"No." Reaching into his pocket, Lord Patrick put away the knife and pulled out a stack of banknotes. "I'm 'ere ta give ye huge amounts of money."

A second of silence ticked by.

Two seconds.

Three seconds.

"Huh?"

"I," Patrick reiterated, deciding to speak slowly and clearly to make certain his point got across, "am 'ere ta give ye huge amounts of money."

The man blinked rapidly, trying to adjust to the brand new situation.

"But...but...ain't ye from the Blackstreet Snakes?"

"Aye."

"Ain't dey got a hit out on me?" The fellow almost sounded disappointed, as if his lack of murderworthyness was a black mark on his reputation.

"Aye, dey do, but..." Lowering his voice, Patrick leaned closer. "I ain't supposed ta tell ye dis, but dat fearsome reputation dat da Blackstreet Snakes got? It's all just a sham. Really, the boss is a big softy. Wouldn't 'urt a fly."

The man blinked again. "A big...softy? Da boss of da Blackstreet Snakes?"

"Shhh! Not so loud! It's supposed ta be a secret! 'e's supposed ta be a gang boss. Can't 'ave dat gettin' out, now, can we?"

"Um...err...no, I suppose not."

"Great!" Patrick patted his pseudo-murder-victim on the back. "I'm glad ye understand."

"So...now what?"

"Well, dere is a little problem." Conspiratorially lowering his voice even further, Lord Patrick leaned towards the man. "On da one 'and, I'd like ta just leave ye in peace, but, ye know, on da other 'and, me boss 'as got a reputation ta keep up. Ye understand dat, don't ye?"

"Um...aye, aye, I do." The man nodded confusedly, looking up at Patrick as if not quite sure whether he was in a dream or facing a madman. Or perhaps both.

"So 'ere's what we're gonna do," Lord Patrick explained, slinging an arm around the poor murder victim's shoulder. "Ye take dis..." He handed the man the thick stack of banknotes, "...and spend da rest of yer life in some nice corner of da Caribbean. Dere's lots of sunshine out dere, pretty islands, pretty ladies—all in all, da perfect place for retirement."

"Dat...!" The man's eyes widened, staring down at what was in his hands. "Dat's more dan ten thousand pounds!"

"Aye, it is."

"Ten thousand pounds! Ten thousand friggin' pounds!"

"Ye don't need ta repeat it that often."

"Say..." The man directed his hopeful gaze at Patrick. "Da Blackstreet Snakes don't perchance wanna kill off me stepma as well, do dey?"

"Afraid not."

"Pity. Not even if ye didn't 'ave ta pay me anythin'?"

"Sorry."

"Hm. Well, can't be 'elped. Thank ye, good Sir! I never knew gangsters were so generous. One lives and learns, as me old ma used ta say."

"Spiffin'!" Patrick clapped his hands. "Now, ye only need ta sneak out without anyone noticin'. Pack yer things, take da back door, and off ye go ta yer life in luxury."

The man beamed. "Sounds marvellous!"

"Aye, it does. Oh, before I forget, one more thing..."

"Aye?"

Pulling a knife out of his sleeve, Lord Patrick stabbed it into the man's arm.

"Aaaargh!"

"Sorry about dat," Lord Patrick told the man with a broad smile, and pressed a handkerchief to the shallow cut, making sure to dribble quite a bit of blood onto the carpet. "But ye are supposed ta get murdered 'ere, after all."

"Shit! Frigging pile of crap! Ye...ye just stabbed me!"

"Very observant of ye. 'ere. Dat should 'elp staunch da bleeding." Pulling another stack of banknotes from his pocket, Patrick handed it to the man.

"Oh. Um...well, I suppose it 'ad ta be done."

"So glad ye understand."

"Say..."

"Aye?"

"If I let ye stab me again, do I get another stack of notes?"

Patrick felt one corner of his mouth twitch. What kind of murder victim was this? If he was offered the crown jewels, would he offer to have his crown jewels sliced off?

"Buzz off and pretend to be dead already!"

"Aye, Sir! Straight away, Sir!"

Five minutes later, the happy murder victim had left the house and was high-tailing it towards sunnier shores. Meanwhile, Lord Patrick made sure to spread out the blood in a suitable pattern, and threw furniture around the room until it was nothing but a bloody mess. Satisfied with the scene of the murder, Willy Perv, the despicable villain, snuck out through the back door and quickly put distance between himself and the crime scene. Halfway down the street, he ducked into a dark alley and vanished.

A quarter of an hour later, Lord Patrick Day, in a freshly ironed tailcoat and crisp white linen shirt, appeared in one of the more elegant quarters of London, in front of St Bartholomew's Hospital. Striding through the front door as if he owned the place (which, considering his donations and involvement in a certain trust, was not entirely incorrect), he made his way to a certain office door. Upon the door's polished mahogany, a brass plaque announced to the world:

Thomas T. Gallagher, MD, OBE, MBBS

He knocked, and, without waiting, stuck his head in through the door. "Haven't you added 'COA' to that sign yet?"

The man in the white doctor's coat behind the desk sent His Lordship a censorious gaze. "You can tell Titus that I am still firmly convinced 'Collector of Acronyms' is not an official title."

"I'll be sure to let him know."

"And while you're at it, you can also tell our dear friend that, when knocking, people normally wait outside a room before entering."

"You don't say?" Casually raising his noble eyebrow, Lord Patrick stepped into the room and closed the door behind him. "Now...let's discuss the business at hand, shall we?"

"Yes..." The doctor's face twitched. "The business at hand..."

Standing up, he came out from behind his desk, opened a chilled cupboard in the corner of the room and pulled out a severed hand on a platter.

"Excellent!" Lord Patrick nodded. "I see you've done a marvellous job."

The doctor's facial expression suggested he did not entirely agree. "Do you have any idea what would happen if someone found out I was doing this?" he hissed. "Are you out of your mind?"

Lord Patrick Day, experienced politician and diplomat that he was, decided to answer this question with a question. "Are you forgetting how high the donations were that I made to the hospital?"

"Harrumph!"

"I take that to mean 'yes', then."

"What, in God's name, do you want with a severed hand anyway?"

"Do you really want to know?"

Thomas T. Gallagher, MD, OBE, MBBS and COA considered this for a moment—then grumbled, turned around, and started wrapping the severed hand in paper.

Lord Patrick raised his eyebrow a little higher. "Wrapping paper with bunny patterns?"

"What? I'm planning to get my wife something nice for Easter!"

"I do hope you'll choose a different present for her than you did for me."

"No! I usually get my wife severed body parts as presents!"

"You do? Maybe you should see a therapist. I know a very good doctor at St Bartholomew's."

"You spend too much time with Titus!"

"That, sadly, I cannot refute. Lend me a hand?"

Grimacing, the doctor handed him the package. "What next? You want me to pull somebody's leg for you?"

"That won't be necessary, Thomas." Package clamped under his arm, Lord Patrick strode towards the door. "Thank you for your help, Thomas. Oh, and..."

"Yes?"

Stopping at the door, His Lordship glanced back. "You were wondering what I need the hand for, right? I need to fake a murder."

"La la la!" the doctor half-shouted, his fingers stuck in his ears and eyes clamped shut. "Patient-doctor confidentiality, la la la, I am deaf, patient-doctor confidentiality!"

"Oh, and apparently, I am engaged to a prostitute."

"La la la, I am deaf, I am deaf!"

"I'm really glad I have such a good friend as you, Thomas. See you soon."

And, slipping out of the room, he made himself scarce.

Not long after, Mr Willy Perv, covered in mud, bruises, and spatters of blood, strode back towards the hideout of the Blackstreet Snakes. When people passed him, they all gave him a wide berth, and if anyone noticed the red stains decorating his clothes, they were wise enough not to mention it. The East End was full of wise people, the stupid ones having died long since.

The two guards at the entrance gave no sign of recognizing him. But since he passed the doorstep without having a knife shoved between his ribs, he must have been expected. A deduction confirmed by the thug waiting for him inside.

"Back already, are ye? Must say, I expected ye ta run."

Lord Patrick cocked an eyebrow. "Do I look like a darn fool?"

"Hm. We'll see." Turning, the man gestured for him to follow. "Come. Da boss is waitin' for ye."

It didn't take long for them to reach the room that still seemed far too luxurious for this run-down hovel. The fat boar of a man was lounging in an armchair, devouring a roasted pheasant. Turning his fat head towards the newcomer, Rabid Rathbone pierced him with his piggish eyes.

"Ah. It's ye."

"Aye, Sir!"

"Sir? Sir? Mwhahaha! I like dat!" Smirking, the fat man took another bite of his pheasant. Lord Patrick did not miss the look in his eyes, however, that promised death and destruction if he didn't like what he next heard. "So...is da job done?"

Wordlessly, Patrick pulled the package out from under his coat and threw it to the ground. The loose wrapping paper unravelled, and the severed hand rolled over the ground.

For a moment, all one could hear were the distant cries from the cells that still made Patrick shiver every time. But then...

"Ha. Ha. Mwahahahahaha!" A savage smile spreading across the fat boar's face, Rathbone slammed a hand on Patrick's back. Luckily, it wasn't the severed one. "Ye're a man after me own taste, Perv! Not bad. Not bad at all."

A smile tugged at one corner of Willy Perv's mouth. If only Rathbone had known what was behind that smile...

But he would never know. Not until it was too late.

"So does dat mean...?"

"Aye." The boss nodded. "Ye're in." Heaving himself out of his chair, Rathbone marched towards the door, gesturing for Patrick to follow. "Come along. Next, I've got a real job for ye."

***

Far away in another part of town, an evil mastermind who was far more wicked than any gang leader could possibly hope to be, gave an excited squeal and rushed back into her house from where she had been keeping a lookout on the street.

"They're here! The other instructors are here!" With an eager smile on her face, the dowager duchess dashed up to the door of the drawing room and started hammering frantically against the wood. "Are you ready? Is the dress ready? Can I look?"

"Ehem, well..." Amy's nervous voice came from inside the room. "I don't think..."

With the admirable manners of a true noblewoman, Her Ladyship the dowager duchess ignored those words, thrust open the door and raced inside.

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My dear Lords, Ladies and Gentlemen,

Apologies for the delayed chapter. I was so busy writing I nearly forgot to post today. Luckily, I have a pre-programmed alarm! :)

Yours Truly

Sir Rob