Pax Britannia: Human Nature by Jonathan Green

looked around him, at the maze of side-streets, alleyways and dead-ends he now found himself in. This was the Magpie's territory. In the time it would take him to find his way back to a main thoroughfare - any thoroughfare that he could at least read the name of - his quarry would be long gone.
    Yet despite the throbbing hurt of his hands and wrist, and all the other injuries he had sustained in his pursuit of the Magpie, a dark smile spread across Ulysses' face, as something clicked inside his head. The thrill of the chase was all, and the chase wasn't over yet.
    Extracting his personal communicator from a coat pocket, he began to key in a number.

Chapter Eight
     
    The Game is Afoot
     
    The cab pulled up outside the Bloomsbury residence with a screech, tyres skidding on the wet leaves clogging the gutter. A door flew open and Ulysses Quicksilver bundled out of the vehicle, quickly followed by his manservant Nimrod.
    The street lamps were dim at this late hour - or should it have been classed as early now, Ulysses wondered - and there was no one else around in this part of town, although not so far away the city was as alive and awake as ever.
    Ulysses looked up at the imposing facade in front of him. This is the place , he thought as he read the name on the brass plate beside the grand columned entrance. And there was a light burning in one of the windows on the first floor.
    It had taken him a good half an hour to find his way out of the maze of rookery rat-runs and be reunited with his manservant, who by that point had already managed to procure them a cab to carry them out of Whitechapel. The journey to Bloomsbury had not taken long, but had given Ulysses enough time to order his thoughts and decide on the best course of action to follow next. And that was to not waste time beating about the bush.
    He felt for the reassuring presence of the sword-cane currently tucked into the belt of his trousers.
    Taking the steps to the front door two at a time, Ulysses went to ring the door bell. He winced in pain, almost crying out, as he tried to close his ruined fingers around the bell-pull and withdrew his hand sharply.
    "Let me, sir," Nimrod said stepping past Ulysses.
    A bell clattered and jangled noisily somewhere within the dark house.
    "Come on!" Ulysses hissed impatiently, his foot tapping on the step as he listened for any sign of someone coming to answer the door. "Ring it again," he ordered. "And if they don't answer this time, we're breaking the door down!"
    Nimrod tugged sharply on the bell-pull again. A renewed jangling disturbed the peace of this exclusive address once more.
    As the ringing died away, Ulysses heard the tap-tap - tapping of leather soles on floor tiles. A few seconds later the front door opened and a scowling face greeted them, peering gargoyle-like from the gloom beyond.
    "Do you know what time it is, sir?" the face demanded crossly.
    Ulysses made a show of taking out his pocket watch. "As it happens, I do," he said. "Half past one, as you're asking. And that is relevant, why?"
    "Mr Wraith is not used to receiving guests in the middle of the night, sir!" the butler said with some vehemence.
    Awkwardly, using his left hand, Ulysses extracted the leather cardholder from his jacket pocket and flipped it open. The butler scanned the details so presented.
    "Mr Quicksilver," he said, maintaining the same disapproving tone - like a schoolmaster giving a misbehaving pupil a dressing down - "Mr Wraith is not receiving guests at this hour."
    Ulysses was taken aback. He was not used to people challenging the authority referred to on his Department ID, not unless he was already wrestling them on top of a train or negotiating with the use of extreme force.
    "Oh, I see. That authority not good enough for you, eh? Then try this. Nimrod?"
    Ulysses stepped aside, Nimrod forcing his way past the threshold.
    "I must protest!" the butler spluttered, his carefully created demeanour of arrogant correctitude crumbling in