The element of surprise was an important one, and so of course Aslan forewent it entirely. Instead, he had agreed to Jules' terms with only a sip of tea to hesitate. He might as well have come pre-tied with a 'stab me!' sign strapped about his neck. Was Aslan always this foolish? No. But did this impulsiveness happen rarely enough to stave off trouble? Well...

Sometimes life needed a little excitement ... and there was something titillating about a little, earnest, "please".

Besides, it would give him a chance to avoid his sister's latest rampage about their maid situation.

The clock tower had yet to toll nine, and yet already that cobbler shop-and-home was in his sights. His cane and mustache were the same as yesterday, though the shoes in question came in a box rather than on his feet ... though the box seemed small for the shoes. If one squinted, one could still make out a company name and "Harrowgate" on the cover.

These were not the shoes that belonged in that box - but the freshly shone boots with spats may well have been of similar make. A shoe for a stroll or a day off - not for mucking around in the dirt.

Torn between risking an early-morning encounter with his sister or actually having a plan, well, Aslan had made do in a rush.

It was times like these he wished he still had Baba's old pistol, much as he rested easier with it out of Nisa's reach. One day, perhaps, when he married her off and she didn't kill the bastard (or they didn't find the body and - Allah Allah - she sat a comfortable widow), he'd get a new one and increase his life expectancy by a grand old five years at this rate.

The men who got caught were usually idiots surrounded by more idiots. Jules was a diversion. A dangerous, sharp-eyed, knife-wielding diversion, but a diversion nonetheless. Besides, his father loved those old shoes. There was nothing he could do for Baba now, but at least he could have something left of him restored to their former glory.

He slowed his stroll to the door, checking his pocket watch. 8:58. Itched his wrist under  his glove, took a quick stroll about the block as to not look too eager, and waited for the bell to toll.

'Gavin' rapped his knuckles on the door between the chimes, a cheery sort of morning ruckus under the looming gray sky.

Incidentally, there were the subtle tells of cane prints next to shoes in the dust of the road, quietly tattling on his earlier pacing.

This morning, the acrid stench of coffee was not covered up with whiskey, still fresh on his breath and his clothes. It was early, after all.

Asa was hardly the early riser, but Jules had been confident in his ability to shoo the young man away before Gavin Ireland arrived. Oh, the tall man whined and grumbled, pulling his thick tweed coat over his shoulders with a collection of varied huffs and eye rolls. "Do some observing," Jules suggested, "see if you can learn any more about those well-off buggers down by the shore. You were so interested in learning about them yesterday, aye?"

The argument that continuing his chat with the gardener would yield plenty of useful information was hardly convincing enough for Jules. No, Jules had the feeling he needed to converse with this curious man alone. Asa could busy himself well enough today.

Ten minutes after Asa had tumbled out the front door still rubbing sleep from the corners of his eyes, a rapping sounded against the thick wood. Ah, good to know Mr Ireland can keep an appointment. 

"Sir." Jules welcomed Gavin with a polite nod of the head, waving him inside to save him from the brisk morning air. "Welcome. Can I get you anything this morning? Something to warm the bones, perhaps? We have plenty more bohea should it interest you." He waved Gavin toward his work bench. "You can place the shoes right there on the table, Mr... Ireland." 

Curious eyes followed as his client passed, the weight of the knife suddenly seeming to double. Who was this illusive man with the faux accent, and how hard was Jules going to have to work in order to find out?