. . . which was a mistake on her part, because two men were following her. They paused when she paused, and moved again when she moved. Both of them were burly types in bowler hats, with spotted kerchiefs wound round their necks – a flash of red against dark clothing. Both gave off an air of menace, the sort that made others get out of their way.

As Irene watched their progress, she realized where she’d seen them before. She knew who those two were – or rather, what they were. This could be useful.

Then Catherine turned into the side street Irene had been watching. The two men glanced at each other and quickened their pace.

Just as Irene had expected. One of the buildings in that alley housed Kenneth and Ruthcomb, a ‘bookhound’ agency. They tracked down rare books – whether for sale or not, by means fair and foul – and offered their services to anyone who could pay their rates. They’d been the first step in the chain that had taken Irene to Guernsey. As both she and Catherine had diagnosed, they were the logical source of that information leak – whether they’d done so maliciously or otherwise.

Pragmatism warred with concern as Irene paid for her tea, then followed Catherine in turn. She didn’t want to use Catherine as bait, but these mysterious followers were the first real lead she’d found so far.

Catherine had wanted to make herself useful. Being a student was all about learning experiences.

She followed at a discreet distance. Fortunately there were enough people around for her to merge with the crowd, and the two men didn’t notice her. As expected, Catherine headed directly towards the agency. Irene hung back long enough to watch the two men follow her apprentice before entering the building herself, using the Language to silence the doorbell. A narrow, musty hallway led to a flight of stairs that ran up to the first-floor landing.

Catherine paused there, about to knock on the bookhounds’ office door, when she noticed the two men closing in. ‘Is there some reason you two are following me?’ she demanded. ‘Because I have business here.’

‘Your business is with us now,’ the larger man said. ‘You’re Catherine, aren’t you?’

‘Of course not,’ Catherine said quickly, failing to suppress a betraying start.

The office door opened, and a bespectacled man glanced round it. He saw the confrontation in progress and quickly shut the door again.

‘Now we can do this the easy way,’ the smaller man said, ‘or we can do this the hard way. Either way, you’re coming with us.’

‘Don’t be so silly,’ Catherine said contemptuously. ‘You can’t just drag me through the streets in broad daylight like that. This is London. It’s a civilized city.’

‘There’s lots of ways round that,’ the larger man said, his right hand clenching.

Irene decided it was time to step in. ‘Gentlemen, I’m sure there’s no need for that,’ she said, stepping out of the shadows and looking up the stairs.

‘You don’t want to get involved, miss,’ the larger man said. ‘Just turn around and walk away.’

‘Young man, I’m a teacher back at home, and when I see some poor girl being lured into sin—’

‘You’ve got it wrong, miss,’ the smaller man said, hastily changing his approach. ‘This young madam here’s run away from her family. Took all the family money, she did. Broke her poor mother’s heart.’

‘I didn’t!’ Catherine said indignantly. Funnily enough, she didn’t seem to have recognized Irene either. ‘These men are lying!’

‘Right, that’s enough.’ The bigger man grabbed her arm and began hauling her towards the stairs, ignoring her attempts to pummel him. ‘Stop that messing around, or I’ll clout you one.’

The smaller man trotted down the stairs towards Irene, trying to smile in a friendly way. ‘We’ve got this under control, miss, so you can leave her to us.’ Get out of the way or you’ll get hurt, was the unspoken message.

Irene plucked a heavy umbrella from the hatstand beside the door, swinging it to get a feel for its weight. ‘On the contrary,’ she said, her voice sharpening. ‘You’ll release the girl.’

Catherine gasped in belated recognition and Irene sighed. They’d definitely have words after this. But the two men didn’t make the connection. ‘Fred, deal with her,’ the larger man ordered.

‘Shoes, slip,’ Irene said.

It was unfortunate for the smaller man that he was still heading down the stairs. His shoes lost their grip on the boards and slid out from under him, and he crashed headlong down the stairwell. Irene placed the metal tip of her umbrella in the hollow of his throat.

‘I know what you are,’ she said. She looked at the bigger man, who had a firm grip on the struggling Catherine. Like her, he’d been stationary when she’d used the Language, so he’d been unaffected. A pity. ‘You’re both werewolves. Are you in the London Underground pack? The one that follows Mr Dawkins?’

‘How come you know the boss?’ the one on the floor whimpered, trying to avoid the umbrella’s cold tip. Silver might have a permanent effect on werewolves, but other physical objects could still do damage.

‘Because we’ve met,’ Irene said. She met the eyes of the larger man. ‘I think he’ll understand if I dispose of you two.’

There were too many teeth in the man’s mouth as he grinned at her. ‘I’m getting the feeling you’re not a teacher.’

‘I’ve had many jobs,’ Irene said. ‘Who sent you to grab the girl?’

The back of her mind was processing this information. If Mr Dawkins was knowingly involved in the assassination attempts, London’s werewolves would be an active force in this fight. It wasn’t just their lethality which worried Irene – it was their ability to track people. It’d be much harder to hide if the werewolves were on their tail.

‘None of your business who sent us,’ the larger man snarled. ‘Now move. If you were going to stab Fred, you’d have done it already.’

Threats clearly wouldn’t work here. Irene mentally sighed and went for her trusty second option. ‘You perceive that I’m someone Mr Dawkins trusts,’ she said, before adding, ‘I think we’ve been sent on the same errand. I’m here for the girl too.’

The man at her feet blinked. ‘You are?’

‘I am.’ Irene removed the umbrella from his throat. ‘They’ve changed the drop-off. I’m supposed to hand her over at the east entrance of King’s Cross station. Or did you get told that too?’

The sharp teeth receded within the larger man’s mouth, and his face looked normal again. ‘Nah, we were told Flower and Dean Street in Spitalfields, at the Crown and Anchor pub. Why the change?’

Irene kept her face impassive, but inwardly she winced. Spitalfields was one of the nastier parts of London. It was where Jack the Ripper operated in some alternate worlds – though not this one, thank goodness – and was the sort of place where policemen went around in pairs because it wasn’t safe alone. ‘I think they want to get her out of London,’ she invented. ‘It’s too risky to keep her here.’

Both men snorted with suppressed laughter. ‘Even Peregrine Vale’s not going to find her if the Professor puts her away,’ Fred said.