Shotts was a realist. He liked Evan, but he knew he was the son of a parson and he made allowances.

"Maybe 'ejus died after the other one," he said gently. "E's 'urt pretty dreadful.”

"He's warm! And he's still breathing!" Evan insisted, bending closer.

"Have you called a doctor? Get an ambulance!”

Shotts shook his head. "You can't save 'im, Mr. Evan. "E's too far gorn. Kinder ter let 'im slip away now, without knowin' anything about it. I don't suppose 'e knows 'oo dun 'im anyway.”

Evan did not look up. "I wasn't thinking of what he could tell us," he replied, and it was the truth. "If he's alive we've got to do what we can. There's no choice to make. Find someone to fetch a doctor and an ambulance. Go now.”

Shotts hesitated, looking around the deserted alley.

"I'll be all right," Evan said abruptly. He was not sure. He did not wish to be alone in this place. He did not belong here. He was not one of these people as Shotts was. He was aware of fear, and wondered if it was audible in his voice.

Shotts obeyed reluctantly, leaving the bull's eye behind. Evan saw his solid form disappear around the corner and felt a moment's panic. He had nothing with which to defend himself if whoever had committed these murders returned.

But why should they? That idea was a fallacy. He knew better. He had been in the police long enough, in fact over five years, since 1855, halfway through the Crimean War. He remembered his first murder. That had been when he had met William Monk, the best policeman he knew, if also the most ruthless, the bravest, the most instinctively clever.

Evan was the only one who had realised also how vulnerable he was. He had lost his entire memory in a carriage accident, but of course he dared tell no one. He had no knowledge of who he was, what his skills were, his conflicts, his enemies or even his friends. He lived from one threat to another, clue after clue unfolding, and then meaning little or nothing, just fragments.