I RENDEZVOUSED WITH Dickens at the c**k and Egg shortly past one that afternoon, where we shared some mulled cider and traded information. He’d been most saddened (and not a little bit alarmed) by the news of the attack on Mr. Guilfoyle, and curious indeed at the showman-like nature of the killer.
“One could hardly just blend into a crowd dressed like that, now could one?” he jibed, smiling as he sipped at his flagon. But his hand still trembled despite his brave and dismissive tone.
“They’re calling the masked figure ‘Humbug’ now,” I added. “Ghastly. I didn’t credit Guilfoyle’s ravings, but it turns out . . .”
Dickens grunted, swallowed, and waited for me to toss a few coins on the table before we headed into the chill and back to the East India Trade Company’s offices. “Poor Miss Owen
