wouldn’t: he looked suddenly rather vulnerable. “Oh. That’s a relief. It was good of you to take the trouble.”

“Not at all. I spoke to Hollis too, and you needn’t worry further there. It was a misunderstanding.”

“Even better. Just milk, yes?”

“A splash.” Aaron came up to take the mug of tea, rather than Wildsmith carrying it over. That put them close for a moment, close enough for him to see a hint of copper stubble, a look of weariness around the light eyes.

He retreated to his chair in haste, and let the other man sit before he went on. “And I went to Marylebone Station to ask about Constable Sefton.”

He could all but see Wildsmith’s hackles spring up. “Did you. And what did you conclude?”

“I didn’t have to. He’s been suspended for gross misconduct.”

Wildsmith’s eyes widened. “ Has he. Has he really.”

“Not related to your business. I mentioned it, without your name, to the officer dealing with the case, but—”

“Don’t tell me. He didn’t want to know.”

“You could still make a complaint.” Aaron hesitated, but had to add, “I don’t know if it would do you much good.”

“Of course not. It’s my word against Sefton’s, admission to indecent acts, blah blah, nobody cares.”

“Yes,” Aaron said. “I’m very sorry, but, yes.”

Wildsmith let out a long silent whew . “But you asked. Which was good of you. And they’re doing something about the swine, whatever their reasons, which is better. So I will chalk it up as a victory. Cheers.” He held up his mug. Aaron startled himself by leaning over to clink it.

“Cheers. I’m sorry it’s not more.”

“Oh, well, my philosophy is to take your wins where you can get them. Thank you, Detective Sergeant. I do appreciate all that very much. And I am now madly curious to know about this proposal.”

“It’s...perhaps not a proposal. More of a challenge.”

“I struggle to resist those,” Wildsmith said. “As you know. Go on.”

Aaron took a deep breath. “How would you feel about a blind test of your abilities?”

“Meaning?”

“I’d like you to look at some writing from a number of potential suspects in a case, and give me your opinion.”

Wildsmith opened his mouth, then hesitated. “Is it a murder? A Molesworth thing?”

“I don’t know.”

“Sorry?”

“I don’t know what the case is, or any of the people involved. And it’s ongoing. Nobody knows who the culprit is, except himself. Or herself.”

“Oh. So I can’t draw any information out of you with my—” Wildsmith wiggled his fingers to indicate mystical powers. “And, what, you want me to look at a lot of suspects and pick the villain for you? Seriously?”

“I’d like you to give your opinion, which I won’t pass on to anyone until the case is resolved by normal means, and never if it isn’t solved. This will not be part of the investigation process in any way. It’s purely a test.”

“For what purpose?”

“Satisfying my curiosity,” Aaron said. “You’ve made remarkable claims and shown remarkable results. I’d like to see you repeat them in a controlled manner.”

“Um.” Wildsmith frowned. “Let me think about this. You’ve got samples of all the suspects’ hands? Ones written after the crime?”

“I’ll get them.”

“Are you going to tell them what it’s for?”

He certainly was not. Aaron quashed an ethical qualm. “There’s no need for anyone to know, since they won’t be used in the police investigation.”

Wildsmith scowled. “They’d better not be.”

“You don’t trust your conclusions?”

“I’m not a nark, and I’m not doing your job for you.”

“You’re not being asked to; I dread to think what a defence lawyer might do with your involvement. I’m not working that case at all, and I won’t pass your comments on to the man who is until it’s resolved. That would be entirely wrong.”

“I’d want that in writing,” Wildsmith said. “Not that I doubt your word, but just in case.”

“That’s fair. So will you do it?”

Wildsmith made a face. “Mph. I feel like I’m taking rather a risk here.”

“Why? If you can do as you claim...”

“It’s possible that the writer’s guilt or fear might shriek off the page. But it’s also possible that I’d simply get a strong sense of a personality. Suppose one hand strikes me as cruel and violent, and another as sly and vicious. I take a punt and say it’s the violent man, and you laugh at me because the case is a blackmail one. Meanwhile, my pick is beating his wife nightly.”

Aaron hadn’t thought of that. “Ah. Well, I suppose you’ll need to write down all your conclusions—have them written,” he added, as Wildsmith lofted his hook, “and give your probabilities.”

“But not half a dozen, or you’ll accuse me of hedging my bets, so I hope most of your suspects are reputable people. What if the real culprit isn’t in your pool of suspects at all?”

“Then the test won’t be valid. I’m not trying to trick you, Mr. Wildsmith. I just want to find out if you can do what you claim in conditions that make trickery impossible.”

“I’m sure. I have to say, my experience suggests that if you decide to believe me, you’ll see proof where it doesn’t exist, and if you’re determined not to, no proof will ever be enough.”

“I’m a Detective Sergeant of CID. I’m reasonably good at assessing these matters.”

“Hmph. And what happens as a result of this test?”

“In what sense?”

“Well, if I get it wrong, do you prosecute me for fraud? If I get it right, do you engage to defend me in the event of legal action?”

“Neither of those. Shall we say, we’re making a bet?”

“We could,” Wildsmith said. “What are the stakes?”

Aaron hadn’t thought that far. “If you get it right, I agree you can do what you claim.”

“And winning you round should be high enough stakes for me?” It sounded challenging, but there was a slight grin lurking, and he cocked his head as he spoke.

“I’d have thought winning would be its own reward,” Aaron said. “But I could throw in dinner.”

Wildsmith froze. Aaron had just a second to wonder why the devil he’d said that, then the graphologist’s mouth curved. “All right, but somewhere decent. None of your greasy spoons.”

“Perish the thought.” That wouldn’t have sounded flirtatious if he’d said it to a fellow officer, therefore it hadn’t sounded that way now. Aaron could feel the skin heating on his cheeks. He prayed it was the warm room.

“Dinner, then,” Wildsmith said. “And if I were to lose? I’m not growing a moustache again, before you ask.”

“I wouldn’t want you to. If you lose, I have my scepticism confirmed. That will do for me.”

Wildsmith gave him a squint-eyed look. “And this is not in any way official?”

“Absolutely not. This is my personal curiosity only. You are not entitled to call yourself a graphological consultant to the Metropolitan Police.”

“All right. Let me think about it, and I’ll let you know.”

Aaron raised a brow. “I might have thought you’d leap at the chance to prove yourself.”

“You’d be wrong, then,” Wildsmith said. “I want to be sure I’ve thought the consequences through first. Well, here’s one for starters: I’m not doing this for free. This will probably take a while and my time is a pound an hour.”

“That’s fair. Well, let me know, then.”

Aaron rose. Wildsmith did too, started to extend his hand for a shake, then pulled it back. “Actually, since this is unofficial...have you eaten?”

“Sorry?”

Wildsmith shrugged. “I’ve got more questions, and I’m starving. There’s an A.B.C. just down the Pentonville Road.”

“I thought you said no greasy spoons,” Aaron said, stalling, because he’d felt a surge of panic. Going out for a meal with—

With someone, that was all. Not a suspect because Wildsmith had done nothing wrong; not a pal, because Aaron had no grounds to call him that. Just someone to share a meal with, instead of another solitary night at home, another omelette eaten with only the accompaniment of a book.

“I said no greasy spoons if you’re paying,” Wildsmith clarified. “Well?”

“I’m peckish myself,” Aaron found himself saying. “Go on, then.”

***

T HE A.B.C. WAS EXACTLY like all the other A.B.C.s in London, which was to say rather downmarket compared to a Lyons Corner House, less clean than it might be, but warm and cheap. Wildsmith greeted the waitress by name, and was gestured to a table in a manner that suggested he was a regular.

“The bread’s all probably stale by now but the pies are reliable,” he advised Aaron.

Aaron glanced at the menu. “Can I trust the beef rissoles?”

Wildsmith rocked a hand. Aaron took that as a warning and went for the rump steak pie, Wildsmith for the macaroni cheese.

“Are you vegetarian?” Aaron asked.

“Me? No. Why would I be?”

“A lot of Spiritualists are.

“I’m not a Spiritualist.”

“No, but you’re—” He realised abruptly that this sentence wasn’t taking him anywhere good. “Unusual?”

“Red-headed, left-handed, and queer,” Wildsmith said, the words thankfully low enough to be lost in the chatter around him. “Is that what you mean?”

“Well—”

“I didn’t choose to be any of the above. I didn’t choose the graphology, come to that. I don’t go out of my way to be different, I’m just going about my business as best I can. And I ordered macaroni cheese because I can eat it with one hand.”

For God’s sake. Aaron had watched him unstrap the prosthesis before they left, with a slightly uncomfortable feeling that had to do with intrusion, and the strange absence of the missing hand, and the look of leather straps on pale skin. He simply hadn’t made the connection. “Sorry,” he said.

“I don’t actually mind you calling me a vegetarian,” Wildsmith assured him. “I do object to being called a Spiritualist, because I’m neither a gullible idiot nor a crook. Whatever you may think.”

“I don’t believe you’re either of those things.”

“Then why the test?”

“If I was positive you were a crook, I wouldn’t go to these lengths,” Aaron said. “I’m open to the possibility that you’re unusually gifted.”

“Oh. Really?”

“Possibility,” Aaron repeated. “I am not inclined to believe without evidence, but I won’t shut my eyes to what the evidence shows.”

“Not a Spiritualist either, then.”

“That’s a little harsh,” Aaron said. “A lot of Spiritualists aren’t unduly gullible, or wilfully blind to the truth. It’s a way to deal with grief.”

“And it offers them hope: I know that. But seeing a medium who claims they can speak to your dead son is like me going to a doctor who promises to grow my hand back. Sometimes you just have to live with things.”

He spoke with a sort of determined cheeriness that didn’t really mask strong feeling. Aaron said, “May I ask what happened?”

“To my hand? Oh, funny story: I was shaving, someone startled me...”

“What?”

Wildsmith rolled his eyes. “Stray Jerry bullet, you berk.”

“Where were you?”

“129 Field Ambulance. Flanders. Stretcher-bearer. I was waving for attention, and I got it. Took off most of the palm. There were a couple of carpal bones left, the ones at the base of the hand, and they thought they could save something but after a lot of faffing about—infection, whatnot—they gave up and removed the rest. It was relatively tidy as these things go and the forearm bones were undamaged. Could be worse.”

Aaron didn’t like to think how much time and pain the ‘faffing about’ had entailed. “I’m sorry.”

“Worse things happen at sea. Well, you’d know: you were Navy. Where?”

“Grand Fleet, in the North Sea. Blockade work.”

“How was it?”

“Cold and wet, mostly. After Jutland, Jerry didn’t make much effort to break the blockade. We were twiddling our thumbs for the last couple of years. It had to be done, but...” He hadn’t wanted to be in the thick of desperate fighting: he wasn’t insane. But he had undeniably felt guilty about finding himself in a relatively uneventful post when others were enduring so much worse. “It did rather feel like sitting around, sometimes. In a cold, wet, stormy sort of way.”

“They also serve who only sit and wait,” Wildsmith said. “I’m no tactician, but you don’t need to spend long at war to grasp the importance of supply lines. Talking of which, thanks, Aggie.”

That was to the waitress, as she brought their food and two mugs of tea. The steak pie was surprisingly good. Wildsmith made rapid inroads into his macaroni cheese, which Aaron had always considered nursery food. That impression wasn’t changed by seeing a grown man eat it with a spoon.

“Can you not use your device?” he asked. “To hold a knife, I mean?”

“I can, but I’ve been using it all day and I’m tired. Sometimes macaroni cheese is just easier.”

“There’s a good Italian place in Lisson Grove,” Aaron found himself saying. “They do a dish called ravioli, if you know it? Little parcels with meat inside. You could eat that with only a fork.”

“I’ll have to win this bet then.” Wildsmith glanced up as he said it, his pale brown eyes catching the light. They were still unsettling even with more acquaintance. You expected a man of his colouring to have green eyes, or blue, or dark brown; Wildsmith’s were too light and too dark at once.

“I dare say I could spring for somewhere a little fancier, if you win,” Aaron returned, because the thought of taking Joel Wildsmith to his little local place, just round the corner from his flat—

He needed to stop. “You said you had other questions,” he remarked, and shoved a forkful of steak and pastry in his mouth as a means to stop himself talking further.

“Did I? Probably. Can’t remember what they were. Oh, yes I can: why?”

Aaron still had a mouthful. “?”

“Why are you doing this? It can’t just be curiosity, unless you’re the most curious man alive. Are you trying to nail me for a fraud and hoping I’ll betray myself? Testing whether I believe my own publicity? Trialling me as that graphological consultant you mentioned?”

“Not that last. I really do want to know the truth,” Aaron said. “I found your results extremely impressive, and I want to know if you fooled me, I fooled myself, or you’re remarkably gifted. It must be one of those, and I’ve been driving myself mad trying to work out which.”

“Sorry to be occupying your thoughts,” Wildsmith flipped back. “You should charge me rent.”

Aaron had an urge to tell him You’re welcome, any time , or some such damn fool thing. He forked up a bit of beef instead and chewed carefully.

“I suppose it’s a policeman thing,” Wildsmith added thoughtfully after a moment. “Wanting answers. Detective and all that.”

“Mph. We don’t usually get a mystery to solve, in the sense of some tidy arrangement with a limited set of suspects.”

“You’ve never found a body in the library with a tropical fish stuffed down its throat?”

“When you’re dealing with the average murderer, burglar, or racecourse terrorist, the only thing that goes down their throats is gin.”

“How dreadfully lowering. Can I ask you about your work or would you rather not talk about it in your time off?”

“I don’t mind.” He didn’t have much else to talk about. “Though I can’t discuss ongoing cases.”

“No, of course. But things like the gangs. The ‘racecourse terrorists’, as if there’s a racecourse within miles of Pentonville.”

“They travel,” Aaron assured him. “The Sabini lot, who are the main players in this area along with the Yiddishers—”

“I know who the Sabinis are. I live here.”

He said that rather sardonically, in a way that pricked Aaron’s senses. “You’ve had problems with them?”

“Not me personally, but a friend has. And you see them in the street, in groups, which I dislike intensely, and the most awful stories go round. Maybe it’s just gossip, but it feels like it’s got worse recently.”

“It is worse,” Aaron said. “The London gangs have got stronger since the war, no question. We don’t yet have anything like the problems they have in the United States, and I hope we won’t, but it’s certainly something the police are aware of.”

“I should hope so,” Wildsmith said. “Is it true the Sabinis have an in with the Met?”

He didn’t say it aggressively. It sounded for all the world like a real question rather than a sneer, but Aaron still felt as though he’d had a cup of cold water dashed in his face. “Are you referring to the case?”

“What case?”

“Mine. The one the other week.”

“No?” Wildsmith said blankly.

“Did you read the reports?”

“No. I saw some guff about you in the Pictorial, but that’s all. I don’t follow the crime news.”

Aaron felt his hackles subside a little. “One of the Brummagem Boys was on trial for killing one of the Sabini mob. His lawyer attempted to argue that G Division—the King’s Cross police—were biased in favour of the Sabinis. Specifically, that I was, as the arresting officer. It’s the kind of thing lawyers try sometimes.”

“It’s not nice having one’s character impugned in court, is it?” Wildsmith remarked snidely, then lifted a hand in immediate apology. “No, sorry. That must have been horrible for you.”

“It’s part of the game.”

“Still horrible, especially when one can’t answer back. If it’s any consolation, I don’t believe for a second that you’d take bribes from a gang. Your hand reeks of honesty.”

“Thank you,” Aaron said, a second before realising he’d never actually admitted that he’d given Wildsmith his hand.

Bang like a barn door in the wind. Get someone to cut those laces for you before you pop. He could feel himself reddening. “So what did you mean?” he asked, almost aggressively. “About them having an in with the Met?”

“Only that everyone says it round here,” Wildsmith said. “The word on the street, you know.”

“That King’s Cross nick is in the pay of Darby Sabini?”

“Well, that the police turn a blind eye. Warn them in advance of raids, don’t do much about complaints. My friend, the one I mentioned, was very irate on the subject the other day. He’s a pawnbroker. The Sabinis sent round some horrible thug demanding a weekly dole for ‘protection’, and threatened his wife pretty nastily when he told them to clear off. He ended up paying—as one would—and then went straight to the police.”

“And?”

“They just fobbed him off, he said. Haven’t done anything. His opinion is, and I quote, they’re all on the take, and the Met’s nothing but the biggest gang in London. He’s not very happy.”

“Dealing with protection rackets really isn’t as easy as it might seem, largely because the perpetrators tend to be good at intimidating witnesses,” Aaron said. “It takes a brave man to give evidence and stick to his story. As to bribery and corruption...” He paused, organising his thoughts, or perhaps his feelings. “It does happen. I don’t know of it happening in King’s Cross, or with the Sabini gang, but that doesn’t mean it isn’t. If the word on the street includes a name you can tell me—in strict confidence—I’ll act on it.”

“Really?” Wildsmith said, and then, “Yes. I dare say you would.”

“I—we—would have to. Policing is a contract. The public agrees to give people like me the power to ask impertinent questions, give orders, or even deprive people of their liberty, under a strict set of laws and circumstances and restrictions that govern our behaviour. If we don’t respect our part of the contract, the public can’t be expected to respect theirs. And if the public decides that the police don’t deserve to be obeyed, or that we don’t serve a useful purpose—well, you considerably outnumber us. Corrupt police officers don’t just harm individuals, they strike at the rule of law and the structure of society.”

Wildsmith was looking at him, eyes wide, lips slightly parted. Aaron felt suddenly self-conscious. “You don’t agree?”

“I agree entirely. I didn’t think that was the Met’s view. Don’t you get dismissed for calling attention to your colleagues’ wrongdoing?”

Aaron sent a malevolent thought in the direction of Sir William Horwood. “Our current Commissioner thinks he’s defending the Force by refusing to hear a bad word against it, still less act on what he hears. It’s not just morally wrong but tactically stupid. Look at my trial, the one I mentioned. If the man on the street believes that King’s Cross is in the pay of the Sabinis, then so will the man in the jury box. So Dapper Melkin’s brief felt it was a reasonable tactic to suggest undue influence, so that got reported in the papers, and now my reputation is stained, the newspaper-reading public has seen that idea floated about, and everyone’s trust in the police is eroded a little more. It’s a damn fool way to go on. Far better to cut out rot before it spreads.”

“You feel passionately about this.”

“Yes, I do.”

“It suits you,” Wildsmith said with a little, genuine smile, and Aaron felt the breath rush out of him at that. “They do all sorts of cakes and puddings here if you have a sweet tooth, but there’s a pub on the corner. Can I buy you a pint? Tribute to an honest copper?”

There were a thousand reasons to say no. “Maybe just a quick one.”