“Where does she live?” Blackwell demanded. McTavish shrugged. “Couldn’t say exactly. Somewhere off Fleet Street in the Bohemian sector, I think I heard.” Blackwell’s nostrils flared with increased breath, remaining silent for a moment too long before McTavish thought he heard him whisper. “All this time…” “Pardon?” “Nothing.” The Blackheart of Ben More seemed—shaken, for lack of a better word. McTavish couldn’t believe his eyes. “Here is for your services, and continued discretion.”
