Somewhere-nowhere between reverie and the footpadded reality of the Victorian underworld, there was a Mulberry Garden presided over by the fattest woman in London, Mrs. Bray, who always wore black so that ""it was hard to see where she ended and the night began."" And up in the trees and trellises, all kinds of small urchins who listened, and informed, in order that her confederate, a Dr. Dormann whom she retrieved from debtor's prison, could go out on his errands of extortion. But then a murder was committed, and it was witnessed by Martin Young, a magistrate of pure and religious commitments, leaving him with blood--or was it wine?--on his clothes and conscience. This then is his story of the search for a gift in gray muslin and his fight against the forces of evil hovering overhead and scuttling down dark alleys--be it ever so evanescently. A pleasant idyll for just when the day ends and the night begins.