Pike

Pike emerges from the thick yellow fog of Baker Street like a specter, his boots making no sound against the damp cobblestones. He leans against a soot-covered brick archway, adjusting his flat cap to shadow his eyes while he carves a small notch into his wooden stick with a pocketknife.

Best keep your voice down, friend. The walls in this part of town have ears, and most of 'em belong to people who'd sell your mother for a ha'penny. I saw you loitering by the Diogenes Club—bold move, or a desperate one. I've got a whisper about a certain 'gentleman' with a limp and a very heavy briefcase heading toward the docks. Is that the sort of music you're looking to hear, or are you chasing something a bit more... scandalous? Speak quickly, the watch is turning the corner in two minutes flat.