And he left the room. They heard him thump the door farther on down the corridor and a cry as he took out his rage on a subordinate.

“Are we done?” asked Jack.

Briggs and Bestbeloved exchanged another nervous glance. If Jack was capable of talking like that to Chymes, he was capable of anything.

“I will return when I have conducted further investigations,” announced Bestbeloved hurriedly, “and I may be some time.”

He ejected both tapes, threw them in his bag and left without another word.

“Well, Jack,” said Briggs when they were alone, “you really enjoyed that, didn’t you?”

“Friedland’s a jerk who’s become obsessed with circulation figures.”

“No,” retorted Briggs, “Friedland’s a jerk with power and influence. I hope you know what you’re doing. As far as he’s concerned, I’m now in your camp.”

“So?”

Briggs shrugged. “I just hoped he’d write me into his stories so I could do the rounds of the Friedland Chymes conventions. Watson did almost nothing else when Sherlock retired—made him a fortune. Still, I don’t think there’s much chance of that now.”

Jack relaxed. He had every reason to dislike Briggs, but he didn’t. He wasn’t bad, just weak.

“If I ever make it to the Guild, I’ll include you in my stories.”

Briggs seemed to cheer up at this. He’d wanted to be like Fried-land Chymes for years—yet now he was thinking he’d prefer to be like Spratt. A bit down at heel and almost invisible locked away at the NCD—but honest.

“If you do,” said Briggs, a glint in his eye, “will I get to suspend you at least once in every adventure?”

“Of course.”

“And should I change my name to Föngotskilérnie?”

Jack smiled and patted him on the shoulder. “Briggs will be fine.”