Alden Stowe recognized her the moment she entered the room. Of course he did. She was a Darling of the Clubs, after all. And it was the sworn duty of every member of every Social Club to know every living Darling both by name and on sight. It really wasn’t a particularly onerous duty. After all, never in all the years since the legendary rise of August Darling, who had given his name to the title, had there ever been more than thirteen Darlings alive at any one time. Not that Alden had ever encountered a Darling before. The only club he was a member of was the Nabber Hill Lodge, a rather small club of limited social standing that mostly counted skilled craftsmen and small business owners among its membership. And since Darlings were universally welcome in any club in the country, they tended to frequent only the most luxurious, prestigious or fashionable clubs. The Strand Hall, Boodle’s, the Old Boys’ Fort, The Clummingway, maybe even the Hoary Tykes or Scallop Sconce, if they were feeling risqué. Particularly socially ambitious Darlings may even frequent the Blue Blood Club, since they were the only ones allowed entry besides the four royal families. And yet here she was. Lucille Baines, Darling of the Clubs. Famous beyond measure and, if rumours were to be believed, fantastically wealthy. She certainly looked it. Her fingers held rings of finest silver set with gleaming sapphires, and she wore earrings to match. Silver hairpins decorated with blue silk flowers held her pale blonde hair in a loose bun, and a complex choker made of interwoven silver threads was clasped tight against her neck. Even her clothing was gleaming in blue and silver. The silken dress was of an eastern style that had become fashionable of late, but which Alden had never learned the proper name of. After all, his linguistic talents began and ended with the Queen’s English. His Scots was poor, his Gaelic was deplorable and his Cymric was nigh-upon non-existent. So he wasn’t going to even attempt to learn words from utterly foreign eastern languages. But regardless of what the garment was called, he did note that the cut of this particular example would have been considered indecent to wear in public settings no more than a decade ago. It clung close to her body, and left far more skin exposed than he was used to seeing. It was at this point that Alden realized he was not alone in his stunned gawking. Every single person in the hall seemed utterly befuddled at the appearance of such a celebrity in their midst. Most crucially, this included Albert Tucker, who was on greeting duty. Every member of the Nabber Hill Lodge must, by the tradition of the club, be jovially greeted upon entry to the drinking hall. And a Darling of the Clubs must be treated in all ways as a respected member in good standing of any club they visit. But Albert was simply staring at this newcomer with a gormless, slack-jawed expression. This was a big problem. If a Darling felt snubbed by their reception at a club, they could take it up with the Social Circle. And official censure from the Circle would be a huge black mark not only on Nabber Hill Lodge itself, but also on every member present at the time of the incident. At worst, the Lodge might lose its club permits entirely and the people here might be blacklisted from joining any other club in the future. Alden’s little tinctury was struggling as it was, and such a hit to his social standing might well hurt his business even further. He had absolutely no desire to get involved with whatever scheme had brought a Darling of the Clubs to a place like Nabber Hill Lodge, but nobody else seemed like they were going to do anything. And he absolutely couldn’t take the risk that the Darling might feel snubbed or slighted for going ungreeted. Suppressing a sigh, Alden plastered the most genuine-looking smile he could muster across his face and strode up to the woman. “Sister!” He called out, his arms held invitingly open in strict accordance with club tradition. “Welcome home!” The woman smiled warmly in return, the dim lights of the hall seeming to shimmer and sparkle unusually brightly in her blue-green eyes. “Brother!” She called out in response, catching Alden in a tight embrace. “It’s good to be back!” That response, beat for beat perfectly aligned with club tradition, caught everyone off guard. For a Darling of the Clubs to visit Nabber Hill Lodge was strange enough on its own, but the fact that she had apparently studied and prepared for the visit in advance was almost bizarre. Hell, most of the actual members forewent the embrace these days unless there was a special occasion. But Lucille Baines was playing the role to a T. Alden was probably the most taken aback out of everyone. Of all the things he had expected to happen today, being tightly embraced by a Darling of the Clubs was certainly somewhere near the bottom of the list, below spontaneous combustion but above being eaten by an escaped lion from the Royal Zoological Gardens. Still, he wasn’t going to risk giving offence, so he maintained the embrace until the woman in his arms moved to break it, then smartly stepped back. “Come in!” He exclaimed, still carefully following the script. “Shake off the dust of the streets and make yourself comfortable. May I offer to share a drink, or perhaps a confidence?” “Both would be lovely, yes. A pint of cider and a sympathetic ear would do me a world of good.” Alden didn’t groan, though he dearly wanted to. Most club members would have politely declined those offers. After all, in normal situations, the greeter would have been offering the drink and the conversation, and accepting the offer would mean taking the greeter away from the door. It happened now and then, of course, but it would invariably cause some good-natured grumbling from whoever took over the post as greeter. But this woman was indisputably well within her rights to make the request, and Alden had no socially acceptable out. Well aware of the bewildered stares of the other club members, Alden went up to the bar and ordered two tankards of cider. Drinks in hand, he led the vexing Darling to one of the booths near the back of the room, which were carefully designed to block sight-lines and muffle sound. Not that anyone would try to eavesdrop. That would be the very height of poor form, after all. As Lucille Baines delicately sipped her cider, Alden forced himself to relax a little. The ritual portion of the encounter was over, and now the only social duty he had was to treat this newcomer as he would any other member of the club. If anything, being uptight or overcautious in his dealings with her would be a faux-pas in itself. Taking a swig of his own cider, he decided he might as well satisfy his curiosity. “So, what manner of scheme or caper brings a Darling of the Clubs to a place like Nabber Hill, Mistress Baines?” The woman gave him an almost teasing smirk. “Please, just Lucille will do fine. ‘Mistress Baines’ is my grandmother, and she earned the title in spades. As for my reason for coming here, I’m looking to hire someone with a stiff spine, a good head on their shoulders, a modicum of education and a great appreciation for hard coin.” “That sounds to me like a very euphemistic way to intimate that you wish to hire something of a rogue.” “Perhaps, but an intelligent rogue. And one with enough social grace and awareness to not make a fool of themself in polite company.” “Even so, Nabber Hill seems an odd place to look for such folk. Wouldn’t one of the more rough-and-tumble clubs serve your purposes better? The Den, perhaps? Or the Bullywogs.” “I will admit, Nabber hill wasn’t my first port of call. The Den, the Bullywogs, the Aften Pit, Murkmire, The Sops. I’ve been on quite the journey today. But everywhere I went, everyone simply stared and gawked, as if hypnotized by my presence. Not one person had the decorum and comportment to follow proper protocol.” “Don’t the toughs at Aften Pit punch each other in the gut as a mode of greeting?” “They’re certainly supposed to, but not one fist came my way when I was there. Not so much as a tap. They simply stared at me like they couldn’t believe I was present or hid themselves in corners as if afraid to be noticed.” Alden scoffed. “More fools them for risking official censure from the Social Circle.” Lucille smirked wryly. “I will admit, after the fourth utter failure to treat me like a member, as courtesy dictates, I was just about ready to go ahead and file complaint. From sheer frustration, if nothing else. No, none of these toughs or bruisers had the comportment or presence of mind I required from my rogue. I was frankly worried that Nabber Hill Lodge would prove equally disappointing. But then there was you.” Alden frowned. “Are you proposing to hire me for whatever it is you’re scheming?” “You’re certainly the best candidate I’ve met so far.” Alden considered the matter for a moment before speaking. “I’ve never thought myself much of a rogue, but I know how to throw a punch, I know how to read social cues and I graduated with good marks from the Hallowdell Institute of Tinctury, so I believe I can claim that modicum of education you desired.” “Capital! You are amenable, then?” “I suppose that is a matter of the hardness of the promised coin.” “I can offer you five pounds per day, with an additional one hundred pounds coming your way if the matter is properly resolved.” Alden had been taking a sip as the offer was made, and he very nearly choked on his cider as the shock sent it down entirely the wrong pipe. His mind reeled as he coughed and wheezed. Five pounds per day! After taxes, wages, material costs and other expenses, he was lucky if his little tinctury brought in twenty pounds in a month! The only reason he was able to live as comfortably as he did and pay his dues to his club was because he had an apartment above the shop, and so didn’t have any rent to pay. But five pounds per day! It took him some time to regain his comportment, and with it his general suspicion. He didn’t know what kind of work would warrant paying a well-educated rogue five pounds per day, but he doubted it was anything good. Still, the offer was too tempting not to pursue. Even if the way Lucille was smirking at his dramatic reaction rather irked him. “It’s certainly an attractive offer.” He said, as though his earlier shock hadn’t already made that abundantly clear. “May I inquire as to exactly what the matter concerns?” “My wife’s uncle was murdered six days ago. I wish to know who did it, and why.” Alden raised a sceptical eyebrow. “Surely that would be a matter for the constabulary?” Lucille scoffed. “Useless, the lot of them. They declared it a case of spontaneous combustion and dropped the investigation entirely.” “Well, what of it? Spontaneous combustion might be a trifle rare, but it’s hardly unheard of. An unbalance of the humours leads to an overproduction of phlogiston, causing a gradual build-up in bones and soft tissues, and that in turn leads to increased flammability. Why, my very own great uncle suffered spontaneous combustion while in a fit of drunken rage. Nearly burned down the entire pub. They had to bury him in jar.” “It might happen to the unhealthy or over-passionate, but not to Doctor George Rawleigh! He was the halest, most even-tempered man that ever lived. He ate a balanced diet, he never skipped his morning constitutional and he took a tincture of saffron and thornroot every morning.” That last point caught Alden’s attention. He was a tincturer, after all, and he knew well the effects of such a concoction. “Every morning? Good gods, he must have been the most dispassionate man that ever lived.” “He said that excited emotions distracted the logical faculties. He was a very serious man. Dedicated to a fault, devoted to his research, celibate in his habits…” “Well, he must have been. If he took that tincture each morning I doubt even the most adept of temptresses would have gotten a rise out of him.” “The point is, I don’t believe for a second that his combustion was nearly so spontaneous as the constabulary seem to believe.” “On that point, I must agree with you. If he indeed took that tincture every day, I’d sooner believe his blood would freeze in his veins than that he would spontaneously combust.” “And that is exactly why I can only assume foul play of some sort. So, will you help me?” Alden frowned thoughtfully. “You are going to an awful lot of trouble and expense to seek justice for this uncle of your wife.” “We were very close. He served as the bond-binder at our handfasting. He even agreed to act as our third should my wife and I ever desire children.” “Perhaps that could be a motive for his murder? As much as the royal family might approve, there are many who don’t hold with such unions.” She snorted a humourless laugh. “Hardly. Our handfasting ceremony and his role in it was a fairly private affair, and none save the three of us knew he’d agreed to third for us, in the unlikely event that we ever craved children. No, if someone wanted to make clear their distaste for my marriage, it is me or my wife they would have targeted. Not her uncle.” “Then what? Do you have any clue as to why anyone might be out for his life?” “Academic jealousy, perhaps? He was a very famous natural philosopher, and he had won a great many prestigious awards.” Alden nodded thoughtfully. He had only ever dipped his toe into the waters of academia, but even he knew that it could be a somewhat cut-throat environment. Although typically not in the literal sense. But before he could give the matter much thought, Lucille spoke once more. “Please, will you help me? I simply wish to see the murderer brought to justice.” “And so you are offering to hire me as some manner of… private detective? Surely that can’t be legal.” “I don’t see why not. I’m simply hiring you to look into matters. As far as I’m concerned, our proposed arrangement is entirely a private affair.” Alden hesitated once again. His good sense told him that this was a terrible idea, and that he should turn this woman down and wash his hands of the entire matter. But his financial sense, on the other hand… “Very well. I’ll help you.” Lucille’s face lit up like the sun. With a swift motion, she pulled a small leather pouch from gods alone knew where and tossed it onto the table, where it landed with a very enticing metallic clinking. “Thank you so much. Here, this is an advance on your pay. And of course, I will need to know your name.” He picked up the pouch and peered inside it, finding no less than ten solid-gold ten-pound coins shining up at him. He hadn’t so much as seen a ten-pound coin in years, and holding ten of them in his grasp was a heady feeling. “It’s Alden.” He replied a little weakly. “Alden Stowe. I’m the owner of Stowe’s Tinctures, on Ratcatcher Street.” “It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Alden.” “You’re very trusting, Lucille. A less scrupled man would have taken this advance and done a runner. It is a princely sum.” “If I hadn’t deemed you trustworthy, I would have taken my leave long before we got to this point. The crime took place in Doctor Rawleigh’s private laboratory in the basement of his townhouse on the corner of Welcome Street and Proud Street. I’ll tell the staff that you are to be allowed access and that they are to answer any questions you have.” Alden nodded, though he did note the curious address. Welcome Street and Proud Street were part of the most desirable portion of the massive urban sprawl known as the Greater London Area, and neither street was more than twenty years old. It was a neighbourhood overflowing with new money. Successful industrialists, businessmen and investors built their unwieldy, oversized homes there to boast of their success. It was hardly the sort of place where one would expect to find an aging academic. “I’ll be there tomorrow. I can’t promise success in this venture. It is rather outside my usual expertise, after all. But I can promise to do everything in my power.” Lucille took his hands in her own and gave him a smile that made his heart flutter. He almost blushed like a schoolboy, and had to sternly remind himself that he was speaking to a married woman. “Thank you so much, Alden!” Lucille exclaimed. “I truly cannot tell you how much this means to me!” When Alden returned home that evening, he was gratified to see that the light was still on in Mrs. Tatter’s office. Olga Tatter was his business manager, and without her keen insight into the world of commerce and uncanny ability to haggle with even the stingiest supplier, the tinctury would have gone out of business long ago. Together with young Elisabeth Oxley, who handled deliveries and minded the shop during open hours, they made up the entire staff of Stowe’s Tinctures. Making his way up the stairs, he briefly dipped into his own little apartment to divest himself of his coat, hat and scarf. He then turned to the small mirror hanging next to the hat stand to smooth out his short black hair and make sure his clothing didn’t appear too rumpled. After all, it wouldn’t do to appear dishevelled when talking to his employees. Re-emerging into the hallway, he knocked on the door to Mrs. Tatter’s office. He heard a shuffle of papers as the woman put away whatever she was currently working on, then she called on him to come in. Mrs. Tatter’s office was fastidiously neat and tidy as always, with all the paperwork neatly arranged on the large if cheap desk or properly filed in one of the many large cabinets that lined the space. Mrs. Tatter herself was much the same. Her clothing was always clean, crisp and matronly, and she wore her grey hair in a tight bun held together with undecorated hairpins of gleaming steel. A pair of steel-rimmed half-moon spectacles perched at the end of her nose, and her face seemed forever set into a severe, almost disapproving expression. “Mr. Stowe.” She said with a small nod. “Mrs. Tatter.” He replied. “All well?” “As well as can be expected, Mr. Stowe.” “Very good. Now, do you remember the young man who came here looking for work the other day? The one who had just graduated from Hallowdell?” “I do. You opined that the boy showed a great deal of promise and that you regretted lacking the funds to hire him.” “Would you happen to know if he’s still out of a job?” “As I hear it, he’s currently doing day-work as a laboratory assistant at the University of Oxford.” “Perfect. The pay they give day-workers at the university is utter rubbish. Call him in, and tell him that I wish to offer him a temporary position. He’ll be taking over all my duties for the immediate future, save for any he feels are too complex for his skills. With his education and some guidance from yourself and young Elisabeth, I’m sure he’ll get the hang of things in no time. His pay will be one pound daily until such time as I can return to my usual duties.” Mrs. Tatter raised an eyebrow slightly. “That’s as high as my own wages. How exactly are we going to afford this?” Alden pulled out three ten-pound coins and placed them down on the desk. He was somewhat gratified to see Mrs. Tatter’s facade break ever so briefly as a look of genuine surprise stole across her features. “This should pay for the first month. If I still haven’t returned to my regular duties by then, simply pay him out of the profits.” “This really is very peculiar, Mr. Stowe.” “Nothing odd about it, Mrs. Tatter. I was recently commissioned to work on a private project for a wealthy customer. It pays very well, but it will leave me little time for my regular duties. I’m sure I can trust you to make the appropriate arrangements.” “Of course, Mr. Stowe. But…” “Capital! I want the young man here first thing tomorrow morning so I can show him around the workshop before I leave to work on this commission. Please see to it.” Mrs. Tatter briefly seemed to consider questioning him further on the matter, but then simply nodded. “I will see to it, Mr. Stowe.” That night as Alden prepared for bed, his mind was awhirl with thoughts. He replayed his meeting with the Darling Lucille Baines over and over again, the conversation running through his head until he was thoroughly sick of it. Something about the facts he had been presented with struck him as being slightly off, but he couldn’t figure out what it was. Again and again the exchange of words played across his tired brain. It was almost like an obsession, and yet part of him could hardly accept that it was real. But every time he started to doubt the veracity of his own memory, he opened up the leather pouch and looked at the seven golden coins gleaming within it. It was real. And he couldn’t decide if that was a good thing or not. He certainly wasn’t a trained detective, nor any sort of expert on law-breaking and skulduggery. He hadn’t even started his task, and he already felt out of his depth. But he had promised Lucille that he would do his very best to help her, and he wasn’t the sort of knavish boor who would go back on his solemn word. Especially not when he was being offered five pounds a day for keeping it.