Secret Service Bureau HQ, London

Joe stood in the shade of a tree, across the cobbled square from the Secret Service Bureau. It wasn’t the easiest of places to watch and wait unseen – but luckily he’d had plenty of practice at that kind of thing. He’d learned to keep out of the way and out of trouble when he was just a kid on the streets of the East End – and while he’d been sleeping rough, he’d got clever at slipping about, steering clear of the coppers and the Baron’s Boys. You learned a fair bit about hiding in plain sight when your neck was on the line.

Now, he’d found the right place for what Billy would call a ‘stake-out’ – a dark corner by the wall, shaded by a tall tree, where he had a clear view of the entrance. But although he’d been waiting here for over two hours, there hadn’t yet been anything to see.

It was a dingy sort of day, and it had begun to drizzle. Joe stifled a yawn and leaned back against the tree. No doubt about it, standing around waiting in the rain was dull. If Billy had been here, he’d probably have brought something to read, but Joe had never been much of a reader – until a year or two ago, he hadn’t known how. Besides, he couldn’t afford to be distracted, he reminded himself. You had to keep your wits about you on a job like this.

He’d been pondering what to do ever since Forsyth and Brooks had paid their visit to the Taylor & Rose office that morning. This wasn’t much of a plan – but it was better than nothing. There had been something fishy about their visit, and especially the way that fellow, Brooks, had acted. The only thing he could think was that he should watch for him at the Bureau and try and tail him, to see where he went and what he did.

He knew exactly where the Bureau was, of course. He’d been there plenty of times before, driving Sophie or Lil to one of their meetings with the Chief. But he’d never been inside himself. Looking up at the big stone building now, he felt a prickle of discomfort. Places like this made him feel all wrong – they weren’t meant for fellows like him, but for chaps like Captain Forsyth. The swaggering sort, who were used to having money in their pocket, and telling people what to do, who’d never even come close to sleeping on the streets or begging for their dinner.

But now, it struck him suddenly that he’d got used to having a bit of money in his pocket too. It was a long time since he’d had to sleep rough. No question about it: his life had changed completely in the last few years. Now, just occasionally, he found himself dreaming of what might come next.

They weren’t very grand dreams, but he found them exciting, just the same. Sometimes he’d imagine himself rising through the ranks at Sinclair’s, until one day Mr Sinclair would put him in charge of the stables. He’d have dozens of fine horses under his care, and all of the stable lads would look up to him and call him ‘sir’. Other times, he’d picture himself having a house of his own – not a big fancy place, but a cosy little house, something like the Lims’ place out in Limehouse, or perhaps like the house where Billy lived with his mum on the other side of the river. Sometimes, he’d even wonder what it might be like to leave London altogether and live in the countryside. He had vague pictures in his head of a white-painted farmhouse, surrounded by green meadows full of buttercups, and a pond with ducks in it. There’d be woods, and fields, and a paddock for horses of his own.

Somehow, Lil had a habit of always popping up somewhere in this vision – not doing anything particular, just throwing sticks for Daisy (who, of course, would be there too), or feeding the horses apples and sugar lumps, or keeping him company, wandering through a field of buttercups. Stupid, really, he told himself now. As if a girl like her would ever want to rough it with him, on some country farm. She was made for London and glamour: she ought to always be on the stage, in a fancy frock, with the spotlight shining on her and everyone cheering. He’d always known that she could never really belong with a fellow like him. And yet . . . there’d been a moment on the station platform when they’d said goodbye – a split second, nothing more than that – when he’d almost thought that if he had kissed her, she might have kissed him back . . .

It was for Lil, really, that he was here. If there was something funny going on, if that fellow Brooks was up to something, then he needed to make sure she knew about it. He didn’t like the idea of her in St Petersburg, alone, with only that fellow Carruthers who he didn’t trust.

Just then, he straightened up suddenly, seeing that the door was opening at last. A man was coming briskly down the steps: his face was hidden by a large umbrella but the black raincoat he was wearing looked familiar. Was it Brooks?

Slipping quickly behind the trunk of the tree, Joe watched intently as the man stuck a large envelope inside his jacket, glanced at his watch, and then quickly walked on.

Joe slipped quietly after him, across the yard, under the archway and out into the street beyond. It was simple enough to shadow him through the narrow streets, and out on to the noisy clamour of the Strand. The rain was falling harder now, and no one was paying much attention to anything but getting inside. Joe wondered whether he might be headed to the ABC or one of the other cafés and eating-houses along the Strand – but instead, he cut down a little lane, going in the direction of the river.

Joe followed, careful to keep a good distance between them. A moment or two later, the man went through a gate into a small park, and Joe slipped after him, grateful for the cover of the trees.

The park was quiet after the hubbub of the Strand. There was no sound but the patter of rain on leaves, and almost no one there, besides an old man feeding the pigeons, and a woman pushing a baby in a large black perambulator. The man went briskly onwards, past them, his feet crunching over the gravel, and Joe followed, feeling more and more intrigued. He wished that the fellow would move the umbrella so he could see his face, and know for sure if it was Brooks – but instead, the man stopped abruptly in front of a bronze statue of some old fellow or other – bending down, as though to read the inscription on the plaque beneath it.

Joe stopped too, sheltered by a large evergreen bush. Peering between the wet leaves, he saw to his astonishment that the man was not merely reading the plaque as he had first thought. Instead he seemed to be slipping the large envelope he had been carrying beneath a loose stone at the base of the statue. A moment later, he had straightened up and was walking rapidly away, without looking back.

Joe stared after him, uncertain what to do next. On the one hand, he wanted very much to know what was inside that envelope; on the other, perhaps he ought to keep following. Then again, the man had obviously left that envelope for someone else to collect – and there was something about the way he’d walked so briskly, occasionally looking at his watch, that made Joe guess that he was working to a schedule. If so, if Joe went to look at the envelope now, he might risk being discovered by whoever was coming to pick it up. On the other hand, if he stayed back, watching and waiting, he might just be lucky enough to see whoever was coming to collect it.

Almost the moment that thought had crossed his mind, he heard footsteps approaching, and hurriedly squeezed further inside the evergreen bush, getting very damp in the process. Between the leaves, he saw that a woman was approaching: a rather smart woman in an expensive-looking tailor-made suit, carrying a green silk umbrella. She bent down beside the statue, as if she too was examining the plaque, but from his hiding place Joe could see her gloved fingers quickly lifting the loose stone and whisking out the envelope. She glanced at it quickly, and then dropped it into the handbag she carried, before getting to her feet, brushing off her gloves as though to whisk away even the faintest speck of dirt, and walking swiftly away again.

This time, Joe knew he must follow. Hastily, he squeezed out of the bush, and went after the woman, who was walking out of the park and straight back up towards the Strand. He dodged after her through the crowds, eager not to lose sight of her – pushing his way between the people as they headed along the Strand until they came to Fleet Street.

Here, he saw the woman walk up to a large, impressive red-brick building and go inside. Joe stared after her, in some surprise. He knew the place at once – apart from anything else there were great big gold letters running the length of the building, reading NORTON NEWSPAPERS and THE DAILY PICTURE. It was a newspaper office.

Joe rubbed his eyes for a moment, trying to make sense of what he’d just seen. Was it his imagination or had the man brought some kind of documents out of the Secret Service Bureau and passed them secretly to a woman who had taken them straight to the offices of one of London’s most important newspapers? Could it be part of one of the Bureau’s mysterious assignments – or was it possible that Brooks was leaking secret information to the press? Why would he do something like that – and if he was, what possible connection could that have to the peculiar visit he had paid to Taylor & Rose?

Omnibuses and motor-taxis rumbled past, and people pushed by on the pavement, but Joe stood still, eyeing the big building beside him. None of this made the least bit of sense, he thought, but he was becoming more certain by the minute that something very strange was going on at the Bureau. He put his hands in his pockets and walked through the rain back towards Sinclair’s, anxious thoughts buzzing in his ears.