It was late in the evening - as indicated by the clocks in the Lower Realms - by the time I was released from police station. I wasn't under arrest, it was made clear - despite Tewel's uncharacteristic outburst - I was just "helping the police with their enquiries".

In the interim, I had told Tewel and his colleagues everything that had transpired, omitting nothing factual from my account. There was little enough to it, in any case. I described Lady Strowan's briefing to me, and her insightful comments, and her vivacious - if vicarious - entertainment later in the evening. But I kept my private theories and inferences to myself. I doubted Tewel would be interested and, in any case, there was nothing in my suspicions which would stand up in a court of law.

After an hour or two of questioning, and a similar amount of time hanging around, Tewel seemed grudgingly convinced that I was telling the truth, although there was no explanation why he was so obviously emotionally involved with the case. In the meantime, I was presented with a cup of preternaturally disgusting coffee - I drank it anyway - and was allowed to smoke my own cigarettes. Sometimes the busy days just fly by.

The streets were quiet and dark as I made my way through the tunnels and caverns and transit tubes to my apartment. As a matter of course, I adopted one of several tortuous routes, all of which I knew well and gave me plenty of opportunity to spot anybody who might be attempting to follow me.

Which was just as well, since I felt the presence of a tail as soon as I left the precinct station. It was all an autonomous reaction. For a great many decades I have cultivated a sort of tame paranoia, an outlook that keeps looking over my shoulder and inspecting the shadows around me with almost no involvement of the rest of my mind. Now, my resident subconscious agent was ringing alarm bells and sounding klaxons in a way entirely impossible to ignore.

Whoever it was following me around, they were not particularly skilled, although good enough for me to be unable to catch anything more than a glimpse of their face in the distance. I dodged around a few corners, took a few detours through crowded shops and deserted alleys, and soon managed to shake them off. Of course that didn't answer the question why somebody thought it worthwhile to tail me. After all, my office is in the phone book and the street directory, and my apartment is not exactly hidden - although it does have a few protections I'll not go into right now.

The following morning, I was up early and out-and-about shortly afterwards. I took a leisurely detour via David's diner for the substantial breakfast which I felt I deserved after missing so many meals yesterday. Without asking, David brought me a newspaper. There was nothing inside on the death of Lady Strowan Westwood. The cops must still be keeping it under wraps for the moment. Made sense, I supposed.

Finally satiated and fortified with several cups of David's breakfast coffee - which probably counts as a biochemical hazard in large quantities - I closed the newspaper, paid the check and tugged on my hat. I strolled the boulevards and sidewalks, and then took a crowded transit tube. Nobody on my tail this morning, it seemed.

I arrived in my own office only a little after the time most people would regard as the start of office hours. Quite early for me, really. I had barely settled down in the squeaky swivel chair behind the desk to sort through this morning's influx of mail - the usual bills and circulars - when the phone rang. I picked up the receiver and pressed it to my ear.

"Good morning, sir," came the measured and cultured tones of Tibbermore, "I trust I find you in good health?"

"I'm fine," I replied, carefully casual, "What can I do for you?"

"I wonder, sir, if you would be able to come over to Lady Strowan's house, this morning?"

I hesitated for a moment.

"Well, my diary is free," I said uncertainly, "But aren't there too many cops still hanging around?"

"There are still a great many police in the house," he agreed, "Does that present a problem?"

"Well, perhaps not," I suggested, "But it might make it very difficult to have a private conversation. That is what you want, isn't it?"

"Yes, sir. Very well, sir," he intoned, "Would it be possible instead to call by your offices? In perhaps one hour's time?"

"Much better," I said, "I'm sure you know where it is. I'll be waiting for you."

"Yes, sir. Thank you, sir."

Tibbermore rang off. Somehow I suspected that the old retainer would be absolutely punctual, to the minute.

I lit a cigarette, then dealt with the junk mail - the work of a few moments. I sorted through the unpaid bills, wondering which ones were worthy of the attentions of the modest margin that remained of my overdraft limit. I also found the report I promised to delay sending to my other client. I picked it up, stared at it for a while, then put it back in the drawer. Another twenty-four hour respite would seem to be in order.

On the dot of the appointed hour, there was a polite knock on the dusty glass of the door.

"Come in, Tibbermore," I called, not bothering to get up from behind the desk.

The old retainer entered as softly as he had entered her Ladyship’s dining room and closed the door carefully behind him.

"Take a seat," I suggested, waving casually at the battered chairs on the client side of the desk.

"I prefer to stand, sir, if it's all the same to you."

I shrugged.

"Suit yourself. So what was it you wanted to talk about?"

"There are two items of business which I am directed to discuss with you."

Tibbermore produced a cheque from an inside pocket and placed in carefully on the desk. I studied it carefully. It was made out to Findo Gask, Private Investigator, in the sum of thirty-five dollars - a single day's retainer and some reasonable expenses, I judged. Payee and amount were inscribed in a firm clear hand, in complete contrast to the signature itself, which was weak and spidery.

"You filled in the cheque as instructed by her Ladyship?"

"I did, sir," he replied, sounding faintly surprised, "Or, more precisely, I followed her ladyship's previous instructions to do so. I trust this is satisfactory to cover your fees for yesterday?"

I shrugged again. I had tracked down Mayfield on the surface, and she had returned to the Lower Realms just as Lady Strowan wanted. It was hardly my fault that the police, and Tarsapple's pirate crew, had taken an interest.

"Yes, yes," I replied, "That's fine. I'll consider the account closed. And the other item of business?"

Tibbermore drew a second cheque from his pocket and placed it on the desk next to the other one. It was drawn on a different bank, although the payee and amount were made out in the same hand as the first cheque. It was a quite different signature. This cheque too was made out to Findo Gask, PI. The amount was one hundred dollars only.

"What's this for?" I said, frowning up at the butler.

"It is a retainer, sir. I wish to engage your professional services," Tibbermore said calmly, "On my own account."

My frowned deepened.

"Okay. But what do you want me to do?"

For the first time, a tinge of emotion appeared in the old retainer's voice.

"I want you to find her Ladyship's killer," he said, his eyes boring into mine, "Find them and bring them to justice."

Part 21

Part 23