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needs beefing up. Our jute consignments, as well.’
    The barouche hurtled along until they reached the Isle of Dogs, where they got out of the carriage and fell into a great hubbub of screaming and shouting. All around Ashby was a wall of sound and a swell of multicoloured people, to which the Duke of Monreith paid no notice, using a cane to part the wave, Moses-like. Ashby followed and at last the two men reached the warehouse door of the Machars Trading Company.
    Ashby looked up at the mighty stag, the company’s emblem, cast in weather-beaten iron, bellowing at nothing. Inside the building, Monreith’s arrival was like that of a king. More men, who looked exactly like Ashby, ran forward to greet the Duke. Monreith marched forward as if into battle, deaf to the chatter all about him, through the vast warehouse, where all the wares bore the proud announcement ‘Made in Great Britain by the Machars Trading Company’, including a nod to the Duke’s Scottish heritage – bottles and bottles of single malt.
    ‘Business is booming, sir. We can hardly keep pace,’ said one worn-out-looking clerk.
    ‘Give the ledger to Mr Ashby.’ Monreith was direct and to the point. The Duke paid an active interest in the profit line, but the rest ran itself, to way back when Monreith traded in other things, no longer permitted. But Monreith had said his piece on that. He had talked till The House had groaned from his endless rationales about the benefits of the slave trade, till it had yawned wide open at his arguments. That battle was long since lost. But there were other fights he could take on.
    ‘Did you get the Hooker paper, Ashby?’
    Ashby paled, studying the ledger. Monreith took out his snuffbox, unperturbed, just pleased to listen to himself. ‘I am sick of those collectors and their so-called theorising, with their reckless ideas about how the world was made. Starting with that rag, Vestiges . So ashamed was the author, such a coward, that he wouldn’t even put his name to it. Calling into question as it did the very existence of God. And I hear the sound of the botanical’s geological hammers knocking in my head, knowing it is the death knell of everything we know. And let me tell you that it’s getting worse. There are more of these botanicals every day, it seems.’ The Duke took a snort of his snuff. ‘Even women, dammit. But I’ll soon put a stop to it.’ The Duke sneezed and put his snuffbox back in his pocket.
    Ashby handed the ledger back. ‘Everything is in order, sir. You are on track to make an excellent profit, and it’s the whisky, I believe, that’s making the difference. It seems to be very popular, especially with our eastern customers. May I be so bold as to suggest you could perhaps refer to this in your speech, tonight?’
    ‘If you say so, Ashby.’ Monreith was distracted because the clock on the wall told him it was getting late and he had another place to go.
    ‘Come along. It’s gone five. My barouche will drop you at The Strand. I’m going to a bookshop on Millford Lane and then perhaps to Clunns for an early supper, but I’ll be back in good time for my speech. Hopefully, if all goes well, which it should at The Lords, we’ll be finished by midnight. In fact, I’m rather looking forward to it. There will be no opposition and no radicals there to contend with. It’ll be home from home.’
    The barouche took off and Ashby was dropped at the far end towards The Aldwych. Ashby braced himself against the chilly air as he stood in a flurry of snow and watched the Duke’s barouche heading down Millford Lane. He lowered his head and walked on.

THREE
     
     
     

SMITHFIELD
     
    Earlier that day, in the eastern part of the city, Hatton had started his morning with no coffee and no respite. Two constables and some ad hoc mortuary assistants loitered in the putrid stink of the embalming fluid. The ripe mixture of various preservatives barely disguised the faecal matter and vomit which was