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He shuddered, hardly daring to ponder on what the consequences might be.

So here he was, caught between the devil and the deep blue sea. It was after midnight. The moon was wrapped in cloud, making it dark as Newgate's knocker. He was standing chin-deep with Jack in yet another cold grave, his back and arms aching with fatigue. His head was swimming with the stink of manure, which, though disgusting, was at least preferable to the stink of the dead. All he could see around him were tombstones and crooked, leafless trees swathed in fog. Sometimes, in his more fanciful moments, he imagined that the trees were the twisted, angry souls of those whose graves he and Jack had defiled. This, however, was not what caused his heart to beat far too rapidly inside his chest. No, that was due to his constant expectation that any moment he would see the yellow lights of lanterns bobbing towards them through the fog, coming from every direction, closing in on all sides...

'I wonder who he really is,'Jack murmured, breaking into his thoughts.

'Eh?'Albert said, momentarily confused.'Who?'

Jack gave him a withering look.'Our employer. Our benefactor. And not only does the question of his identity vex me, but so too do his reasons for acquiring all these cadavers. What does he want with them, I wonder? Is he a sawbones, do you suppose?'

Albert did not like the faraway expression that had suddenly appeared on Jack's face. Such an expression, Albert knew, did not bode well for his future peace of mind. Despite his social standing (which in the great scheme of things was sorely negligible), his frequent drunkenness and his propensity for casual violence, Jack Howe was not a stupid man. He knew his numbers, he could speak in the plummy tones of a gentleman when it suited him, and he even read a little.

Furthermore, his mind was forever lively with schemes and ideas for improving his lot in life. Even when he was on to a good thing, he was always striving for that little bit more.

Albert sensed such a scheme brewing now, and he strove to quash it quickly.

'I don't know, and I care even less,' he said.'We are well-paid, Jack, and that's all that should concern us. It strikes me that questioning our employer's motives may prove an unhealthy occupation.'

'Albert, you have all the ambition of... of this worm,'Jack said, reaching down and nipping a fat, pink, wriggling earthworm between the stubby thumb and forefinger of his right hand. He tossed the worm at Albert, who flinched as it struck his cheek -a brief, cold, slithering kiss from the grave.

'At least my caution keeps me alive,'Albert muttered.

'Life? You call this miserable existence of yours a life? You live in filth, you sleep in filth, you eat filth, you drink filth -'

'And what of you?' Albert retorted, momentarily roused. 'You dine on quail and caviar, I suppose, and lay your head on feather pillows?'

Jack grinned savagely, showing his brown and broken teeth.'At least I dream of it,' he said, and his voice dropped to a murmur. 'One day I shall be celebrated in Threadneedle Street. A plaque will be erected in my name...'

More likely a tombstone in this sorry excuse for a graveyard, or one very like it, Albert thought, but this time wisely kept his opinions to himself.

Jack's glazed eyes became shrewd again. 'Have you no interest at all in the identity of our employer?'

'None,' replied Albert.'He could be Old Nick himself for all I...' His voice tailed off as he thought of their employer's cold grey eyes and watchful manner. He shivered.

'He's a wealthy man, there's no mistaking that,'Jack mused.'You only have to set eyes on him to know it.'

'What of it?'Albert said uneasily.

'Is your mind completely addled? Think on it, Albert. A gentleman - of some standing and refinement, I'll be bound -keeping his identity a secret, procuring corpses for what must surely be questionable purposes.There's money to be made here. If our elusive