It was personal, too, Lenox’s pursuit of Barnard, for two reasons. First, he had sent his thugs (he worked with an East End group called the Hammer Gang, who provided him with muscle) to beat half the life out of Lenox; second, and more irrationally, Barnard had proposed marriage to Lady Jane. Ever since she had rejected him and taken Lenox, Barnard had been scornful of Lady Jane, which was more than Lenox could take.

In all this time, though, he had been careful to keep his hatred of the man to himself, to greet Barnard with cordiality, never to let on what he knew.

“George, how do you do?” he said, shaking hands.

“Not badly, Lenox, not badly. There, thanks,” he said, handing a footman his overcoat. “A lovely party with a lovely hostess, isn’t it? How is Jane?”

Lenox didn’t like the sneer on Barnard’s face. “Very well, thank you.”

“Good, excellent. I admire her greatly, you know, for looking past your… profession. Or would you call it a hobby?”

“How are your days occupied now, Barnard?” asked Lenox, in a tone that even he recognized was barely civil.

Barnard wouldn’t let go of the subject. “Fine, fine,” he said, “but you-are you looking into these murders at the newspapers? It’s a great shame about, what are they called, Win Carruthers and Simon Pierce.”

“Did you know them?”

“Oh, no, of course not. Vulgar chaps, no doubt, but we mustn’t allow anarchy. Are you looking into it?”

“I’m running for Parliament soon, actually. Everything has fallen behind that priority in my life, I’m afraid.”

Barnard looked bilious at this and only said in response, “Ah-I see Terence Flood, I must speak to him.”