He found the tailor at nine o'clock. He spoke personally to Mr.

Jiggs of Jiggs & Muldrew, a rotund man who needed all his own art to disguise his ample stomach and rather short legs.

"What may I do for you, sir?" he said with some distaste as he saw the parcel under Evan's arm. He disapproved of gentlemen who bundled up clothes. It was no way to treat a highly skilled piece of workmanship.

Evan had no time or mood for catering to anyone's sensitivities.

"Do you have a client by the name of R. Duff, Mr. Jiggs?" he asked bluntly.

"My client list is a matter of confidence, sir…”

"This is a case of murder," Evan snapped, sounding more like Monk than his own usually soft-spoken manner. "The owner of this suit is lying at death's door in St. Thomas's. Another man, also wearing a suit with your label in it, is in the morgue. I do not know who they are… other than this…" He ignored Jiggs's pasty face and wide eyes.

"If you can tell me, then I demand that you do so." He spilled out the jacket on to the tailor's table.

Jiggs started backwards as if it had been alive and dangerous.

"Will you look at it, please," Evan commanded.

"Oh my God!" Mr. Jiggs put a clammy hand to his brow. "Whatever happened?”

"I don't know yet," Evan answered a trifle more gently. "Will you please look at that jacket and tell me if you know for whom you made it?”

"Yes. Yes, of course. I always know my gentlemen, sir." Gingerly Mr.

Jiggs unfolded the coat only sufficiently to see his own label. He glanced at it, touched the cloth with his forefinger, then looked at Evan. "I made that suit for young Mr. Rhys Duff, of Ebury Street, sir." He looked extremely pale. "I am very sorry indeed that he seems to have met with a disaster. It truly grieves me, sir.”