Alden spent the evening performing a more thorough search of Li Tao’s possessions, but they honestly didn’t tell him much. Though he did learn that Li Tao purchased very little from English shops. None of his clothes or travel necessities bore the marks of English manufacturers. In fact, most of them didn’t seem to have any maker’s marks of any sort. Presumably, such marks weren’t commonly used in Han. The most interesting thing he found was an extensive set of what Alden vaguely recognized as lock picks and other burglary tools. They had been concealed inside the stuffing of a travel pillow, and even during his thorough investigation Alden had almost missed them. Despite his ever so slightly chequered past Alden had never learned how to pick a lock, but this set seemed even more impressive than the set Lucille Baines had used in the raid on Li Tao’s residence. Alden rather suspected a skilled user could pick even very complex locks with a set like this. But really, that did nothing but lend further credence to a theory Alden already considered more or less a given. After all, everything about the incident with the late Dr. Rawleigh suggested the involvement of a highly skilled picklock. All in all, Li Tao’s personal effects had proven annoyingly uninformative, and Alden dearly hoped Lucille was getting more useful information out of his papers. Still, he had one solid lead in the Sunshine Club. He just felt that some caution was warranted in how he approached the matter… Alden got up at the crack of dawn the following morning, and for the first time in days he took the familiar route to Nabber Hill Lodge. While the fanciest of the clubs were open every hour of the day, and most of the less prestigious clubs opened from mid-afternoon to the small hours of the night, Nabber Hill Lodge was rather unusual in that it opened its doors both from six in the evening to midnight and from four to eight in the morning. This was because it was a club specifically dedicated to skilled craftsmen and small business owners, and so it opened its doors just before and just after business hours. As he stepped into the familiar cosiness of the Lodge, the greeter on duty shot him a clearly surprised look. “Alden!” She exclaimed. “Rare thing to see you in the mornings.” “You’re off script, Molly.” Alden remarked bluntly. Molly Cobbler laughed heartily, the movement sending visible wobbles racing across various parts of her rather rotund form. “To Hel with the script, Alden. There’s only four people here, and that’s including us and Tommy over at the bar. Save that script nonsense for the evening crowd.” Alden huffed. “See, this is why I don’t come here in the mornings.” “Fine, be that way. Blah blah brother, blah blah dust, blah blah drinks and confidences. Happy now?” “Not in the slightest, but you can make it up to me by telling me if Gwyneth is in.” “Sure is. She comes in here every morning for tea and breakfast.” “Yes, I remembered hearing something of the sort. Whereabouts is she?” “The booth over by the cellar door.” “Thank you, Molly. I’ll just pop over and have a chat with her.” “Suit yourself. I need to go grab some more sandwiches anyway. Greeting duty without something to snack on would simply be too dreary for words.” Carefully keeping his thoughts to himself, especially those related to Molly’s eating habits, Alden simply moved away in silence. Once he got to the booth by the cellar door, he politely knocked on the side of it. “Can I help you?” Gwyneth’s voice replied from within. “It’s me, Gwyn. Alden.” “Alden Stowe? Now there’s a surprise. Come on over.” Alden stepped around the corner of the booth and found Gwyneth daintily nibbling on a piece of hardtack. There was also a huge pot of tea, seemingly far too large for one person, and a small selection of dried fruit. Gwyneth herself was a picture of perfect elegance as always. She was dressed in one of those skin-tight eastern dresses that were so popular these days, and her face was painted to such flawless perfection that she looked rather like a porcelain doll. “Been a while, Gwyn.” “Since the New Year’s Eve feast, I suspect. You’re never here in the mornings.” “Well, I have to admit, the only reason I’m here so early is to see you.” “Feeling nostalgic, Alden?” “Hardly. Even when we were both Rascals, we barely ever ran together.” Gwyneth smirked. “You barely ran at all. Always cooped up with your numbers.” “Oh, I got my share of running, just not the kind you were interested in. But that’s not why I’m here. I have need of your professional knowledge.” She raised a delicately painted eyebrow. “I’m assuming you mean my knowledge as a cosmetic chemist, not my other profession. Unless your inclinations have taken a rather sudden and unexpected turn.” “Oh, most certainly. I am still blessedly free of any inclinations of that sort.” “You’re missing out, Alden.” “So I’ve been told. But that’s all rather beside the point.” “Fine, what is it you actually need?” “I need a disguise. I was thinking I could make myself look like an old man.” “Whatever for?” “Well… I have been renewing my acquaintance with the Rascals.” “My word! Here I thought you’d turned over a new leaf, become an upstanding member of society and all.” “Everything in moderation, including respectability.” “Well, if you want to get up to mischief, far be it from me to stop you. But I’m afraid I can’t help. I make the cosmetics, sure, but I personally never use them for disguises or anything of the sort.” “But surely you know someone who does.” Gwyneth considered the issue for a moment. “I suppose I do. Head over to The Globe and go around back to entrance nine. Ask for Timothy. He should be able to help you.” “Thanks Gwyn. I owe you one.” “No you don’t. If I can help an old stiff like you get up to some mischief, that in itself is all the reward I could possibly need.” “Fine, in that case, you’re very welcome.” Gwyneth snorted. “Off with you, Alden Stowe. Go get yourself into trouble.” As Alden made his way over to Southwark and The Globe, he sincerely hoped he wasn’t getting into too much trouble. The Globe was hardly an auspicious place to start any venture, since the theatre had burned down and been rebuilt more than a dozen times across the centuries. It always seemed to rise from the ashes, however, rather like the mythical phoenix, and somehow the venue just seemed to get more popular with every disaster. That being said, it wasn’t too busy this early in the day. The first show of the day was the noon performance, and that was still many hours away. Sure, there was plenty of activity around the back of the building, but the area around the front entrance was practically deserted. Wandering around back amid the industrious bustle of porters and stage hands, Alden found his way to entrance nine and knocked on the door. Within seconds, it was opened by a middle-aged lady wearing only the bottom half of a jester’s costume. By the look of things, she was halfway through the process of applying some sort of white paint to her hands and arms. “You need something?” “I’m looking for Timothy.” “Huh. Little older than his usual callers. But I guess that’s his business. Down the corridor, ninth door on the right.” Thanking the lady, Alden wandered through the indicated corridor, trying to ignore the half-dressed performers working on their preparations or simply lounging about. They were certainly ignoring him. Presumably strange men wandering through the building as they dressed and prepared was rather routine to them. In short order, he made his way to the indicated door, which was adorned by a small brass plaque reading ‘detail cosmetics’. Feeling only slightly trepidatious about what sort of person Timothy would turn out to be, Alden knocked on the door. “Come in, darling!” A voice sing-songed from within. Opening the door, Alden found a room that was brilliantly lit, with powerful gas lights studding all four walls. In the centre of the room was a large mechanical chair, like the ones found in fancy barbershops. Rows upon rows of dressers and cupboards ringed the room, all low enough as to not interfere with the lighting. But Alden’s eyes were inexorably drawn to the man lounging on a fainting couch near the back of the room. His voluminous hair rose stiffly from his head into a towering structure of many colours, decorated with ribbons and beads. His beard and moustache were waxed to a brilliant gleam, and his face was made up in a way that somehow straddled the line between striking and clownish. In contrast to his hair and face, his clothing was almost a letdown. He wore a slightly stained linen apron over a cheap suit, and white cotton gloves covered in colourful stains and streaks. “Well now, who have we here? You’re an unfamiliar face.” The man remarked. “The name’s Alden Stowe. Gwyneth Parker said you might be able to help me.” The man’s eyes seemed to light up. “Dear Gwynnie sent you? Well now, that changes everything! That woman is a wonder! I swear, her white number five is worth its weight in gold. Come in, darling, come in. Oh, and do help me up. I tend to crumple my hair something dreadful if I try to stand up on my own.” With a shrug, Alden wandered over and grabbed the man’s gloved hand, pulling him off the couch. As he stood up, Alden realized the man was remarkably tall. Well over six feet, and that was without taking into account the extra nine inches or so added by the hair. Not having anticipated being quite so thoroughly dwarfed, Alden momentarily found himself at a loss for words. Fortunately, Timothy had no such problems. “So tell me, darling, what can I help you with? There are no scenes or acts that go out into the crowd scheduled until the evening performance, so there’s no detail work planned until well after noon. I have nothing but time and a sincere desire to assist!” Feeling almost buffeted by the man’s aggressively sociable manner, Alden had to take a brief moment to gather his thoughts. “Well, for reasons I won’t elaborate upon, I find myself needing to disguise myself as an old man. I hear you might be able to help.” “Yes and no, darling. Yes and no.” “How do you mean?” “I can easily make you look like an old man. I see you’re already dressed for the part. But the question is if you can act like an old man. No offence, darling, but you hardly strike me as a man of thespian inclinations.” Alden was briefly tempted to defend his dress sense, since he was wearing the same sort of clothing he always wore, but he resisted the urge and focused instead on more relevant matters. “You make a fair point. I’m certainly no actor. How exactly would one act like an old man?” “Well, your movements are an important part of it. Old men move in ways that are often slow, faltering and unsure. They are often plagued by aches and pains of both joint and muscle, and their hands often shake and shiver. They frequently feel cold even when warmly dressed, and they tend to peer at things because their eyesight is poorer than they would ever admit. The voice is often dry and strained, sometimes fully hoarse and cracking. Now, a skilled actor can affect all these mannerisms at the drop of a hat, but a rank amateur will inevitably mess up and forget themselves at the worst possible moment.” Alden considered everything he’d been told. It did seem rather difficult to keep all those things in mind and act them out believably. However… “I think I can manage those things… I’ll be back around noon, if that’s all right.” “Oh, that should be fine. That will still give me plenty of time to work on you before the company has need of my skills.” “Capital! I will return in short order.” Alden returned at once to his workroom, to the moderate surprise of Mr. Dawkins. “Good morning, Mr. Stowe. I didn’t expect you to be in today.” “Don’t mind me, Harry. I just need to take care of a minor project. Go about your business.” And so, with Mr. Dawkins bustling about in the background, Alden considered his current project. Joint pains, muscle weakness and shaking hands was easy enough. Several different mould tinctures could cause temporary symptoms of that nature, which was largely viewed as an unfortunate side effect, but in this case it was the entire point. Temporary vision problems was similarly not an issue. And of course making a person feel cold was simply a matter of inflaming the melancholy humours. That just left the dry and scratchy throat. Inducing it wasn’t the problem. Doing so in a temporary manner that wouldn’t cause long-term damage was. In the end, Alden decided to combine low dosages of certain phlegmatic inhibitors and hope that the lowered production of mucus and saliva would be enough to simulate the effect. Having decided on a basis for his ‘essence of old age’, Alden spent good while working out dosages and concentration. But even with his extensive knowledge, this was very much new territory for him, and some parts of his work were more educated guesswork than anything else. Sincerely hoping that he wasn’t making a huge mistake, Alden returned to The Globe. Timothy was more than happy to get to work on him the moment he returned, but before taking a seat, Alden swigged the little vial of mixed tincture. After all, he wasn’t sure how long it would need to take full effect. What followed was possibly the most surreal experience of Alden’s life. Timothy was a very gentle hand, practically pampering Alden as he worked on the disguise and constantly keeping up a ceaseless stream of cheerful banter. Alden, on the other hand, felt his stomach roil against the toxic concoction he had just swallowed, and Timothy’s ministrations faded into mere background noise against the mounting, disparate protests of his body. By the time Timothy stepped away from the chair, Alden had completely lost track of time. “There we go, darling! Some damn fine work, if I do say so myself. You look seventy if you’re a day!” Alden practically heard his joints creaking as he carefully levered himself out of his seat. He peered up at Timothy’s face, trying in vain to get his slightly blurry view of the man’s features to pull properly into focus. Giving up on getting his eyes to fully cooperate, he instead tottered over to one of the many mirrors in the room. While a little hard to make out, the face in the mirror was almost startlingly different. The hair was largely shock white, only peppered with occasional streaks of darker grey. Every line and wrinkle on his face was heavily accentuated, and several large liver spots marred his countenance. Even his hands appeared knobbly and frail. Turning back to Timothy he feebly extended a quivering hand, offering a handshake. “This should do nicely.” He croaked out. “Thank you very much, Mr. Timothy. Much obliged.” Timothy took a half-step back, clearly shocked at the transformation. “My word, darling! That is absolutely remarkable! If I hadn’t seen you beforehand, I’d say you had one foot in the grave!” “I’ll take it as a compliment.” Alden huffed. “Now, how much do I owe you?” “Darling, please! After showing me such a remarkable transformation? From an amateur, of all things? You don’t owe me anything. This performance is more than compensation enough for my time.” “Well, if you say so. I must say, I didn’t quite expect the tincture to take effect this quickly…” “I suppose you’re suffering for your art, darling. Well, best of luck to you. And do drop in if you have any other fun projects, though next time I probably will charge you for it.” “No worries on that front. I’m not exactly hurting for money.” Alden made his way to the door, wincing slightly with every step. “Just about the only part of me that isn’t hurting…” In the end, Alden hailed a cab to get him to Whalebone Street. It would have taken him hours to hobble his way over in his current state. Even just the jostling of the cab was thoroughly unpleasant. At least the herb shop wasn’t hard to find. The sign was tiny and unobtrusive, almost imperceptible to Alden’s reduced visual acuity, but the scent was unmistakeable, even at a distance. As Alden feebly tugged open the heavy front door, he noticed a rakish yet finely dressed young fellow disappearing into the alley next to the shop, which struck him as rather notable. Stepping into the shop itself, Alden was struck full force by the scent of countless herbs, both dry and fresh, along with various other spices and aromatics. The riot of scents almost managed to conceal the underlying smell of opium smoke that seemed to be drifting up through the floorboards. More to the point, though, Alden caught a whiff of a few other interesting smells. Smells he had only encountered very recently. Lingzhi mould, shanyao, sun bear oil… “Can I help you, valued customer?” Pulled from his musings, Alden peered up at the man behind the counter. He was a man of late middle age, clearly of east Asian descent. Possibly Han, though Alden couldn’t particularly tell. He was dressed in some sort of foreign clothing Alden wasn’t very familiar with and wore a rather tall hat. Reminding himself to play his part and avoid suspicion, Alden tottered over to the counter. “Well, young man, I was hoping you could help me. I’m looking for fresh ginger root. My wife found a recipe that calls for shavings of fresh ginger root, see. She does so adore her foreign cookery. But all the herb shops I’ve been to only carry it dried.” “You are in luck, valued customer. We had a shipment of ginger straight from Han just the other day. Harvested just two weeks ago, it is more than fresh enough for cooking.” “What luck! Thank you so much, young man. How much for four ounces ginger root?” “Fresh ginger is a florin for three ounces.” “Well… That’s a little steep. I’ll give you half a crown for four ounces.” “Very well. We’ll call it half a crown, valued customer. And I hope you will do business with us again in the future.” Alden nodded and handed over the coin, doing his best to affect the air of someone who viewed a savings of two pence as a small personal triumph. Which really wasn’t hard to do, because Alden had been exactly that kind of person just a few weeks ago. Taking his bag of ginger root, Alden left the little herb shop behind. Looking around to make sure he wasn’t being watched, he slipped into the alley and headed around back of the shop, where he found a stairwell leading down to a basement entrance. Finding a concealed little nook to sit down in, Alden watched the people coming and going from the stairwell for a time. Many of them were east Asian men of various ages, but every so often he saw young Englishmen coming and going. The Englishmen were all dressed in fine clothes worn in a deliberately sloppy fashion, and the ones going in had the definite air of a young man caught up in the excitement of transgression. The ones going out seemed cheerfully listless and smelled strongly of opium smoke. To Alden, this suggested that these were the young sons of wealthy families out on youthful misadventures in the bad part of town. But more importantly, it suggested the opium den beneath the herb shop was open to public custom, and that provided a window of opportunity. Feeling quite satisfied with the day’s efforts, Alden headed off towards home. By the time Alden started his journey back to Ratcatcher Street, the aching of his joints had settled to something only moderately uncomfortable, so he decided to walk home. It wasn’t terribly far, and the exercise would probably help his system work through the minor poisoning he had inflicted upon it. But by the time he had gotten about halfway, he spotted Miss Oxley in the distance. He almost went to call out a greeting before remembering he was still in disguise. Realizing it would be quite awkward if Miss Oxley recognized him, he stepped into a side alley and waited for the woman to pass. It was only as he watched Miss Oxley from the alleyway that he realized she was in the company of another young woman. She had a quite thin and willowy figure, her features were fairly delicate and her eyes were such a bright blue it was clearly visible even at this distance. She also had a quite impressive head of wavy, bright-blonde hair that seemed to shine even in the dim sunlight of an overcast autumn evening. With the addition of her powder-blue dress and white silk gloves, she made a very eye-catching figure, and stood in stark contrast to the powerfully built Miss Oxley in her hard-wearing, practical clothing. Alden felt a little bad about essentially spying on his young employee, but he needed to make sure they passed him by without notice. Besides, the two young women seemed very comfortable with one another. Alden was hardly an expert on matters of intimacy, but the sheer amount of gentle touches and stolen glances seemed quite excessive if the two were merely friends. And given what he’d heard from Mrs Tatter… His thoughts where quite derailed when Miss Oxley suddenly grabbed her lady friend and pulled her into a sudden, dramatic dip which concluded in a rather energetic kiss. The young woman reacted with a shocked squeal followed by a scandalized giggle. Alden frowned deeply. Technically, the social lives of his employees were none of his business, but he had grown very fond of the young Harold Dawkins. If he and Miss Oxley were in the midst of some romantic entanglement, as Mrs. Tatter had suggested, and Miss Oxley was carrying on like this behind his back… Well, in that case he would have to give Miss Oxley some very stern words of admonishment indeed! Once he arrived back at the tinctury, Alden quickly slipped into his apartment for a much-needed bath, washing away the cosmetic embellishments on his hands and face and the whitening powder in his hair. Once he was properly clean, he got dressed once more and made his way to Mrs. Tatter’s office to consult with the woman. “Mrs. Tatter, I saw something today that rather concerned me, and I wished to consult with you on the matter.” “Certainly, Mr. Stowe. What troubles you?” “You said earlier that Miss Oxley and Mr. Dawkins were romantically involved. Are you fully certain that this is the case?” “Beyond a shadow of a doubt, Mr. Stowe. Why do you ask? Is there a problem?” “I should say so! I saw Miss Oxley out with a young woman on my way back home this evening, and they were quite obviously on very intimate terms.” Mrs. Tatter got a very strange look on her face. “Could you describe this young woman to me?” “Well, I didn’t get a close look at her, but she was about my height, perhaps a hair taller. Certainly nowhere near as tall as Miss Oxley. Slightly built, delicate features, fair skin, blue eyes. Quite a spectacular swell of light blonde hair. Wore a powder-blue dress and white silk gloves. She certainly drew a lot of eyes.” Mrs. Tatter seemed conflicted for a moment. “Yes… That would be young Tiffany. You needn’t worry about her, Mr. Stowe. She’s part of the arrangement.” “My goodness… Are you telling me they have a third? This early in the relationship?” “I’m telling you it’s nothing to worry about. I know the young woman in question, and Mr. Dawkins is very well aware of her relationship with Miss Oxley. You needn’t worry yourself.” Alden considered asking further questions, but he felt very awkward about the idea of prying any further into the matter. After all, a solid, dependable woman like Mrs. Tatter wouldn’t lie to him about a matter like this, and she assured him it wasn’t an issue. Feeling confused yet largely mollified, Alden bade Mrs. Tatter goodnight and headed off to bed. The lingering effects of the poisonous concoction he had ingested still lent him some discomfort, and he was eager to sleep them off.