The House That Jack Built by Robert Asprin & Linda Evans

“My card,” Skeeter handed over the first of several dozen Spaldergate’s staff had run off for him the previous night, “if anything should turn up.”

“Deeply obliged, sir,” the clerk said earnesly, “for the warning. I’ll keep your card right here in the cash drawer.”

Skeeter tipped his hat as Margo thanked the clerk, then they headed for the next shop. And the one after that, moving from street to street, until Skeeter’s feet ached and his throat burned and the skies poured miserable, sooty rain down their collars. He and Margo hastily opened thick umbrellas against the downpour and checked the time on Skeeter’s pocket watch.

“One o’clock. No wonder my feet are killing me.”

“And my stomach’s about to have a close encounter with my spine,” Margo said ruefully. “Let’s find something to eat, then keep searching.”

The afternoon was no more profitable than the morning had been, just wetter. By the time Margo admitted they’d struck out, the sun was already below the rooftops and the chilly evening wind was biting through Skeeter’s overcoat.

“I’m afraid there’s not much more we can do today,” Margo sighed.

“Maybe someone else found something?”

“They would’ve contacted us,” she said with a slight shake of her head. “Let’s get back to Spaldergate. We’ll cross check with everyone else and come up with a new plan of attack for tomorrow.”

“My feet aren’t even going to speak to me by tomorrow,” Skeeter groaned, flagging down a ratty-looking hansom cab.

The two-wheeled, open carriage slithered to a halt at the kerbside. “Battersea,” Margo called up as Skeeter handed her into the cab, “and I’ve consulted Mogg’s!”