That problem did not afflict the despicable Inspector Charles Frederick Field. “There’s no reason you should know Miss R—,” he said. “She’s a poor serving girl—domestic service and hostelry, to hear her poor parents tell of it, sir, and they are poor, both in finances and emotion these days. Both parents are illiterate. They’re from Winterton, sir. Her father’s male ancestors had served in the herring fleet out of Yarmouth for a century or more, but it seems that Martha’s father made do with other odd jobs around Winterton while Martha, who left home two years ago at the age of sixteen, worked in local hotels.”

I could only stare at Field and force down nausea.

“Do you know Winterton, sir?” asked the despicable man.

“No,” I managed. “I don’t believe I do.”

“Yet you took an extended holiday up Yarmouth’s way just a year ago this summer, is that not true, Mr Collins?”

“Not a holiday,” I said.

“What was that, sir? I could not quite understand you. The cigar smoke affecting your voice, perhaps?”

“It was not a holiday, as such,” I said and walked back to my desk but did not sit. Using all ten splayed and quavering fingers, I leaned forward and supported my weight against the top of that ink-splattered desk. “It was research,” I added.

“Research, sir? Oh… for one of your novels.”

“Yes,” I said. For my current novel, Armadale, I needed to research some coastal waters and landscapes and such.”

“Ah, yes… to be certain.” The despised man’s finger patted his own chest and then pointed towards mine. Patted, pointed. “I have read some of your book, this Armadale, which is currently being serialised in The Cornhill Magazine, if I am not mistaken. There is a fictional Hurle Mere in your tale that sounds very much like the real Horsey Mere, which can be reached by sea from Yarmouth or by taking a road north from Winterton, can it not, sir?”

I said nothing for a minute. Then I said, “I enjoy sailing, Inspector. My research was part holiday, after all, to tell the full truth. I went north with two good friends of my brother, Charles.… They also enjoy sailing.”

“I see.” The inspector nodded, his eyes moist and unreadable. “Telling the full truth is always a good idea, is my opinion. It avoids so many later problems if one starts with the full truth. Could those friends have been a Mr Edward Piggot and a Mr Charles Ward, sir?”

I was beyond surprise. This creature with the moist eyes and corpulent forefinger appeared to be more omniscient than any narrator in any tale written by me, by Dickens, by Chaucer, by Shakespeare, or by any other mortal writer. And more evil than any villain created by any of us, Iago included. I continued to lean on my desk as my splayed fingers turned white with pressure and I continued to listen.

“Miss Martha R— turned eighteen last summer, Mr Collins. Her family believes that she met a man last year, last July to be precise, either at the Fisherman’s Return in Winterton itself or in the hotel in Yarmouth where she was then working as a maid.” He stopped. His forefinger tapped at the dead cigar in the brass tray as if his finger alone could breathe its embers back to life. I was almost surprised that it did not succeed.

I took a breath. “Are you telling me that this… this Miss R—… is missing, Inspector? Or murdered? Presumed dead by her family and the authorities in Winterton or Yarmouth?”

The man laughed. “Oh, bless me, no, sir. Not at all. Nothing like that. They’ve all seen young Martha, on and off, since she reported meeting this ‘nice gentleman’ last summer. But she has gone missing in a way, sir.”

“Oh?”

“Yes. This summer, this June to be precise, when the ‘nice gentleman’ appears by all accounts to have made yet another short trip to Yarmouth, perhaps as part of his work, Martha R— seems to have disappeared for a while from Winterton and Yarmouth but, if such unofficial reports are to be believed, to have made an appearance here in London.”

“Really?” I said. I had never fired the huge two-barrelled pistol that Detective Hatchery had given me. After uncocking the massive thing, I had carried it up and out of the levels of sewers and catacombs with me and—in our tremendous relief in finding Hatchery waiting for us despite the late hour and obvious sunshine outside the crypt—given it back to the hulking detective. I wished now that I had kept the weapon.

“Yes,” said Inspector Field. “Rumour has it that the nineteen-year-old domestic servant from Winterton is currently staying in a rented room on Bolsover Street—the elderly landlady lives there as well, although I am told that lodgers have a separate entrance to their rooms. I think I am not mistaken in saying that Bolsover Street is not so great a walk from where we stand now, in Melcombe Place near Dorset Square.”

“You are not mistaken,” I said. If voices could be said to have colours, mine was absolutely colourless.

“And I believe I am not mistaken if I say that Mrs Caroline G—, with whom you have lived in a condition very similar to man and wife, if I may say so, although without society’s and God’s blessings as such, for a period of almost ten years now, nor her daughter, Miss Harriet G—, whom you treat very honourably and generously, as if she were your own child, know of the existence of Miss Martha R—, formerly a hotel maid-servant in Yarmouth and currently a lodger on Bolsover Street, much less the role Miss R— currently plays in your life.”

“Yes,” I said. “I mean, no.”

“And I also believe I am not mistaken, Mr Collins, if I were to say that it would not be in your interest or in the interest of the two ladies who live under this roof with you were this knowledge to become known… to them or to anyone else.”

“You are not mistaken.”

“Good, good,” said Inspector Field. He picked up his top hat but made no move to leave. “I dislike being mistaken about things, Mr Collins.”

I nodded. My legs suddenly felt too weak to support me.

“Would you by any chance be planning to go see Mr Dickens soon, sir?” asked the detective, spinning his top hat while tapping its brim with his accursed forefinger. “And, in the course of your visit, have an opportunity to speak with him about his possible meeting with the personage called Drood in the Undertown tunnels some two months ago?”

“Yes,” I said and sat down.

“And do we have an understanding, sir, that such information as you elicit from Mr Dickens will be shared with me as soon as is humanly possible?”

I nodded again.

“Very good, sir. There will be a boy waiting on your street, Mr Collins. Just a street urchin—a crossing sweeper named Gooseberry—although you needn’t hunt for him, sir. He has been directed to watch for you. If you tap the lamp post at the corner with your stick or an umbrella, the lad will make himself known to you. Day or night, sir. He will wait as long as needs be. The local constable has agreed not to ‘move him along,’ as we men on the beat tend to say. Send any message you might have for me, verbal or written, along with Gooseberry and I will be in touch with you immediately. I will consider such information a huge favour, Mr Collins. Ask anyone in London if Inspector Charles Frederick Field ever forgets a favour and you will hear that he does not. Is all that clear, sir?”

“Yes.”

When I looked up, Inspector Field was gone. I could hear Caroline closing the door behind him downstairs and I could hear her footsteps on the main stairs.

Nothing of the inspector remained behind except for the pall of blue smoke near the ceiling in my study.