Barnabus Ridgworthy looked nervously around the deserted big top. The dark stacks of seats and the old, faded curtains hid unknown terrors for him this night. He had arranged, against his better judgement, to meet with a man about whom he knew nothing. He shuffled into the middle of the sawdust scattered floor, peering around in the gloom. The small man resettled his spectacles in a vain attempt to banish the darkness which was plaguing his vision and his mind. A noise behind him made Barnabus start, and he placed a shaking hand over his skipping heart, whimpering to himself. How had he got into this mess? Why was he even here at this time of night? He knew the answer, but it was not something that he wished to face up to.

There was a scrape behind him, and upon turning Mr Ridgeworthy finally got a look at the man he was to meet. He was six feet tall dressed all in black. If Barnabus had been thinking in his ringleader voice he would have described te man as "the most black hearted villain that ever trod the streets of London Town. Look, ladies and gentlemen, upon the devil in a top hat!" The voice, along with any echo of his former self, had fled leaving only a scared, desperate man.

Form the darkness the tall man stepped slowly and deliberately over the sawdust to stand in the centre of the ring. Barnabus tried to exert his will to stop himself from looking at the floor but it did not good. He was forced to stare at the dusty ground where he had made his living for the past fifteen years knowing that in the next few moments his life up until this point would seem like a dream.

‘Mr Ridgeworthy, I presume? I am Jerimiah Dingle,’ said the man, holding out a gloved hand. The voice, like the grip, was strong with no hint of a shake or stutter. The other hand in the shake put up less resistance than a handful of straw. Barnabus nearly bowed, curtsied and knelt before the man, so afraid was he.

‘Stand up, man, and stop whimpering,’ said Jerimiah. Barnabus caught himself, he was unaware that he had been making any sound, certainly not whimpering.

‘Yessir, o’course.’ With the effort of speech Barnabus went weak at the knees, and when Jerimiah put a strong hand under his elbow to guide him to the benches he nearly squealed. When he was sitting, and Jerimiah was standing over him, he had time to take a breath and try to regain himself.

‘Sir, I’m not a man who does things like this. I’m a ringmaster, pure and simple. All this tomfoolery and cloak-and-dagger goings on do not appeal. I’m in a spot, you see. Were I not, you and I would never have met, not in this world or the next. But I have been put upon by some people to do a certain thing, and it’s with you that I think the best chance of my doing it lies.’

Jerimiah removed his top-hat, letting shoulder length silver hair hang down. He looked down at Barnabus, as though trying to decide whether it was worth his time to stay. Eventually, when Ridgeworthy was on the verge of running away, he spoke.

‘Mr Riggeworthy, you are man of limited means. Your occupation,’ he twitched, not deigning to call it a job, ‘brings in little money. I, on the other hand, am a man to whom fees are large and there is no chance of a bargain. What I am saying is that you might need someone with a little less, shall we say, experience.’

‘No, no, no,’ stammered Barnabus, waving his hands within an inch of Jerimiahs black coat. ‘It’s got to be you, you must help me!’

‘Why must I?’ The question had an edge of ice.

‘I have money. I have your money, don’t worry about that. I’ll pay you whatever you want. I sold the Wolf Boy for a fortune, and I can always spare a couple of the Amazing Conjoined Quadruplets. People will just as like pay to see two as four. You see, Mr Dingle, I have your money. Now, will you hear what I need from you in exchange for it?’

Jerimiah shifted, crunching the dust under his heavy boots. Then he sat, steepling his fingers to listen.

‘Speak.’