Книга - The Button Box: Gripping historical romance from the Sunday Times Bestseller

The Button Box: Gripping historical romance from the Sunday Times Bestseller
Dilly Court


The new heartwarming novel from Sunday Times bestselling author, Dilly Court.Clara held onto the precious button, glimmering like a jewel in the dark alleyways of London’s notorious Seven Dials. She needed to save her family… but who was going to save her?There was a time when the Carter sisters’ father was their hero. Now he’s a drunk who’s gambled away everything they had and put them all in peril. It's on Clara's shoulders to save the four sisters from destitution. Clutching her precious button box, the only thing of value they have left, Clara dreams of starting a shop that could put a roof over their heads and keep them safe…But in debt to the terrifying Patches Braggs, leader of one of the East End's roughest gangs, Clara is in fear for her life. When a mysterious benefactor seems to offer an escape, Clara realizes too late that it comes at a terrible price…Cheated, abandoned and alone – can Clara save her family and hold onto her dreams?






















Copyright (#u4ae19803-2512-502e-8c41-8d5ced390335)







Published by HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd

The News Building

1 London Bridge Street

London, SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk (http://www.harpercollins.co.uk)

Published by HarperCollinsPublishers 2017

Copyright © Dilly Court 2017

Cover layout design © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2017

Cover photographs: Portrait © Gordon Crabb/Alison Eldred, Background © Alamy

Dilly Court asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Source ISBN: 9780008137410

Ebook Edition © June 2017 ISBN: 9780008137427

Version: 2018-01-18




Dedication (#u4ae19803-2512-502e-8c41-8d5ced390335)


For Xavier James Evans with love.


Table of Contents

Cover (#u1745ebb3-0a51-534e-86cf-eb06cb8ba935)

Title Page (#u5d3284e3-d84e-5713-b789-04829556701d)

Copyright (#ub47800c4-bb0f-5e42-b95a-802ef535e229)

Dedication (#uc902ec88-76f8-5827-bff4-f2d5b9898e1f)

Chapter One (#u1cca3013-29bb-53ee-9471-5137d554f200)

Chapter Two (#u8ddaa682-aa0a-55fc-a483-6ac713f9a9f8)

Chapter Three (#ud4a94fda-318e-504d-9218-1cfba98b4caf)

Chapter Four (#u5c957955-2dc8-5450-96b4-57e7dc0a6d0a)

Chapter Five (#u8960455e-3635-59b5-8524-0ec9e5aa05c9)



Chapter Six (#u9bd998ff-80a2-5d2d-9e3d-b403b217dbca)



Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)



Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)



Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)



Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)



Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)



Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)



Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)



Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)



Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)



Chapter Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo)



Chapter Seventeen (#litres_trial_promo)



Chapter Eighteen (#litres_trial_promo)



Chapter Nineteen (#litres_trial_promo)



Chapter Twenty (#litres_trial_promo)



Chapter Twenty-One (#litres_trial_promo)



Chapter Twenty-Two (#litres_trial_promo)



Chapter Twenty-Three (#litres_trial_promo)



Chapter Twenty-Four (#litres_trial_promo)



Chapter Twenty-Five (#litres_trial_promo)



Laura's Big Day (#litres_trial_promo)



Keep Reading … (#litres_trial_promo)



About the Author (#litres_trial_promo)



Also by Dilly Court (#litres_trial_promo)



About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)




Chapter One (#u4ae19803-2512-502e-8c41-8d5ced390335)


Drury Lane, London 1872

It all started with a single button. Clara Carter smiled to herself as she locked the door of Miss Silver’s drapery shop in Drury Lane, and set off for home. That button was still her pride and joy, secreted away amongst the rest of her collection in the wooden button box that her grandfather had made for her tenth birthday. Grandfather Carter had understood her fascination for small things, beautifully crafted, and the button that had fired her imagination had all those qualities. She had spotted it lying in the snow outside St Mary le Strand church one Christmas Eve. Sparkling like the evening star, the whorls of tiny French paste stones imitated diamonds to perfection. Nine-year-old Clara had snatched it up and hidden it inside her fur muff, hoping that no one had seen. Surely something so lovely must be valuable and the person whose clothing it had adorned would be searching for it. Her conscience had bothered her during Midnight Mass, but not enough to make her give up her prize. At home, in the comfort of her bedroom at the top of the four-storey house in Wych Street, Clara had hidden the button beneath the feather mattress, away from the prying eyes of her younger sisters, Lizzie, Betsy and Jane.

That was ten years ago, and since then things had changed drastically for the Carter family. Clara wrapped her cloak around her as an icy blast of wind from the north brought the first flakes of snow floating down from an ink-black sky. It was dark now and the lamplighter was finishing his rounds, leaving islands of yellow light in his wake like a good fairy illuminating a wicked world – Clara had never quite grown out of her romantic childhood fantasies. Her button collection had filled Grandpa’s box long ago: each one held a special memory for her and they were all precious. Now she was forced to work in the draper’s shop out of necessity, but it was no hardship. The long hours and poor pay were compensated for by the pleasure she derived from handling the merchandise. The rainbow colours of the ribbons and the feel of silks and satins as she measured out lengths of fabric were a sensual delight. One day she would own such a shop, but it would not be a tiny, one-room establishment like Miss Silver’s. Clara had ambition, fired by a visit to Peter Robinson’s in Oxford Street, and, in the not-too-distant future, she was certain that the busy thoroughfare would be filled with large department stores and one of them would belong to her.

She quickened her pace as she headed for Wych Street. Despite the comforting glow from the gaslights, she was well aware that the darkness of the underworld lurked in the narrow alleyways and courts of Seven Dials and the area around Clare Market: St Giles Rookery to the north was a place to be avoided even in the daytime. She hurried homeward to the house her family had once owned, but due to her father’s addiction to the gaming tables and the enforced sale of the property, they now occupied two rooms on the ground floor, paying an exorbitant rent for the privilege of living in damp, draughty accommodation.

‘Clara.’

She stopped and turned to see Luke Foyle emerge from an alleyway. His tall, broad-shouldered figure cast a grotesque shadow on the frosty pavement. ‘Oh, it’s you,’ she said crossly. ‘You scared me.’

He was at her side in two long strides. ‘A good reason for seeing you safely home.’

‘Luke, I walk this way twice every day, except Sundays, and I’ve been doing so for the last five years.’ She was tired and she walked on.

He fell into step beside her. ‘That’s because my name means something round here, Clara. No one takes liberties with my woman.’

‘I wish you wouldn’t talk like that. I’m not a piece of property to be squabbled over by rival gangs.’

He took her hand and tucked it into the crook of his arm, but it was a possessive move rather than a gallant gesture. ‘I might consider making an honest woman of you, if you play your cards right.’

She shot him a sideways glance. ‘You take a lot for granted.’

‘Come on, Clara, don’t tease me. We’ve been walking out together for two years, and I’ve had to be satisfied with the occasional kiss and cuddle. I don’t know any other red-blooded man who would put up with such a state of affairs.’

Clara came to a halt, snatching her hand free. ‘Then find someone else, Luke. I like you a lot, but I don’t like the way you make your money. You could do so much more with your life if you finished with the Skinners’ gang. They’re bad news and always will be.’

‘You know nothing, Clara.’

She faced him angrily. ‘I know that you’ll end up in prison if you carry on the way you are.’

‘What I do to earn a living shouldn’t concern you. When we’re married I’ll look after you and you’ll want for nothing.’

‘Married?’ Clara tossed her head. ‘Don’t flatter yourself, Luke.’ She hurried off but he caught her up.

‘I thought we had an understanding.’

‘You were different when I first knew you, but then you got mixed up with the Skinner brothers and you’ve changed.’

‘Not towards you, Clara. My feelings for you are the same.’

‘Then prove it, Luke. Leave the gang and find employment somewhere they can’t get to you.’

He shook his head. ‘What brought this on? You were fine when we met on Sunday and now you’ve changed.’

‘I read the newspapers,’ Clara said simply. ‘The police are hunting for Ned Skinner. He killed two men, Luke. He shot them because they owed him money. I don’t want to be associated with people like that, and you shouldn’t either.’ She trudged on, wrapping her cloak around her as the snow began to fall more heavily, and she did not look back. Luke Foyle was handsome and charming, and his fair hair and wide grey eyes gave him the appearance of a romantic poet, but he was too sure of himself and she was no man’s property. His allegiance to the Skinner gang puzzled her greatly, and had always been a source of contention between them. Why an educated, intelligent man like Luke would mix with the worst thugs in the East End was a total mystery. She quickened her pace, slowing down only when she entered Wych Street with its gabled sixteenth- and seventeenth-century houses, rowdy pubs, second-hand clothes shops, and booksellers whose stock in trade were indecent prints and lewd literature.

Clara’s home was next to the barber’s shop and she could smell the pomade and shaving soap wafting out as a customer emerged, clean-shaven and shiny-faced. He looked like a poorly paid but respectable clerk, who should have been on his way home to his wife and children, but he lurched across the road and entered the pub. Clara sighed. That would be another family who would go without because the breadwinner frittered away his wages. She had lived with that problem since her mother died nine years ago and Pa had drowned his sorrows in drink and the excitement of the gaming tables. She glanced over her shoulder to make sure that Luke had not followed her before letting herself into the building.

What had once been a happy family home was now divided into cheap rented rooms. Clara was used to hearing the tenants swearing at each other in half a dozen different languages, with children screaming and babies crying. The smell of boiled cabbage mingled with a strong odour of overflowing chamber pots and rising damp. The wallpaper was peeling off in long strips and the paintwork was scuffed. From a room on the top floor she could hear the out-of-work musician playing his trumpet; soon he would have to pawn it in order to buy food and pay the rent. At least they would get a bit of peace and quiet until he begged or borrowed enough money to redeem his instrument. A woman screamed and a door slammed, causing the windows to rattle. It was nothing out of the ordinary. Clara hurried along the narrow hallway and rapped on the kitchen door. Moments later it was opened by Betsy. ‘Where have you been, Clara? Do you know what time it is?’

Out of habit, Clara glanced at the place where the clock used to stand on the mantelshelf, between a spill jar and a brass candlestick. Like everything of any value in the Carter household, it had ended up in the pawnshop.

‘I know I’m late but I couldn’t close up until the last customer had gone.’ Clara slipped off her cloak and hung it from a peg on the wall. ‘Where’s Pa?’

‘Where do you think?’ Betsy asked crossly. ‘He’s gone out and taken every last penny we had.’

‘He said he’s on a winning streak.’ Fourteen-year-old Jane raised herself with the aid of her crutches. ‘There’s tea in the pot, Clara. I’m afraid it’ll be a bit stewed.’

‘That’s all right,’ Clara said hastily. ‘Sit down, Jane. There’s no call for you to wait on me.’

‘But you work such long hours, and I’m at home all day. I feel so useless.’

‘Nonsense.’ Clara moved swiftly to her side and gave her youngest sister a hug. ‘You keep us all sane in a mad world.’

‘There’s nothing to eat.’ Betsy returned to her seat at the table and picked up the hat she had been trimming. ‘I’ve got to have this finished by morning. It’s an order from the woman Lizzie works for. Miss Lavelle promised it would be ready in time, only she’s not the one who’ll have to sit up half the night working by the light of a single candle.’

Clara glanced anxiously at Jane, who had always been delicate but this evening her pallor was even more pronounced and dark shadows underlined her blue eyes. ‘Have you eaten today, Jane?’

‘I don’t get hungry sitting down doing next to nothing.’ Jane picked up the silk flower she had been making and her nimble fingers added another petal. ‘You mustn’t worry about me.’

‘I’ve only had a slice of bread and dripping,’ Betsy said mournfully. ‘I wish I’d gone into service like Lizzie. At least she gets three square meals a day.’

Clara reached for the teapot and filled a cup with the straw-coloured liquid. She took a sip, trying hard not to pull a face. It was lukewarm and bitter, but it revived her enough to take command of the situation. She was the eldest and her younger sisters had been her responsibility since their mother’s death from the illness that had left Jane crippled. Clara went to retrieve her cloak.

‘Where are you going?’ Betsy demanded. ‘I need you to help me.’

‘We’ll all work better on full stomachs.’ Clara opened the door leading into the room that had once been their mother’s parlour and was now their bedroom. She returned with her precious button box tucked under her arm.

‘Not that,’ Jane murmured, her eyes filling with tears.

‘I’ve nothing left to pawn other than the clothes I’m wearing,’ Clara said sadly. ‘I’ll redeem it when Miss Silver pays my wages, but we can’t work if we don’t eat.’

‘It’s just a collection of odd buttons.’ Betsy tossed her dark head. ‘I don’t know why you keep it anyway, Clara. It’s not as if they’re worth much.’

Ignoring her sister’s last remark, Clara braved the snow to walk to the pawnbroker’s in Vere Street. She arrived just as Fleet was about to shut up shop.

He peered at her from beneath shaggy grey eyebrows. ‘Oh, it’s you. I suppose it’s the button box you’ve brought me, yet again?’

Clara slipped inside the shop, eager to be in the warm, if only for a few minutes. The thin soles of her boots were no protection from the cold and they leaked at the best of times. ‘How much, Mr Fleet?’ Her teeth were chattering so uncontrollably that she had difficulty in framing the words.

He took the box from her, opened it and plunged his mittened hand into the colourful assortment, allowing the buttons to trickle through his dirty fingers. Clara held her breath. It made her feel physically sick to see her precious collection manhandled in such a way, but her stomach growled with hunger and she was beginning to feel light-headed. They went through this ritual every time she pawned her treasure, and each time the amount she received grew less. She left the shop with enough money to purchase two baked potatoes and a bunch of watercress, but she had to run to catch up with the man who was trudging homeward, pushing his cart.

Despite Clara’s efforts Betsy remained unimpressed. ‘I’d have thought you could get three taters instead of a bunch of wilted watercress. I hate that stuff.’

‘Don’t be ungrateful,’ Jane said, frowning. ‘I like watercress.’

‘Then you have it and I’ll have your share of the murphy.’

‘Stop it,’ Clara said sharply. ‘You sound like two five-year-olds. We’ll share and share alike. Two po-tatoes was all the man had left in his can, and he gave me the watercress.’

‘I suppose it’s better than nothing.’ Betsy held out her plate. ‘It’s all Pa’s fault anyway. He only ever thinks of himself.’

‘He might win tonight.’ Jane took a small portion of the potato. ‘I’m not very hungry, Betsy. You can have the last piece.’

Clara took her seat at the table. ‘Are you feeling unwell, Jane?’

‘I’m just a bit tired, that’s all. But I’ll be able to finish off the silk flowers before bedtime.’

‘No, you won’t.’ Clara laid her hand on her sister’s thin shoulder. ‘You’ll finish your supper and go straight to bed. I’ll help Betsy with the bonnet and you’ll get your beauty sleep.’

‘It would take more than that to make me pretty,’ Jane said, chuckling.

‘You are by far the best-looking of all of us.’ Clara sent a warning look to Betsy. ‘Isn’t that so?’

‘Yes,’ Betsy agreed reluctantly. ‘You take after Mama with your fair hair and blue eyes and so does Lizzie, only she’s got a turned-up nose, which spoils her looks – in my opinion,’ she added hastily.

‘I’d rather have dark hair and eyes like you and Clara, and Pa. You must admit he’s the most handsome man you’ve ever seen.’

Clara and Betsy exchanged wry smiles. ‘You haven’t been out much,’ Betsy said, laughing. ‘But I suppose Pa is good-looking in his way. The man I marry will have golden hair and hazel eyes, and he’ll be very rich and never go near a gaming table.’ She turned to Clara. ‘What about you, sister? Will you wed Luke and join the Skinner gang?’

Shocked, Clara stared at her in dismay. ‘What do you know about the Skinners?’

‘Everyone knows that they’re the toughest gang in the whole of London,’ Betsy said airily. ‘I heard a customer in the shop talking about them this morning.’

‘I love Luke.’ Jane glanced anxiously at Clara. ‘He’s been very kind to me, and I worry about him. He shouldn’t mix with those bad men.’

‘I’m sure he can take care of himself,’ Clara said firmly. ‘Anyway, I have no intention of marrying Luke – or anyone, come to that. I intend to have a shop in Oxford Street and turn it into a department store like no other.’

‘You’ll need more than a button box to do that.’ Betsy reached out for the last piece of potato. ‘Does anyone want this? It’s a shame for it to go to waste.’

‘No, you have it.’ Jane struggled to her feet. ‘Thank you for finishing what I started, Clara. I think I will go to bed, if you don’t mind.’

‘Of course not.’ Clara watched her sister as she made her way across the kitchen to their bedroom, leaning heavily on her crutches as she negotiated the flagstone floor. ‘I wish I could do something for her, Betsy. It’s no life for a girl of her age, cooped up all day with no one but Pa to talk to, and he’s not always here.’

‘We’d be better off without him, if you ask me.’ Betsy pushed her plate away. ‘I know we don’t earn much, but he shouldn’t use our money to gamble on the turn of a card, or whatever horse takes his fancy at the races.’

‘You’re right, of course, but he’s our father. He can do what he likes, but not for much longer, Betsy. I swear I’ll make things better for us – no matter what it takes.’

Next morning the streets were ankle-deep in snow when Clara made her way to Drury Lane. She opened up as usual, but the only people braving the weather were those who were slipping and sliding their way to their places of business. Miss Silver lived above the shop, but she rarely came down before noon these days. An ageing spinster who had cared for her invalid mother for most of her life, Rebecca Silver was not a well woman. Clara had witnessed the bouts of coughing that laid her low for days, and sometimes for weeks in winter, but the shop was Miss Silver’s living and the customers were her friends. She was not going to retire gracefully, and she sometimes said, in her rare moments of levity, that she would die behind the counter and be buried in a shroud made from Spitalfields silk.

Clara busied herself sweeping the floor and dusting the shelves, and was about to rearrange bolts of muslin when the door opened and her first customer of the day rushed in, bringing with her a gust of ice-cold air and a flurry of snowflakes.

‘Lizzie!’ Clara stared at her sister in surprise. ‘What brings you here?’

‘It’s not from choice, you may depend on that.’ Lizzie stamped the snow from her boots, creating icy puddles on the newly swept floorboards. ‘Miss Jones sent me to buy silk thread to mend Mrs Comerford’s best gown, which madam intends to wear tonight.’ Lizzie glanced out of the window, pulling a face. ‘Although I can’t see her going anywhere unless the weather improves.’

Clara pulled out the drawer containing spools of silks in rainbow hues. The sight of them always made her smile, but Lizzie was frowning ominously. ‘What’s the matter?’ Clara asked anxiously.

‘It has to be an exact match. Miss Jones doesn’t know how madam managed to snag the skirt, but the tear is quite noticeable and so the thread must blend in perfectly.’ Lizzie fished in her reticule and produced a tiny scrap of pink silk.

‘I think that is the nearest.’ Clara picked up a spool and held it against the material. ‘Take it to the door and look at it in a good light.’

‘Such a fuss over a tiny tear.’ Lizzie examined the colours in daylight. ‘You’re right. It’s a good match. I’ll take it.’

Clara wrapped the spool and handed it to her sister. ‘That will be twopence, please.’

‘Put it on Mrs Comerford’s account,’ Lizzie said grandly. ‘Wouldn’t you just love to say that when you went into a shop, Clara?’

‘I hadn’t given it much thought.’ Clara noted the purchase in the ledger Miss Silver kept for account customers.

‘Something’s wrong – it’s Pa, isn’t it?’ Lizzie gave her a searching look. ‘I can tell by your face, Clara. He’s up to his old tricks again, isn’t he?’

‘He’ll never change,’ Clara said, sighing. ‘He went out before I got home yesterday and hadn’t returned when I left this morning.’

‘And your button box is in Fleet’s pop shop, I suppose.’ Lizzie shook her head. ‘You ought to take our father in hand, Clara.’

‘There’s nothing I can say or do that would make any difference.’

‘Then leave home, like I did. I didn’t want to go into service, but now I have my sights set on becoming a lady’s maid, and that will give me all sorts of advantages. Mrs Comerford’s husband might be in trade, but I dare say he has more money than most of the titled toffs that she tries to imitate. It’s quite pathetic the way she fawns and grovels when she entertains Lady this and Lady that to afternoon tea. I have to stand there ready to pick up a napkin if one of them drops it on the floor, and hand round the food, watching them stuff their greedy faces, all the time pretending that I’m invisible.’

‘At least you’re well fed and they provide your clothes. I’m sure it’s worth putting up with their odd ways just for that.’

‘I suppose so, but I go out of my way to help Miss Jones. It’s her job I’m after – that’s if I don’t land a rich husband first.’

Clara closed the ledger with a snap. ‘Have you anyone in particular in mind?’

‘That would be telling,’ Lizzie said with an arch smile. She tucked the spool of thread into her reticule. ‘I must go.’

‘It’s a long walk to Bedford Square in this weather,’ Clara said anxiously.

‘No matter. Miss Jones gave me the cab fare. She trusts me and so does Mrs Comerford.’ Lizzie left the shop with a cheerful wave of her hand and a faint trace of attar of roses in her wake. Clara could only guess that her sister had been sampling Mrs Comerford’s perfume while she dusted her room. Only Lizzie would be so bold. If she were discovered it would mean instant dismissal, but then Lizzie had the cheek of the devil.

Clara was about to replace the drawer when she heard a commotion upstairs. It sounded like someone choking, and she hurried through to the tiny parlour at the back of the shop, coming to a halt at the foot of the staircase. ‘Miss Silver. Are you all right?’

A loud thud was followed by silence and Clara took the stairs two at a time. The door to Miss Silver’s bedroom was open and she was sprawled on the floor, motionless, with her head on one side and a pool of blood soaking into the rag rug. Clara attempted to lift her, but despite her thin frame, Miss Silver’s lifeless body was too heavy for her to move without help. Trying hard not to panic, Clara raced downstairs and burst into the street, peering blindly into a veil of snow. There were only a few people braving the inclement weather and most of them hurried past despite Clara’s pleas for help. Snowflakes were settling in her hair and soaking through the thin material of her plain grey cotton gown. Her feet were already wet from her walk to work that morning, but she was oblivious to any discomfort and growing desperate when she saw a familiar figure striding towards her.

‘Luke,’ she cried. ‘Luke, come here quickly.’

He quickened his pace and hustled her into the shop. ‘What the hell are you doing? You’ll catch your death of cold, running about in weather like this without a coat.’

‘Come upstairs. It’s Miss Silver – I think she’s dead.’

He snatched a woollen shawl from its stand and wrapped it around Clara’s shoulders, despite her protest that it was new stock and would be ruined. ‘Never mind that, you’ll be joining her if you’re not careful. Where is she?’

Teeth chattering, Clara led him through to the parlour and up the narrow staircase. She pointed to the inert body. ‘I tried to lift her but I couldn’t manage on my own.’

‘Wait there.’ Luke entered the room and leaned over to place his hand in front of Miss Silver’s blue lips. He straightened up, shaking his head. ‘She’s a goner, I’m afraid.’ He lifted her with ease and laid her limp body on the bed.

Clara stood in the doorway, hardly able to believe her eyes. ‘She’d been ill with her usual chest complaint, but she gets that every winter. I had no idea that it was so serious.’

‘Has she any relations who ought to be told?’ Luke drew the coverlet over the dead woman’s body.

‘She had no one. I’ve worked for her for five years and in that time she never mentioned any relatives. She spent all her waking hours in the shop and the only time she went out was to visit the warehouses that supplied her merchandise. Poor Miss Silver.’

He crossed the floor, stepping carefully over the blood-stained rug and placed his arm around Clara’s shoulders. ‘You’ve had a shock and you need something to keep out the cold. A glass of rum punch at the White Hart would be just the thing.’

She managed a watery smile. ‘I’d prefer a cup of tea.’

‘Have you eaten today?’ His steel-grey eyes scanned her face and his lips hardened. ‘Did you have supper last night?’

‘Please, Luke, not now. I have to do something for Miss Silver. I can’t just go out and leave the poor soul here.’

‘She’s not going anywhere and she’s past feeling lonely. It’s you I’m worried about, Clara. Be sensible, come with me and let me look after you first, then we’ll go and find someone to take care of the body, and register the death. At least I know how to do that.’ He tweaked her cheek, smiling. ‘In my line of business it happens all too often.’

‘Don’t joke about things like that, especially now. I should have come upstairs first thing and made sure she was all right, but I didn’t want to disturb her. I could have sent for the doctor …’

He gave her a gentle shake. ‘The poor woman was suffering from consumption. You don’t have to be a doctor to see that’s what caused her death. Nothing you could have done would have saved her. Now come with me and we’ll get you warm and dry first. Then we can attend to the departed.’

The undertaker came downstairs, walking slowly as if in a funeral procession. ‘There will be costs, of course, Miss Carter. Has the deceased any family that you know of?’

Clara shook her head. ‘No, sir.’ She had shut the shop out of respect for Miss Silver, and at Luke’s insistence she had drunk a cup of strong, sweet coffee laced with brandy. Her stomach had rebelled at the thought of food, but the alcohol had made her feel drowsy and detached from the proceedings, as if she were in a bad dream and might wake any minute to find that everything had gone back to normal.

Mr Touchstone pursed his lips. ‘Have you any idea as to her financial status? Did Miss Silver leave a will? Otherwise I’m afraid it will have to be a pauper’s burial.’

‘I really don’t know,’ Clara said dazedly. ‘It’s not the sort of thing she would have talked about.’

He glanced at the small escritoire where Miss Silver used to sit and do her paperwork. ‘Might I suggest that you take a look and see if she has left any instructions? The poor lady must have known that her condition was serious and unlikely to improve.’

‘It seems so heartless talking about money and what she was worth when she’s lying upstairs, cold and lifeless.’ Close to tears, Clara turned her head away.

Luke had been standing by the fire, having refused to leave until Clara was ready to go home. ‘I’ll take a look, Touchstone. I’m a friend of Miss Carter’s and I didn’t know Miss Silver, so I can approach the matter in a more practical manner.’

‘It would be beneficial if we could sort something out, sir.’ Mr Touchstone picked up his top hat and made a move towards the shop door. ‘I’ll arrange to collect the deceased. Let me know how you want me to proceed.’ He nodded to Clara. ‘I’ll be back shortly with the hearse.’ He let himself out into the street, closing the door behind him.

Clara turned to Luke, who was going through the papers in Miss Silver’s desk. ‘That’s private. I don’t think you ought to be doing that.’

He turned to her with a satisfied grin. ‘I don’t need to look any further. I’ve found her will. It’s lucky that the old girl was so good at keeping things neat and tidy.’ He handed the document to Clara. ‘You’d best have a look at it and see if she had enough put by for a decent burial.’




Chapter Two (#u4ae19803-2512-502e-8c41-8d5ced390335)


A pale wintry sun had struggled through the mass of pot-bellied clouds that threatened yet more snow, and the north wind whipped at Clara’s black veil as she stood beside Jane at the graveside in Brookwood Cemetery. They were the only mourners present and had travelled on the Necropolis railway from Waterloo Bridge station to give Miss Silver a proper send-off. The oak coffin with shiny brass handles had been lowered into the frozen heart of the hard earth, and the vicar had intoned the words of the interment. He acknowledged Clara with a nod and strode off with unseemly haste to the relative warmth of the chapel.

The whiteness of the fallen snow was in stark contrast to the dark green of the fir trees and the bare branches of the elms that surrounded the cemetery, and Clara shivered in spite of the thick woollen cloak she had purchased especially for the occasion. The musty smell of the second-hand shop still clung to the folds, but that was the least of her worries.

Jane squeezed her sister’s hand. ‘She’s not suffering any more, Clara.’

‘I know, but I miss her all the same. She was kind to me in her own way.’

‘She must have been fond of you or she wouldn’t have left you everything she had.’

‘I know and I still find it hard to believe.’ Clara tucked Jane’s small hand into the crook of her arm. ‘The least I could do was to give her the first-class funeral, although it’s sad to think that we’re the only ones who came to mourn her.’

Jane tugged at her arm. ‘Look over there. Do you know that fellow? He seems to be waving to us.’

Clara turned to see a young man slipping and sliding on the hard-packed snow as he hurried towards them. He was clutching a bunch of wilting Christmas roses in one hand and waving frantically with the other. He skidded to a halt, sending a powdering of snow onto the coffin. ‘I am too late. I was afraid I would be.’ He hesitated, peering at Clara over the top of his steel-rimmed spectacles. ‘I say, I’m dashed sorry to intrude. I’m not even sure if I’ve got the right funeral.’

Clara eyed him curiously. His clothes were well-cut, but his shirt cuffs were slightly frayed and his black jacket was unbuttoned to reveal a scarlet-and-gold brocade waistcoat, which was in stark contrast to his otherwise sober appearance. ‘This is Miss Silver’s grave. Who are you looking for, sir?’

‘Then I am in the right place.’ He doffed his top hat, revealing a wild mop of auburn curls tinted with chestnut in the feeble rays of the sun. ‘I’m her nephew, Nathaniel Silver. How do you do?’

‘How do you do?’ Clara replied automatically. ‘I’m sorry, sir. I didn’t know Miss Silver had any living relatives. I really would have—’

He held up his hand, cutting her short. ‘A family feud, ma’am. Aunt Rebecca and my late mother fell out long ago. A bitter quarrel over a gentleman, so I believe. I haven’t seen my aunt since I was a child, but I read the announcement of her demise in The Times, and I don’t know quite why, but I felt I had to come here today.’

‘He’s after the shop,’ Jane whispered. ‘Don’t speak to him, Clara.’

Nathaniel blinked and took a step backwards. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about, Miss, er – I didn’t catch your name.’

‘That’s because I didn’t tell you,’ Jane said sharply. ‘You’ve left it a bit late to show concern for your aunt.’

Clara was quick to see the look of embarrassment cross Nathaniel’s mobile features, followed by one of shame. ‘It’s none of our business, Jane.’ She held her hand out to him. ‘I’m Clara Carter and this is my sister Jane. I used to work in Miss Silver’s drapery in Drury Lane.’

Nathaniel grasped her hand and shook it. ‘I didn’t know she had a shop. No one spoke of her at home.’

‘It’s very cold,’ Clara said, glancing anxiously at Jane, whose pinched features were turning blue. ‘We have to catch the train back to London.’

‘There’s little point remaining here now.’ Nathaniel dropped the drooping flowers onto the coffin. ‘I’m sorry, Aunt Rebecca. I should have tried to find you after Mama died.’ He shot a sideways glance at Clara. ‘I don’t suppose she can hear me.’

‘Who knows?’ Clara managed a smile even though her lips were stiff with cold. ‘Come along, Jane. Let’s go before we freeze to death.’

Nathaniel proffered his arm to Jane. ‘I seem to have difficulty keeping upright on the icy surface. Would you care to assist me, Miss Jane?’

Clara held her breath. Jane was acutely conscious of the leg irons she was forced to wear, and for a moment it looked as though she was going to react angrily, but then, to Clara’s surprise, her sister subsided into a fit of giggles. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll look after you, Mr Silver.’ She handed him her crutch and allowed him to take her arm.

Holding on to each other in an attempt to remain upright, they negotiated the frozen paths leading to the place where carriages waited to take mourners to Brookwood station. Nathaniel suggested they share the cab and it would have been churlish to refuse, although Clara was feeling acutely uncomfortable in his company. Nathaniel Silver seemed like a nice young man, but he could challenge his aunt’s will if he so chose; she could see her bright future vanishing before it had even begun.

It was a short ride to the station and Nathaniel insisted on paying the cabby, which only added to Clara’s embarrassment. ‘This is where we must say goodbye,’ she said as the train came to a halt with a grinding of the brakes and a loud burst of steam.

‘I’m going to London too.’ Nathaniel opened the carriage door and helped Jane board the train in such a casual way that she did not protest her independence. He proffered his hand to Clara and waited until she was safely settled before climbing in after them. He placed his hat on the luggage rack and sat down.

Clara felt the need to make conversation. ‘Do you live in London, Mr Silver?’

‘I have a room in Great Queen Street.’

‘And how do you make your living?’ Jane asked eagerly.

‘I don’t think that’s any of our business.’ Clara turned her head, hiding her embarrassment by gazing out of the window. It was bad enough having to travel to town with Miss Silver’s long-lost nephew without Jane making things more difficult by asking personal questions.

‘I’m a musician,’ Nathaniel said easily. ‘I play the violin.’

‘Are you in an orchestra?’ Jane nudged her sister. ‘Did you hear that, Clara? Isn’t it exciting?’

Clara shot a covert glance at Nathaniel. ‘Yes, very.’

‘I’m a classical violinist, but at present I’m working on a composition of my own.’

‘Does that mean you don’t perform in public?’ Jane asked. ‘What a pity. I was hoping we could hear you play. How do you live if you have no work?’

‘Hush, Jane,’ Clara said, frowning. ‘You don’t ask questions like that.’

‘Why not? It’s nothing to be ashamed of. Pa is always looking for work.’

‘I’m sure that Mr Silver is not interested in our problems.’ Clara glanced at Nathaniel and was relieved to find that he seemed to be enjoying her younger sister’s naïve comments.

‘I have a private income, Miss Jane, and if I get short of funds I take my violin out on to the streets, and if people like what I play they put money in my hat.’

‘What a good idea.’ Jane clapped her hands. ‘I wish I could do something like that, but I cannot play an instrument, although I do have quite a good singing voice.’

‘It’s not a comfortable way to earn a living in weather like this,’ Nathaniel said, chuckling.

Clara was consumed with guilt. Here was a decent young man, a close relative of Miss Silver’s, who should have inherited her property and yet it had all been left to her, a humble draper’s assistant. She cleared her throat. ‘Your aunt left the shop to me, and a small legacy. I didn’t know that she had family living or I would have tried harder to trace her heirs.’

‘You weren’t to know of my existence, Miss Carter. The fault is mine in allowing such a state of affairs to continue. I was fond of Aunt Rebecca when I was a child.’

‘You’re her nephew. By rights, everything should have come to you.’

‘No, not at all.’ Nathaniel met her anxious gaze with a steady look. ‘I did nothing for my aunt, but it’s obvious that she liked and trusted you. It was her intention that you carried on after her and I would not want to go against her wishes.’

‘You’re a toff,’ Jane said, clapping her hands. ‘You see, Clara? Mr Silver agrees with his aunt.’

‘I do indeed.’ Nathaniel nodded vigorously. ‘It was pure chance that we met today, and for that I’m very grateful. I hope we three might meet again under happier circumstances.’

‘I’d like to hear you play,’ Jane said without giving Clara a chance to think of a suitable answer. ‘I don’t go out very often because I’m a cripple, but I’d like to see your performance if you’re playing somewhere near Wych Street. That’s where we live – opposite the Angel Inn.’

‘I think I can do better than that, Miss Jane. I’m going to audition for the orchestra at the Gaiety Theatre. It’s not what I trained for, but it’s a job and keeps me in practice. If they take me on I’ll see to it that you and your sister have tickets.’

Jane’s eyes shone. ‘That’s wonderful, but what about Lizzie? She’s our other sister, although she’s in service so she doesn’t live with us now. Can she have a ticket as well? And there’s Betsy too. She loves music.’

‘Jane, really,’ Clara said, exasperated. ‘You should know better than to ask for things.’

‘I’m sorry, Mr Silver.’ Jane gave him a winning smile. ‘But I’m sure my other sisters would like to come, too.’

He held up his hand as Clara was about to protest. ‘It would be my pleasure to give you as many tickets as you need, providing, of course, that I get the job.’

‘You will get it, I’m sure of that,’ Jane said enthusiastically. ‘What do you think, Clara?’

Nathaniel took off his spectacles and polished them on a grubby handkerchief. ‘You don’t have to answer that, Miss Carter.’

Clara met his quizzical gaze with a smile. His myopic blue eyes twinkled and she found herself warming to him. ‘I’m sure Jane is right, Mr Silver.’

He replaced his glasses and tucked the hanky back in his pocket. ‘Thank you, Miss Carter.’

‘Oh, please!’ Jane looked from one to the other. ‘Do we have to be so stuffy? Might we not use first names now? After all, you both have Miss Silver in common. She would have introduced you formally, had she still been with us.’

‘Aunt Rebecca might approve,’ Nathanial said, smiling. ‘What do you think, Miss Carter?’

‘I think she would be turning in her grave if we overstepped the boundaries, Mr Silver. She was a stickler for etiquette. I was only a little older than Jane when I first worked for her, and she taught me such a lot. I’ll always be grateful to her.’

‘Well, I am going to call you Nathaniel,’ Jane said firmly, ‘and you must call me Jane. If my sister wants to be stuffy, that’s her business.’

‘Very well, Jane. But we must allow your sister to do as she sees fit. I am, after all, a complete stranger.’

‘But not for much longer,’ Jane insisted. ‘You must call on us, mustn’t he, Clara?’

‘Yes, that would be nice,’ Clara said vaguely. She sat back, allowing Jane to chatter, and Nathaniel answered her sister’s eager questions with good-humoured ease. Clara found herself liking him despite the problems that must inevitably arise from too close a friendship with Miss Silver’s nephew, and it was good to see Jane enjoying herself. Her disability had left her a virtual prisoner in their home, making silk flowers and trimmings for the milliner. It was poorly paid work, but every penny counted, and Clara herself had spent long hours in the shop, coming home late in the evening too exhausted to be much company for her youngest sister.

They parted outside the house in Wych Street. Nathaniel had insisted on sharing a cab from Waterloo Bridge station as he was going their way, and he refused to accept payment for their part of the journey. Clara was at once grateful and mortified. She had not wanted him to see where they lived, but he seemed to have made a great hit with Jane, and she could not deny her sister the pleasure of having the full attention of such a pleasant young man. Jane was bubbling over as she made her way down the dark corridor to their tiny apartment.

Clara opened the door and was met by the sight of her father slumped over the table with Betsy and Luke standing over him.

‘What happened?’ Clara cried anxiously. ‘Is he ill?’

‘Is he dead?’ Jane clapped her hands to her mouth, her eyes wide with horror.

Luke shook his head. ‘He’s dead drunk. I found him like this and I brought him home.’

‘He’s been missing for three days,’ Betsy said angrily. ‘His pockets are empty, as usual. We should leave him here and move into the rooms above your shop, Clara.’

‘Your shop?’ Luke looked from one to the other. ‘What are you talking about?’

‘It’s all right, Betsy. I’ll tell Luke all about it.’ She shooed Jane towards the bedroom they shared. ‘Take off your wet things, love. I’ll look after Pa.’

Pale-faced and trembling, Jane hesitated in the doorway. ‘He won’t die, will he?’

‘No, of course not. He’s drunk too much rum, but he’ll get over it. Now do as I say and then we’ll have supper.’

Jane took one last look at her father’s inert figure before going into the bedroom and closing the door. Clara stepped in between Luke and Betsy, who were glaring at each other. ‘Help me get Pa into bed, Luke. And, Betsy, put the kettle on. Jane and I have had a long day and we’re chilled to the bone.’

‘I’m not your slave,’ Betsy grumbled, but she picked up the kettle and went out into the back yard where they drew their water from a communal pump.

Luke hefted Alfred Carter over his shoulder. ‘Where do you want him?’

Clara pointed to a truckle bed in the far corner of the room. ‘Over there.’ She crossed the floor and folded back the coverlet.

Alfred groaned when Luke dumped him unceremoniously on the wooden bed, but he did not open his eyes.

‘Dead drunk,’ Luke said grimly. ‘He must have been pouring booze down his throat for days.’

‘I don’t know where he got the money.’ Clara covered her father with the patchwork quilt and tucked him in.

‘He’ll have put it on the slate and that will have added to his debts. I did what I could, Clara, but I’m not going to cough up sums like that simply to get your old man off the hook. He’s a millstone round your neck and you ought to walk away and leave him to it.’

‘Oh, but I couldn’t do that.’ Clara stared at him, horrified. ‘He can’t manage on his own. He never has any money because he gambles it away, and he wouldn’t eat properly.’

‘Then let the old devil starve. He’s a lost cause.’ Luke turned away from the bed where Alfred lay slack-mouthed and snoring loudly.

Clara was prevented from answering by Betsy, who erupted into the kitchen stamping ice off her boots. ‘The pump is frozen solid. I had to scoop snow off the privy roof.’ She slammed the kettle down on the range. ‘That’s the last of the coal, Clara, and there’s nothing in the larder for supper. It’s all very well for you and Jane to pay for the old girl’s funeral and go gallivanting off on the train, but that money should have fed us for the month.’

‘It was Miss Silver’s money,’ Clara protested. She shot a sideways glance at Luke. ‘The will has to go to probate, but she left me everything. Giving her a proper send-off was the least I could do.’

Luke took a handful of coins from his pocket and tossed them onto the table. ‘This will keep you girls going, but I meant what I said. If you stay here you’ll get a visit from Patches Bragg’s men. It was her gaming house where I found your pa, and you don’t want to owe Patches money. She takes her debts in the most painful ways imaginable, if you get my meaning.’

‘I understand,’ Clara said, wincing at the thought. She knew of Patches Bragg – everyone in Seven Dials and the surrounding area knew of the French woman who was a legend in the criminal underworld, and ran her gang with more brutality than any of the other gangland bosses, including the Skinner brothers. Scarred by smallpox, Amelie Bragg wore the once-fashionable patches to cover the worst of her blemishes, and it was these that had earned her the nickname. Clara had seen her on one occasion, and that was enough to convince her that Luke’s warning was timely.

‘You must move out of here,’ Luke insisted. ‘I can’t protect you if you stay. Leave your father to sort out his own problems.’

‘He’s right,’ Betsy said urgently. ‘I’ve heard what that woman does to people who can’t pay up, and I don’t want my face scarred like hers.’

‘Are you sure that Pa owes her money?’ Clara had to ask the question, but Luke’s grim expression was answer enough.

‘You’ve got the shop. You’ll be safe there as long as Patches doesn’t find out where you are, but you can’t take Alfred with you.’ Luke met Clara’s anxious gaze with a tight-lipped smile. ‘He’s brought it on himself. You don’t have to share his punishment.’

‘You’re right, Luke.’ Betsy thumped the kettle down on the table. ‘I’m going to pack a bag and you’ve got to take us to Drury Lane, Clara. I refuse to spend another night in this place.’

Clara looked from one to the other. Luke’s jaw hardened and his mouth tightened into a grim line, and Betsy faced her with a determined toss of her head. But Clara was not going to be browbeaten into doing something she knew was wrong. No matter what their father did, he was still their flesh and blood. ‘No,’ she said firmly.

‘No?’ Luke stared at her, frowning. ‘What do you mean by that, Clara?’

‘Exactly what I said. I’m not abandoning Pa to the mercy of Patches Bragg.’

‘You’re crazy.’ Betsy flounced into the bedroom and slammed the door.

Clara faced Luke with a defiant lift of her chin. ‘I want to speak to Patches, woman to woman.’

‘What?’ He stared at her as if she had spoken in a foreign tongue.

‘You heard me, Luke. I want to meet this woman and reason with her. I’ll offer to pay back what Pa owes bit by bit.’

‘She’ll slit your throat as soon as look at you, or she’ll set her roughs on you. Either way, you won’t come out of there with your pretty face as it is now. I won’t allow it.’

‘You can’t stop me. If you don’t tell me where to find her I’ll walk the length and breadth of Seven Dials until I come across someone who will.’

‘You’re out of your mind, girl. Be sensible, Clara. You don’t know what Patches is like.’

‘Maybe not, but she’s a woman like me. I’ll appeal to her better nature.’

‘Patches Bragg isn’t a woman – she’s a creature from hell and you are a simpleton. Don’t blame me if she cuts your throat – or worse.’

‘Then you’ll take me to her?’

He took a deep breath. ‘In the morning, but tonight I want you to take your sisters to the shop and spend the night there.’

‘No. Not good enough. By morning Pa might be lying in a pool of blood and I’ll have that on my conscience for the rest of my life. I’m going now, Luke – with or without you.’

It had stopped snowing, but the temperature had plummeted and the filthy streets were buried beneath a blanket of crisp white snow. The moon had emerged from behind the clouds and the world around them sparkled with frosty light, but Clara was oblivious to everything other than the need to find the woman who quite literally held Alfred Carter’s life in her blood-stained hands. Luke strode along with fierce intent, and she had to struggle through the deep snow in order to keep up with him, but she did not protest. If she hesitated she might lose courage.

He came to a halt in front of the narrow alleyway that led into Angel Court. ‘This is where I have to leave you. But you can still change your mind and come home with me.’

She shook her head. ‘No, I can’t. I’ve come this far and I must do what I set out to do or I’d never forgive myself.’

‘You are a stubborn woman, and I was a fool to bring you here.’ Luke glanced up and down the street, but few people had braved the freezing temperatures, and an eerie silence made their surroundings seem dreamlike and unreal. ‘There’s time to change your mind. I doubt if they’ll come for Carter tonight.’

‘That’s not what you said earlier.’

‘It wasn’t as cold as this then. Everyone has gone to ground, and that’s where we ought to be. Come on, girl. Be sensible, or do I have to throw you over my shoulder and carry you home?’

‘I’m not giving up so easily.’ She turned on her heel and before he had a chance to carry out his threat she entered the gaping maw of the alley. The snow had not penetrated this far and her eyes took a while to grow accustomed to the darkness. The air was thick with the smell of rotting vegetables and night soil, and the buildings that towered above her were shuttered and silent. All her instincts told her to run away and the hairs on the back of her neck stood on end like the hackles on an angry dog, but she kept walking. The alley opened out into a small court surrounded by equally tall buildings with only a scrap of midnight-blue sky visible and a single, solitary star twinkled at her as if it were wishing her well.

A faint glimmer of candlelight flickered in a basement window, and Clara was about to knock on the door of what might once have been the home of a respectable family, when it opened suddenly and a hand shot out. She was dragged unceremoniously into the building.

‘What d’you want? You ain’t one of the usual girls.’

A lantern held close to her face dazzled her so that she could not see her assailant, but his voice was gruff and his breath smelled strongly of stale beer and rotten teeth.

‘I don’t know who you think I am, but you’re mistaken.’ Clara was nauseated and terrified, but she was not going to give up now. She stood her ground. ‘I want to see Patches Bragg.’

‘Does you indeed? Well, you got a nerve, I’ll say that for you. You must be one of them salvationists, come to rescue our souls. Patches eats girls like you for breakfast.’

‘I’m here on a private matter,’ Clara said hastily. ‘I’d like to speak to her and then I’ll leave.’

‘That’ll be up to her.’ He leaned closer. ‘Take a tip from Old Tom. Go home now and forget you ever heard of Patches Bragg.’

‘Thank you, but it’s really urgent. Please take me to her.’

Old Tom held the lantern higher and for the first time she could see him clearly. His snuff-stained whiskers and wispy white beard contrasted oddly with his shiny bald pate. He shook his head. ‘You might live to regret this, but if you insist you’d best follow me.’ He ambled off along a narrow corridor and came to a halt at the far end where he tapped out a pattern of knocks on the door. It opened, and a wave of sound and the smell of raw alcohol, tobacco smoke and other unpleasant odours enveloped Clara in a noxious cloud.

‘Come this way.’ Old Tom walked past the man at the door, who leered at Clara, giving her a gap-toothed grin. ‘Keep yer hands to yerself, Bones. This one wants words with the boss.’

The sound of Bones’ cackling laughter followed them down the steep flight of stairs to the basement, which opened out into a large room, hazy with smoke. It was heated by an enormous range, which took up most of one wall. The fug was sickening, although it did not seem to worry the male occupants and the gaudily dressed women, most of whom were the worse for drink. They lolled against the men, who seemed to be more intent on their cards than the charms of their female companions. Piles of coins lay in front of the players and no one took the slightest notice of Clara.

Old Tom led her to the bar, where a large woman perched on a stool with a glass of gin in her hand. Her low-cut gown exposed a vast expanse of bosom with the odd patch dotted here and there, and when she turned her head to look at Clara it was easy to see why she had earned her nickname. At a quick glance Clara guessed that Patches Bragg must be fifty years old or thereabouts. Her grey hair and sagging jowls might give her the appearance of a respectable matron, but her heavy-lidded grey eyes were sharp and shrewd. Her thin lips seemed to disappear beneath folds from her plump cheeks, which were heavily rouged and with patches carefully applied to conceal disfiguring scars. It was a fashion that Patches’ grandmother might have adopted many years ago, and it was one that made her instantly recognisable.

As the pale eyes raked over her, Clara felt a shiver of fear run down her spine, but she held her head high.

‘Who have we here, Old Tom?’ Patches demanded in a gruff voice with just a hint of a French accent.

‘She’s come wanting to see you, boss. I never asked her name.’

‘She don’t look like one of them salvationists.’ Patches beckoned to Clara. ‘Come closer so I can get a better look at you. What’s your name and what d’you want with me?’

‘My name is Clara Carter. I think you know my pa.’

Patches raised the glass to her lips and drained the contents. She thumped it down on the counter where the barman was quick to add a generous tot of gin. ‘I know many men. What’s so special about your pa?’

‘His name is Alfred Carter and I know he comes here. I think he owes you money and I want to come to an arrangement.’

Patches threw her head back and laughed. ‘Well, here’s a novelty. Are you saying he ain’t good for what he owes?’

‘I don’t know how much it is, but I’ll make sure you’re paid every last penny. I just need time.’

‘Don’t that beat everything you’ve ever heard?’ Patches downed another mouthful of her drink, but her eyes narrowed to slits in her pudgy face and the black stars and moons moved closer together. ‘Suppose I don’t like that arrangement? What will you do then?’

‘My pa is a good man at heart, but he hasn’t been the same since Ma died and my youngest sister was crippled by the same disease.’

‘Stop, you’re breaking my heart.’ Patches leaned closer, fixing Clara with a hard stare. ‘Your old man is a gambler and you’d be better off with him out of the way, which is what will happen if I don’t get my money in full.’

‘How much does he owe you?’ The words came out in a single breath – a whisper of desperation. Clara was scared, but determined to see this through, whatever the cost.

Patches straightened up and turned to the barman. ‘Alf Carter, Wych Street, Bob. How much is on the slate?’

He reached beneath the counter, produced a dog-eared notebook and flipped through the pages. ‘Eight guineas, boss.’

‘Eight guineas it is then, and to show you that I’m a fair woman I won’t add any interest, but I want my money.’

‘That’s a huge sum.’ Clara stifled a gasp of horror. Eight guineas was more than she earned in a whole year. A wave of anger washed over her. How could Pa have been so profligate with the money they needed to survive?

‘But I ain’t such a bad woman,’ Patches continued cheerfully. ‘I’ll give you three days to find the cash.’

Clara licked her dry lips, forcing herself to remain calm. ‘And if I can’t raise that much?’

‘Put it this way, my duck, your pa has two good legs at the moment. He might find it difficult to walk again if I don’t get my money on time. My boys are experts when it comes to maiming and crippling them as get on the wrong side of Patches Bragg. Do you understand, sweetheart?’

Lost for words, Clara nodded.

‘Three days, Miss Carter. Not an hour more. Now get her out of here, Old Tom. I’m sick of looking at her milkmaid complexion.’




Chapter Three (#u4ae19803-2512-502e-8c41-8d5ced390335)


The chill outside hit Clara like a slap in the face. Quite how she arrived on the pavement outside the alley she could not remember, but taking deep breaths of ice-laden air brought her abruptly back to her senses. She looked round, half hoping to find Luke waiting for her, but he was nowhere to be seen. It was only now that the impact of what had happened in the illegal gaming club hit her with full force. Eight guineas was a small fortune and she had about as much chance of raising such a sum in three days as she had of flying to the moon. She wrapped her shawl around her slender body and set off for home, ignoring lewd suggestions from the few men who were about on such a night, and the shrill threats from the women who braved the winter weather to solicit from doorways or open windows. She was numbed not only by the cold and the fact that Luke had abandoned her, but by the sheer impossibility of her situation. Patches Bragg was not like any other woman she had ever met and Clara felt completely out of her depth. Miss Silver might have been a martinet at times, but she was a saint by comparison.

Clara arrived home to find Betsy waiting for her in a state of considerable agitation. ‘Where’ve you been? I thought something terrible must have happened to you. Where’s Luke?’

‘He abandoned me, if you must know.’ Clara sank down onto a chair by the fire, which had burned down to a few desultory embers. A loud snore from the truckle bed made her glance over her shoulder. ‘I don’t know how he can sleep after what he’s done.’

‘What happened? You’re scaring me, Clara.’

‘Pa owes Patches Bragg eight guineas and she’s given me three days to find the money.’

Betsy’s eyes widened. ‘That’s a fortune. How are we to raise such a sum?’

‘I don’t know, and that’s the truth.’

‘What will happen if Pa doesn’t pay up?’

‘He’ll end up a cripple or worse. Luke was right about Patches. She’s a bad woman, but Pa is to blame too. His gambling has led us to this.’

A loud knock on the door made Clara jump to her feet. ‘They can’t have come for him already.’

‘I told you we should have left Pa and gone to your shop.’

‘Clara, are you there?’ Luke’s anxious voice was followed by another rap on the door.

She hurried to open it. ‘Where were you when I needed you? I had to walk home on my own—’ She broke off at the sight of his bloodied face. ‘What happened to you?’

He closed the door and leaned against it. ‘You might say that I had an argument with a lamppost.’

‘You’ve been fighting again, Luke Foyle. When is all this going to stop?’ Clara guided him to the chair she had just vacated and pressed him down on its seat. ‘Sit still and I’ll bathe your face.’ She plucked a towel from the rail and handed it to him. ‘There should be some warm water in the kettle.’ She turned to Betsy, who was standing by the bedroom door, pale-faced and trembling. ‘You look exhausted. You should get some sleep.’

‘I don’t want to be murdered in my bed. We’ve got to get out of here, Clara.’

Luke staunched his bleeding nose with the scrap of towelling. ‘You’re safe for tonight. I saw to that, but I can’t be here to protect you girls all the time. You need to leave this place and Alfred must get as far away from here as he can, if he wants remain in one piece.’

Clara’s hands trembled as she filled a bowl with tepid water. ‘Pa has to leave London, and when he sobers up I’ll tell him so.’ She took the towel and tore off a strip, using it to bathe the gash on Luke’s forehead. ‘How did you get this?’

‘I told you that Patches Bragg and the Skinners don’t get along. They’ve been fighting for control of Seven Dials for years, and I decided to go back to the club to make sure you were all right when I happened to bump into Patches’ son, Dagobert.’

‘You bumped into his fist, by the look of you,’ Clara said crossly. ‘You’ll have a black eye in the morning and I wouldn’t be surprised if your nose is broken. Why couldn’t you just walk away?’

‘You don’t know Bert Bragg.’

Momentarily diverted, Clara paused with the bloodied cloth in her hand. ‘If he’s anything like his mother I’d prefer to keep it that way.’

‘You’re right, he’s a nasty piece of work and you must keep clear of him.’

‘Maybe you should take your own advice. Just look at the state of you.’

‘If you think I’ll walk away from a fight, you don’t really know me, Clara.’ Luke snatched the damp cloth from her and held it to his bleeding nose. ‘He came off worst, if you’re interested. I left him lying in the snow in White Hart Court. Patches won’t like that, but it will take her mind of your father’s debts for a while.’

‘And if this man is as bad as you say he is, you’ll be the next one who has to leave London.’ Clara emptied the contents of the bowl into the stone sink.

‘Not me, sweetheart.’ Luke rose to his feet. ‘I’m going to marry you and raise a family of boys who’ll keep the streets free from Bert Bragg and his mother.’

‘That’s not what I want for myself.’ Clara pushed him away as he moved to embrace her. ‘I want to be free from gamblers and gangsters altogether, and I intend to make a better life for myself and any children I might have in the future.’

Luke’s eyes narrowed. ‘I want a wife who’ll pay attention when I give her good advice.’

‘Then I am not the right woman for you, Luke Foyle.’

His expression lightened, and his lips twitched. ‘You’ll change your mind, sweetheart. You’ve had a bad time and you’re tired so I’ll leave and let you get some rest.’ He took her hands in his. ‘I might be able to find the money to get Alfred out of harm’s way, so sleep easy, my darling.’ He leaned over to brush her lips with a kiss and was gone before she had a chance to argue.

‘There you are,’ Betsy said triumphantly. ‘You should be nicer to Luke. He’s going to take care of us.’

‘That’s what worries me.’ Clara set about clearing spatters of blood from the table. ‘I won’t have anything to do with money gained from crime. I wish I’d never met Luke Foyle.’

‘You don’t mean that, Clara.’

‘Yes, I do. I’ve had enough of living like this, and I’m going to do something about it.’

‘Like what?’

‘Miss Silver left the shop to me. I intend to build up the business and expand when the time is right.’

‘That’s just a dream.’

‘Maybe, but sometimes dreams come true, especially if you’re prepared to work hard. If everything goes to plan I’ll take you on as head of the millinery department.’

‘And maybe one day we’ll go to bed with a full belly. I’m starving, Clara.’

‘So am I, but we have the money Luke loaned us, and first thing I’ll go to the bakery and get some fresh bread, and a pot of jam from Mr Sainsbury’s shop in Drury Lane.’

‘Could we run to a pat of butter?’

‘I’ll see what I can do. Now go to bed and I’ll just make sure that Pa is all right, and then I’ll be in. Don’t wake Jane; she needs her sleep, poor child.’

Alfred lay groaning and calling for water when Clara entered the kitchen next morning. It was still dark outside but the snow made it seem that dawn had come early. Clara lit a candle and went over to the truckle bed.

‘I suppose you’re feeling very ill this morning, Pa. It really does serve you right.’

He covered his eyes with his hand. ‘My head hurts and my throat is parched. A cup of tea would go down well, Clara.’

‘I’m sure it would, Pa. But we have no coal, so I can’t boil the kettle. You’ll have to make do with melted snow because the pump is frozen solid.’

Alfred raised his head only to fall back against the pillow. ‘What have we come to?’

‘What indeed, Pa. And whose fault is it that we’re penniless and in debt?’

‘Don’t go on, girl. I’m a sick man.’

‘You’re suffering from the effects of drink, so don’t expect sympathy from any of us.’

‘What have I done to have such ungrateful children?’

‘You’ve run up gaming debts of eight guineas, Pa. That’s why we’re in this state.’

He sat up and this time he remained upright. ‘How do you know that?’

‘I went to see Patches Bragg last evening and she’s given you three days to find the money, or else …’ Clara did not need to finish the sentence. She could see by her father’s expression that he understood only too well. ‘You have to get away from London, Pa. I agree with Luke on that.’

‘Luke? Where is the boy? He can help me.’

‘No, Pa. He can’t. You have to go somewhere the Braggs won’t find you.’

‘But I can’t leave my girls. Who would look after you?’ Alfred’s once-handsome face creased into lines of distress, adding ten years to his age.

‘We will be safer if you aren’t here,’ Clara said, moderating her tone. Despite his failings he was still her father and she could remember the time when he had been her hero. ‘I can take care of Betsy and Jane, and Lizzie is all right where she is now. Is there anywhere you can go?’

Alfred clutched his forehead, rocking backwards and forwards. ‘I can’t think. I don’t know what to do …’

‘It’s all right, Pa.’ She patted his hand. ‘I have to go out and get food and a bag of coal so that we can light the fire. We have three days to find a way out of this – three days, that’s all.’

She put on her outdoor things, picked up a basket and set off for the bakery.

When she returned she found to her surprise that Betsy had cleaned the grate and laid twists of newspaper and the last of the kindling ready to light to fire. Alfred had raised himself from his bed and had attempted to shave in cold water, but had cut himself and was holding the towel to his cheek.

Clara gave the shop boy a farthing for carrying the coal and she set the basket on the table. She shot a wary glance at her father. ‘I’ll get the fire going and make a pot of tea. We’ll talk after we’ve eaten, Pa. But we have to come to a decision soon.’

‘I’ve filled the kettle with snow,’ Betsy volunteered. She peered into the basket. ‘Did you get butter and jam?’

‘It was a choice between the two, so I bought jam.’ Clara set to and lit the fire before placing the kettle on the hob.

Betsy was already slicing the loaf and Jane emerged from the bedroom, yawning and blinking as a ray of sunlight filtered through the window. ‘Bread and jam – how lovely.’ She shot a wary glance at her father. ‘Are you quite recovered now, Pa?’

Alfred bowed his head. ‘I’m so sorry, girls. You deserve a better father. I’ve let you all down and I’m ashamed of myself.’

‘That’s as may be.’ Betsy slapped a slice of bread onto a plate and thrust it in front of him. ‘Being sorry isn’t going to help us out of this tangle.’

Clara shot her a warning glance. ‘Pa knows what he’s done, Betsy. Give him a chance to put things right.’

‘I have a cousin who lives on the Dorset coast,’ Alfred said slowly. ‘Is the tea ready yet, Clara? My mouth is so dry I can hardly speak.’

‘Be patient. It will take a while longer. What were you going to tell us about your cousin?’

‘I haven’t seen Jim since we were boys. I doubt if we would recognise each other now, but we were friends once.’

‘Where is Dorset?’ Betsy gave the kettle a shake as if encouraging it to come to the boil. ‘I have to leave for work in a few minutes. I need a hot drink to ward off the cold.’

‘Never mind that now.’ Clara took a seat next to her father. ‘Dorset is a long way from here. You’d be safe there, Pa.’

Alfred gazed at her, his bloodshot eyes swimming with tears. ‘But what would I do there, Clara? Jim is a fisherman and he lives in a tiny thatched cottage. Can you see me in such a place?’

She laid her hand on his arm. ‘I can see you alive and well, living by the sea. You know what will happen to you if you remain here.’

‘You have to go, Pa,’ Betsy said firmly. ‘You haven’t any choice in the matter.’

‘I haven’t got the fare, girls.’

‘Then you’ll just have to walk.’ Betsy snatched her bonnet off the peg and rammed it on her head. ‘I’ll be late if I don’t go now, and I haven’t had my cup of tea.’ She picked up her shawl and hurried from the room, muttering beneath her breath.

‘What have I done?’ Alfred held his head in his hands. ‘What have I brought you all to?’

‘It’s too late to worry about that now.’ Clara rose to her feet. ‘Betsy’s right, though. You have to leave London and the sooner the better. The week’s takings have yet to be paid into the bank. I’ll borrow enough to buy you a railway ticket to Dorset but you must leave today.’

‘I can’t have you stealing money from Miss Silver. I’m a lot of things, Clara, but I won’t allow my daughter to take what doesn’t belong to her.’

Clara was tempted to tell him that she had inherited the shop and its entire contents, but she knew that would be fatal. The gleam would return to her father’s eyes and he would see the opportunity to double or treble his stake at the gaming table. It was a disease that was eating him away, for which there was no apparent cure. ‘I’ll work twice as hard to pay the money back, so you mustn’t worry.’

‘But, darling girl, if you have the money to send me to Dorset, wouldn’t it be better to give it to Patches? Then I’d be a free man and I could find work and support my family.’

‘It’s no good, Pa. Patches wants the money in full. I think you know her well enough to realise that she means business.’

‘All right, I’ll go to Dorset, Clara. But I want you to promise me that you’ll never go near Patches Bragg’s place again.’ Alfred reached out to grasp her hand. ‘Promise.’

Clara crossed her fingers behind her back. ‘All right, I promise. Now pack your things and I’ll go to the shop. The sooner you’re away from London the safer we’ll all be.’

Clara kept the shop closed for another day, ostensibly out of respect for Miss Silver, but in reality to accompany her father to Waterloo Bridge station. Even though he had promised to leave London, she was only too well aware of his erratic tendencies. When he was in a sorry state and riddled with guilt he would act and think rationally, but as the effects of drinking too much wore off and his optimistic spirit returned, he was likely to head for the nearest gaming club with his ticket money in his pocket.

Having made sure that he was on the train when it pulled out of the station, Clara set off to walk back to Wych Street. The sun shone palely on the snow-covered rooftops but the icy pavements were still slippery underfoot. The River Thames was swollen with snow melt on the ebb tide as it snaked its way towards the sea, swirling around the stanchions of Waterloo Bridge, playing with the vessels tied up at the wharfs so that they bobbed up and down like toy boats.

Clara made her way as quickly as possible in the icy conditions, intent on getting her sisters to the relative safety of Miss Silver’s shop. A wry smile curved her cold lips and she reminded herself that it belonged to her now, but a chill ran down her spine at the thought of what Patches Bragg might do if she discovered that Alfred Carter’s daughter owned such a property. She quickened her pace, calling in first at the milliner’s in the Strand where Betsy was at work in the backroom.

Miss Lavelle did not welcome such intrusions, nor did she encourage visits from ladies whom she considered to be unsuitably dressed for a high-class establishment, and from the pained expression on her face when Clara entered the premises, that obviously included her. Tall and painfully thin, Miss Lavelle was able to look down her nose at someone who barely came up to her shoulder. Clara had never considered herself to be short, but Miss Lavelle made her feel small and insignificant.

‘You know the rules, Miss Carter,’ Miss Lavelle said icily. ‘No visitors during working hours.’

‘I do know, and I apologise, but this is something of an emergency. Might I have a quick word with my sister, please?’

‘She is busy. We have an order for a titled lady that must be completed today.’

‘Then would you be kind enough to pass on a message?’ Clara said firmly. ‘Betsy is not to go home tonight. Please tell her to go to the shop in Drury Lane. She’ll know what I mean.’

‘That sounds ominous, Miss Carter. If your family is in trouble I would like to know. I have to be very careful whom I employ. I am patronised by the carriage trade, and any taint of scandal would ruin me.’

‘Your reputation is quite safe, Miss Lavelle, but I would be grateful if you would give my sister the message.’ Clara swept out of the shop, head held high. She could only hope that Miss Lavelle’s notorious love of tittle-tattle would lead her to pass on the information in the hope of discovering a new scandal. One thing was certain – Betsy could stand up for herself. Sometimes she was too forthright for her own good, but she would not allow Miss Lavelle or anyone to browbeat her, and she would not breathe a word of their father’s fall from grace.

It was Jane who was now Clara’s main concern. Jane and Betsy were complete opposites. Betsy had the face of an angel and a core of tempered steel. No one got the better of Betsy Carter, but Jane was sensitive and easily hurt, and her disability made her an easy target for mockery in Seven Dials. Clara was not looking forward to breaking the news of their father’s sudden departure, and she had no intention of telling her youngest sister about Patches Bragg. There was something important she had to do before she went home.

The pawnshop in Vere Street exuded the familiar smell of sweaty old clothes, lamp oil and mildew. Fleet emerged from the back room, wearing two military overcoats with a striped woollen muffler wrapped several times around his scrawny neck. He had to climb over several piles of books and a jumble of pots and pans in order to reach the counter.

‘What you got to pawn this time, miss?’

‘Nothing, Mr Fleet. I’ve come to redeem my button box.’ Clara took the money from her reticule. She had taken the week’s takings from the strong box in Drury Lane, intending to use the money for her father’s railway ticket, but she could not allow her treasure to remain with Fleet for another day. He would only keep it for a specified amount of time before placing it for sale, and then it might be lost to her for ever, and with it the precious memories attached to each of her tiny treasures. There was little or no loveliness in the dark and dirty streets she knew, but one day she would escape the squalor of Seven Dials and create a place where colour and beauty could be shared by all. It was a dream, but to her the button box represented hope over despair, and success over failure. She placed the coins on the counter and Fleet reached up to retrieve the box from the top shelf.

‘Here you are, but I expect you’ll be back with it before the month is out.’

She shook her head. ‘I hope not, Mr Fleet. I sincerely hope not.’

Jane was seated at the kitchen table, finishing off a spray of silk flowers for Betsy. She looked up and a slow smile transformed her pale face. ‘Things must be looking up, Clara. You’ve got it back.’

‘Yes, I called in at the pawnshop on my way home. I couldn’t leave it there another moment.’

‘And we have jam,’ Jane said happily. ‘I had some on my bread, although I only took one slice. I didn’t want to be greedy.’

‘Having enough to eat isn’t being greedy.’ Clara felt the teapot and it was still warm. She filled a cup with the weak, straw-coloured liquid. ‘Jane, I have something to tell you. Pa has had to go away for a while. He’s gone to stay with his cousin in the country.’

‘Are those people after him for money, Clara?’

‘Yes, I’m afraid so, but he’ll be safe in Dorset with his cousin Jim.’

‘But you look sad, Clara. That’s not all, is it?’

‘No, dear. We have to move out of here today. I need you to help me pack our things, such as they are. We’re going to live above the shop in Drury Lane.’

‘But that’s a good thing, isn’t it, Clara?’ Jane said, smiling. ‘I mean this isn’t what we are used to. I can remember when we owned the whole house and we had a cook and a maid, and Pa was a different person when Mama was alive. He used to kiss me goodbye every morning before he left for the City, and he dressed smartly and smelled of cologne.’

Clara put her cup down with a sigh. ‘You’re right, Jane. Things were better then but we have a chance to make a new life for ourselves, and you can play your part.’

‘What can I do? I’m a cripple and always will be.’

‘Don’t say things like that. You might not be able to walk very far, but you’re a bright girl and you have a good head for figures. You can help me in the shop.’

‘Can I really?’ Jane’s eyes shone with excitement. ‘I’d love that.’

‘But first we have to move our things to Drury Lane. Let’s make a start. The sooner we leave here, the better.’

It was not far from Wych Street to the shop in Drury Lane, but the snow on the pavements was rapidly turning to slush. Clara had hoped that Luke might turn up and offer to help, but there was no sign of him and she had no intention of going to his lodgings to beg for assistance.

As soon as they had sorted out what to take and what might be left until another day, Clara took Jane to the shop. It was slow going, but Jane was determined to walk and the distance hardly merited spending precious funds on a cab. Clara lit the fire in the back parlour and left Jane to settle in while she went home to collect as much as she could carry. She lost count of how many trips she made, but darkness was falling as she left the house in Wych Street for the last time, and under a cloudless sky the temperature plummeted.

Slipping and sliding on the frozen slush, she was close to exhaustion and every muscle in her body ached. Her fingers were clawed around the handles of a valise and a carpet bag, and she had lost all feeling in her toes. A man, walking head down against the bitter wind, almost collided with her and she lost her footing, saving herself from falling by clutching a lamppost.

‘Clara, is that you?’ The young man she had met at Miss Silver’s funeral hurried to her side.

‘Mr Silver?’ Clara managed to regain her balance and salvage her dignity.

He bent down to retrieve the carpet bag and valise. ‘Did you hurt yourself? I saw that fellow barge into you. He didn’t even stop to see if you were all right.’

‘My feet went from under me.’ She leaned against the lamppost, rubbing her hands together in an attempt to bring back the feeling in them. ‘I’m not hurt.’

‘Where are you going? May I help you? These bags are very heavy.’

‘I’m going to the shop in Drury Lane.’ Clara eyed him warily. He was hatless and his wildly curling auburn hair reached almost to the shoulders of his jacket, which was little protection on such a cold night. He pushed his spectacles up the bridge of his nose, an unconscious gesture she recognised from the time they met at Miss Silver’s graveside. She had a sudden desire to laugh. ‘We do seem to meet in the oddest places, Mr Silver.’

‘Nathaniel, please.’ He smiled shyly. ‘Did you say you were going to the shop?’

‘Yes, I’m afraid I have no choice but to move in. Do you mind?’

‘No, of course not. I told you before that I have no moral claim on my aunt’s estate. Let me prove my good intentions by helping you with your luggage.’

Clara was too tired to argue, but she realised that he had his violin case slung over one shoulder. ‘May I carry that? You have your hands full.’

He unhooked it and handed it to her. ‘I’ve just come from the audition I told you and Jane about at the Gaiety Theatre.’

‘Did you get the job?’ She started walking in the direction of Drury Lane.

‘Yes, it will do until something better turns up.’

She came to a halt, turning her head to give him a questioning look. ‘I don’t understand. If you have to take any work that comes along, why are you allowing me to take your inheritance? You could challenge the will, if you chose, and I don’t want to think of the shop as my own and then have it taken away from me.’

‘That won’t happen, I promise you.’

‘But you might need the money.’

‘I can assure you that is not the case.’

‘You told me that you play on street corners in order to buy food or to pay your rent. That doesn’t sound like the action of a man of means.’

‘Might we continue this conversation somewhere out of the cold? My hands are turning blue and I’ve lost the feeling in my feet.’

Clara nodded. ‘Me, too. Let’s get to the shop and sort this out once and for all.’




Chapter Four (#u4ae19803-2512-502e-8c41-8d5ced390335)


The shop was in darkness but a flicker of light be-neath the parlour door was a welcome sight. Clara unlocked the door and Nathaniel staggered in with the heavy bags, which he dumped on the floor with a sigh of relief.

‘I don’t know how you managed to carry these any distance.’

The parlour door opened and Jane peered anxiously into the dark shop. ‘Is that you, Clara?

‘Yes, and I met Nathaniel in the street. He was kind enough to help me with the last of our bags.’

‘Nathaniel! How lovely to see you again,’ Jane cried excitedly. ‘Would you like a cup of tea? I’ve had the kettle on the hob for an hour or more, and I found some tea in one of the cupboards in the scullery.’

‘That would be nice,’ Clara said hastily. She laid a restraining hand on Nathaniel’s arm as he made to follow her sister into the back room. ‘Tell me why I should trust you not to make trouble for us in the future. I really need to know.’

‘I am not a poor musician. Well, that’s not quite true. I am poor at the moment, but in a few months’ time, when I reach the age of twenty-five, I’ll come into the fortune left to me by my late father. He was of the opinion that if I was young when I inherited the money he had worked so hard to make I would run riot and squander it. So you see, Clara, you have no need to worry. Now, shall we join your sister for a cup of tea?’

‘In a minute,’ Clara said warily. ‘If what you say is true, your family must have property somewhere. Why then do you live in London, playing for pennies on street corners?’

‘You’re right. There is a town house and a country estate, but one of the conditions of my father’s will was that should I ignore his wishes and follow my dream to become a serious musician and composer, I had to leave home. I have to prove that I can earn my living and to survive without any financial help.’

‘That seems extremely hard,’ Clara said, frowning.

‘My uncle is executor of Father’s will, and he sees to it that I don’t put a foot over the threshold until I’m of age. I have a suspicion that he hopes I might die of some terrible disease or starve on the streets in the meantime, or should I give up and prove myself a failure, I forfeit my claim and he gets everything. You see, my father was of a whimsical turn of mind.’

‘I wouldn’t call it that,’ Clara said hotly. ‘He sounds a very spiteful man.’

‘You know all there is to know about me now, Clara. You can trust me.’

‘Yes, but it’s a strange state of affairs.’

‘Not in my family. If you knew the rest of the Silvers you wouldn’t be surprised.’

‘And yet Miss Silver lived very frugally and never took a day off work,’ Clara said, frowning. ‘That does seem odd when her brother was so well-off.’

‘I didn’t know, or I would have tried to help her.’ Nathanial pushed a stray lock of hair back from his forehead. ‘I really would.’

Jane emerged from the parlour, leaning heavily on one crutch. ‘Are you going to stay there chatting all evening?’ Her eyes widened and her lips formed a circle of surprise. ‘Who is that outside? I saw a shadow in the glass.’

Clara had barely turned to look when the person outside in the street hammered on the door. ‘Clara, open up. I can see you.’ Betsy’s angry voice made Clara hurry to let her in.

‘Why was I locked out? I need a key of my own, Clara.’ Betsy came to a halt, staring at Nathaniel. ‘Who is this?’

‘Please come through to the parlour,’ Jane said plaintively. ‘You’re letting in the cold air, and the room has only just warmed up.’

Betsy eyed the cases. ‘Where are my things? You haven’t left them in Wych Street, have you, Clara? Miss Lavelle passed on your message – or part of it, anyway. She just said I was to come straight here after work.’

Clara turned to Betsy with a sigh. ‘If you would just give someone else a chance to speak, I’d introduce you to Nathaniel Silver, Miss Silver’s nephew.’

Nathaniel bowed over Betsy’s hand. ‘How do you do, Miss Betsy?’

Betsy smiled coyly. ‘How do you do, sir?’

‘As to your things,’ Clara continued, ‘Jane and I packed everything we could and I’ve been going to and fro all day bringing whatever I could carry, so I don’t want to hear any grumbling from you, Betsy. If it hadn’t been for Nathaniel, I might still be clutching a lamppost in Wych Street after someone almost knocked me flying.’

Betsy cast a sideways glance at Nathaniel. ‘I’m sorry, but I’ve had a busy day and I wanted to go home to my own bed.’

‘This is home for the present.’ Clara ushered her sister into the parlour. ‘I saw Pa off on the train this morning, so he should be with his cousin by now, and we’ll be safe here unless the Bragg gang discover our whereabouts.’

Nathaniel followed them into the small room. ‘I’ve heard of them. They’re a bad lot.’

‘You mustn’t worry,’ Jane said confidently. ‘Clara’s gentleman friend, Luke, is with the Skinners. He had a fight with Bert Bragg and I think Luke’s nose was broken, but I’m sure that Bert came off the worst.’

‘Thank you, Jane.’ Clara sent her a warning look. ‘The kettle is boiling, so why don’t you make the tea? I’m sure Nathaniel would like something hot to drink before he braves the cold.’

Betsy tossed her bonnet onto the sofa and shed her mantle with a dramatic flourish. ‘I’m starving. I haven’t eaten all day because Miss Lavelle made us work until the wretched hat was finished.’

‘We’re all hungry, Betsy.’ Jane struggled to lift the kettle off the trivet. ‘I filled it too full.’

‘Allow me.’ Nathaniel moved to her side, retrieved the kettle and placed it safely on the hearth. ‘I must admit to being famished too. There’s a coffee stall not far from here. The fellow sells hot pies, and baked potatoes, as well as boiled eggs and ham sandwiches. If you all agree I’ll go out now and purchase our supper.’

‘Oh, yes, please,’ Jane said eagerly. ‘I’d like a pie and an egg, if it’s not too much to ask.’

‘I’d like a baked potato and a ham sandwich.’ Betsy settled herself on the chair nearest the fire. ‘Thank you, Nathaniel. You are a true gentleman.’

Clara reached for her reticule, acutely aware that their funds were running low. ‘I’ll give you the money, Nathaniel. It is very kind of you to offer to go out on such a night. I should come with you to help carry everything.’

‘There’s no need for you to brave the weather yet again, Clara.’ Nathaniel made a move towards the door. ‘You haven’t said what you would like.’

‘A pie would be just the thing.’ Clara followed him into the shop. ‘You must let me pay for our supper.’

He shook his head. ‘I wouldn’t hear of it. I wasn’t looking forward to eating alone in my room, yet again. I’ll enjoy your company and that of your sisters. It will make me feel part of a family.’

Clara was about to unlock the shop door when a male figure loomed outside, making her leap back in fear. Her encounter with Patches had left her feeling nervous, and Luke’s fight with Bert was not going to make things easier. The person rapped on the door.

‘Who’s there?’ Clara demanded, hoping that she sounded braver than she was feeling.

‘It’s me, Luke. Let me in.’

Clara unlocked the door and Luke stepped in on a gust of ice-cold air. His smile of greeting faded when he saw Nathaniel standing in the shadows. ‘Who are you?’

Clara stepped in between them. ‘This is Miss Silver’s nephew, Nathaniel.’

‘What’s he doing here?’ Luke demanded.

‘Nathaniel, this is my friend, Luke Foyle,’ Clara said hastily.

‘How do you do?’ Nathaniel held out his hand, but Luke ignored the gesture.

‘We’re more than just friends.’ Luke placed his arm around Clara’s shoulders. ‘So I’ll say it again. What are you doing here?’

Clara twisted free from his grasp. ‘Really, Luke. Is this necessary? Nathaniel saw me struggling with two heavy cases and he offered to help.’

Before Luke could respond Betsy appeared in the doorway. ‘What’s going on? I’m faint with hunger and all you can do is argue. Anyway, you’re upsetting Jane. You know how she hates the sound of raised voices.’

‘I’m sorry,’ Nathaniel murmured. ‘Perhaps I should go.’

‘That’s the first sensible thing you’ve said.’ Luke opened the shop door. ‘Thanks for helping Clara, but we don’t need your services now.’

Clara grabbed the door and slammed it. ‘I won’t stand for this behaviour, Luke. That was very rude and extremely ungrateful. You don’t know how much I am indebted to Nathaniel, and he was trying to help us.’

‘Even so, you don’t know a thing about this fellow.’

‘I’ll go, Clara.’ Nathaniel rammed his top hat on his head. ‘You’ve got the wrong end of the stick, Foyle. I think you should apologise to Clara.’

‘I can see how the land lies. Maybe I should be the one to leave.’

‘Yes, you should go, Luke,’ Clara said angrily. ‘Come back when you’ve calmed down and remembered your manners.’

Luke slammed out of the shop.

‘I’m sorry,’ Nathaniel said hastily. ‘I seem to have placed you in an awkward situation.’

‘Don’t apologise, it was Luke who was in the wrong. He doesn’t own me, and he shouldn’t jump to conclusions.’

‘Perhaps I should leave anyway.’

‘If you go now I will be forced to venture out into the snow to buy our supper,’ Clara said, smiling. ‘And you would face another evening eating on your own.’

‘If you put it like that, how can I refuse? I’ll be as quick as I can.’

Clara let him out of the shop, taking care to lock the door after him. She did not want Luke to come barging in and create another scene. He could be arrogant sometimes, and jealous; two qualities she disliked in anyone, especially the man she might marry, although that possibility was becoming more and more remote. Better to be an old maid than to be shackled to a man who wanted to dominate her and take control of her innermost thoughts. That was not for her. She returned to the parlour to comfort Jane and reassure Betsy.

Despite the circumstances, Clara felt relaxed and surprisingly happy as they sat round the fire eating the food that Nathaniel had bought for them. The parlour was small and shabbily furnished; the seats on the chairs were threadbare and the delicate floral wallpaper was stained and peeling, but a fire blazed up the chimney and the room was warm and cosy. While they ate, Nathaniel entertained them with accounts of his experiences busking on the city streets. When the remains of the meal were tidied away he took his violin from its case and, with a little persuasion, played a merry jig that had their feet tapping and their hands clapping.

Clara joined in the applause. ‘That was lovely, Nathaniel, but I would like to hear one of your own compositions.’

‘Mine?’ He ran his hand through his unruly hair, causing it to curl around his brow in wild profusion. ‘Are you sure?’

Betsy leaned forward, eyes shining. ‘Oh, yes. Let us hear something you’ve composed.’

‘Is it sad?’ Jane asked wistfully. ‘Sad music makes me cry.’

‘Let him play and then we’ll find out.’ Clara settled back in Miss Silver’s favourite chair, resting her feet on the brass fender, as Nathaniel launched into a hauntingly sweet melody. In his skilful hands the violin seemed to sing and the music filled Clara’s head and made her heart swell with joy and sadness. It was as if all the emotions she had ever felt had been transposed into sound and she closed her eyes, floating away on the tide of Nathaniel’s lyrical creation. She was still enraptured when the piece came to an end, and as she opened her eyes she realised that Jane was crying and Betsy sat with her hands clutched to her bosom, gazing at Nathaniel with moist eyes and a wistful smile.

He dropped his hands to his sides and bowed.

‘That was so beautiful,’ Clara said in a whisper. ‘It melted my heart.’

‘Yes, it was lovely.’ Betsy jumped to her feet. ‘You are so clever, Nathaniel.’

Jane sniffed and wiped her eyes on her sleeve. ‘Your music made me cry, and I’ve lost my hanky.’

‘You are all too kind.’ Nathaniel placed the instrument in its case, treating it as tenderly as a mother would a newborn infant. ‘It still needs some work.’

‘What is it called?’ Clara asked. ‘I’d love to hear it again some time.’

‘I haven’t given it a title; perhaps you can help me there.’ Nathaniel glanced at the mantel clock. ‘I didn’t realise it was so late. It’s time I returned to my lodgings.’

‘Don’t go yet,’ Jane cried. ‘Please stay a little longer.’

Clara rose to her feet. ‘Thank you for our supper and for allowing us to hear your composition. It was wonderful.’

‘It was my pleasure, but now I really must leave you.’ Nathaniel made his way through to the shop, pausing to wrap his muffler round his neck. ‘I’m sure that Luke will come round, Clara. He obviously cares a great deal for you.’

She tossed her head. ‘He can do as he pleases. I choose my own friends.’

‘Does that include me?’

‘I’m proud to know you, Nathaniel Silver, and very much indebted to you.’

‘Nonsense. You were my aunt’s choice and I respect her wishes.’ He stood aside as Clara unlocked the street door. ‘I haven’t forgotten the tickets for the Gaiety. As soon as I’m in a position to get some I’ll bring them round.’

She held the door as he stepped outside into the bitter winter night. ‘You’re welcome to call at any time.’

‘Thank you, I will.’ Nathaniel backed away, smiling, and disappeared into the darkness beyond the pool of yellow light that surrounded the gas lamp.

Clara was about to close the door when she saw the dark shape of a man lingering in a doorway on the far side of the street. She could not be certain but it looked very much like Luke. It would be typical of Luke to spy on her; he had done it before and she had found it oddly touching, but now it had become irritating and downright insulting. Nathaniel was just a friend, and he had been magnanimous enough to allow her to keep her inheritance without challenging his aunt’s will. The mere fact that they had a roof over their heads tonight was because of the generosity of the Silver family. Clara locked the door, snatched her button box off the counter and went into the parlour.

Betsy was in the process of helping Jane to negotiate the narrow staircase. ‘We’re going to bed. Will you be up soon?’

‘Yes, don’t worry about me.’

‘I said I’d share the back room with Jane. You’ll have to sleep on your own for the first time,’ Betsy said, smiling.

‘At least I won’t be kept awake by you snoring.’ Clara blew them a kiss. ‘Night-night.’

‘Don’t let the bed bugs bite,’ Jane called over her shoulder.

Clara had intended to put the fireguard in place before making sure the back door was locked, but she needed first to check the contents of her button box. She trusted Fleet, but she knew she would not sleep unless she was certain that her collection was intact, and she sat cross-legged on the floor, close enough to the dying embers of the fire to take advantage of the last vestiges of warmth. She opened the box and scooped up a handful of the small buttons, allowing them to slip through her fingers in a kaleidoscope of colour. Her most valued items were a set of tiny mother-of-pearl buttons from the bodice of her mother’s wedding dress. The gown had been cut up to make clothes for herself and Lizzie when they were children, but she had persuaded Ma to let her snip off six of the twelve buttons. Then there were the much larger millefiori buttons that she had found lying in the mud on the Thames foreshore while out walking one Sunday afternoon with Pa. He had bought her a penny lick from the hokey-pokey man and she could still remember the taste and the sweet icy sensation on her tongue. A brass military button winked at her as if to divert her attention from its fellows, and she held it between her fingers, wondering as to the identity of the gallant soldier who had gone into battle with this button on his uniform. Then, last but not least, there was her favourite, her special button, it was still there glittering in the firelight as it had done when it lay lost and forgotten in the snow.

The fire crackled and a blue flame licked around an ember and was immediately extinguished by a draught of cold air. It was time to close the memory box and go to bed. Clara snapped the lid shut, turned the tiny brass key in the lock, and rose to her feet. Tomorrow would be her first day as shopkeeper. She must get some sleep, although her stomach was churning with excitement at the prospect of being in sole charge. She could do it, of that she was certain. This was the start of a new and better life for her and her family. There was just one problem – Patches Bragg.

Trade was slow next day, but the freezing conditions did not encourage housewives and maidservants to venture out unless absolutely necessary. Clara spent the time rearranging the shelves to her satisfaction, but while she worked her mind was wrestling with the problem of how to raise the eight guineas she needed to pay her father’s debt to Patches. She was deep in thought when the shop door opened and Lizzie burst in, pink-cheeked and flustered.

‘Clara, you’re here. I wasn’t sure if you would be opening so soon after Miss Silver’s funeral. I mean, it doesn’t seem very respectful to carry on as if nothing has happened.’

‘Miss Silver only closed the shop on Sundays and on Christmas Day. She would come back to haunt me if I let her down.’

‘It’s not funny, Clara. I don’t know how you can treat the woman’s death as a joke.’

‘Far from it. I was very fond of Miss Silver, and I owe it to her to look after her legacy.’ Clara stared at her sister, frowning. ‘What’s the matter? You’re all of a twitter.’

‘I should think I am. Miss Jones sent me out to purchase blonde lace, only I don’t know how much she needs. It was all said in a bit of a panic.’

‘Does she want it in black or white?’

‘I’m not sure. Madam is going out to an important function this evening and the lace on her gown is torn. Miss Jones was very particular that it had to match.’

‘I’ve got Chantilly lace as well.’

‘I’d better take both. You have to come with me, Clara. I’ll be in trouble with Miss Jones if I bring the wrong material.’

‘I can’t shut up the shop simply because Miss Jones is fussy.’

‘Please come with me. You’ll need to bring the unwanted lace back to the shop because I won’t be allowed out again.’

Clara had never seen her sister in such an agitated state. ‘All right. I’ll close the shop for an hour. There aren’t many customers about this morning.’

‘Thank you. I can’t afford to lose my job.’

‘I’ll have to warn Jane not to open the door to anyone but me, and I’ll fetch my bonnet and cloak.’

‘Why is Jane here?’

‘We had to leave Wych Street. I was going to tell you when I had a chance. I’ll explain on the way to Bedford Square.’

‘This is ridiculous,’ Clara said, shivering as they came to a halt outside the four-storey terraced house in Bedford Square. ‘Miss Silver never made house calls.’

Lizzie opened the gate which led down to the tradesmen’s entrance. ‘Maybe she would have made more money if she had. I don’t know, Clara, I’m not a businesswoman, but Mrs Comerford is very rich, and if Miss Jones is satisfied she’ll tell her so, and then who knows? Maybe Mrs Comerford will recommend your shop to her friends.’

‘I’m only doing this as a favour to you.’ Clara followed her sister down the steep, ice-coated steps to the tradesmen’s entrance.

Lizzie knocked on the door and it was opened by a tiny scullery maid who could not have been more than ten years of age. The child scuttled off in the direction of the kitchen and Lizzie led the way through a maze of narrow corridors and up the back stairs. On the other side of the green baize door was another world. A marble-tiled passage opened out into a wide hallway with large, gilt-framed mirrors reflecting the ornate candle sconces. The scent of beeswax and lavender mingled with the spicy aroma of crimson and gold chrysanthemums, arranged in large urns. A liveried footman cast a sidelong glance at Lizzie, and Clara was quick to see a blush staining her sister’s cheeks.

‘Miss Jones sent me for material to mend madam’s ball gown, James,’ Lizzie said hastily.

‘And who is this young lady?’ He looked Clara up and down with an appreciative grin. ‘I’m afraid I can’t allow you to wander round the house uninvited.’

‘This is my sister Clara.’ Lizzie hesitated, eyeing James warily. ‘I’ll have to find Miss Jones. Stay here, Clara.’

‘Don’t worry, I’ll look after her,’ James said, winking at Clara. ‘I always enjoy the company of a pretty girl.’

Clara put her head on one side, looking him up and down. He was a handsome fellow, tall and broad-shouldered, and he obviously traded on his good looks. She was not impressed.

‘I don’t need looking after,’ she said coldly.

Lizzie cast her a sidelong glance, shaking her head. ‘Be nice to him,’ she said in a low voice. ‘But not too nice, if you know what I mean.’ She snatched the basket of lace from Clara and hurried off towards the staircase.

‘Why don’t you make yourself comfortable, miss?’ With a sweep of his hand, James indicated a dainty hall chair. ‘You’re likely to have a long wait. You know how ladies like to chat.’

‘I’m in trade,’ Clara said stonily. ‘I don’t have time to chat, as you call it.’

James bridled visibly. It was obvious that he was not used to his clumsy advances being spurned. ‘I can see the family likeness. Lizzie is as prickly as a briar rose.’

Clara was saved from replying by the sudden appearance on the staircase of a young man dressed for outdoors. He was plain to the point of homeliness except for a head of golden curls, which would have been the envy of any woman. He strolled down the stairs, coming to a halt in front of Clara. ‘Are you waiting for someone?’

She rose to her feet. This person was obviously a member of the family and by rights she ought to have been waiting for Lizzie below stairs. ‘My sister, sir. Lizzie Carter – she ran an errand for Mrs Comerford’s maid. I have to wait to take the unwanted lace back to the shop, but I’ll be gone as soon as she returns.’

A slow smile spread across his even features. ‘My mother always demands the best. Only she would send a servant out in such inclement weather.’

James stood to attention, staring straight ahead, although Clara thought she saw the muscle at the corner of his mouth quiver, as if he were suppressing the desire to laugh. She thought it wiser to remain silent, hoping that Mrs Comerford’s son would go about his business, but he seemed reluctant to leave. He held out his hand. ‘I’m Joss Comerford. How do you do, Miss Carter?’

Remembering her place, she bobbed a curtsey. ‘How do you do, sir?’

‘It’s very cold outside and the pavements are treacherous. May I escort you home, Miss Carter?’

‘That’s very kind of you, but as I said, I have to wait for the unwanted lace.’

‘Have you a connection with the textile trade?’

She looked him in the eye and realised that he was teasing her. ‘You make it sound as though I’m dealing in smuggled goods, Mr Comerford.’

‘Now that would be exciting. Are you a smuggler, or a river pirate?’

‘Nothing so interesting, sir.’

‘So your connection with lace is …?’

Clara could see that he was not going to be satisfied with anything other than a full explanation. ‘I am a shopkeeper, Mr Comerford. I own a drapery in Drury Lane.’

His blue eyes widened and he stared at her with renewed interest. ‘You’re a shopkeeper?’

‘I am, sir.’

‘How intriguing. I must visit your emporium one day.’ He held his hand out to take his top hat and cane from a young maidservant who appeared seemingly from nowhere. ‘I’m going your way, Miss Carter. I have a luncheon appointment in the Strand, so it’s no trouble to see you safely home.’

Clara was about to refuse politely when Lizzie came hurrying down the wide staircase, the basket in her hand. ‘Madam has taken all the lace, Clara.’ She came to a halt, gazing anxiously at Joss. ‘I’m sorry, sir. I didn’t mean to interrupt.’

‘That’s all right, Lizzie. I’m glad that Mama is supporting local shopkeepers.’ He turned to Clara with a disarming smile. ‘My father is also in trade. He has a warehouse on the docks filled with exotic imports from foreign lands. I used to think it was like Aladdin’s cave when I was a child.’

Clara shifted from one foot to the other. At any other time, and in a different place, it would have been a pleasure to talk to someone like Joss Comerford, but James was listening to every word and Lizzie was staring at her open-mouthed. Their reaction was typical of most people. The sons of wealthy families, whether their fortune had been made in the Caribbean sugar plantations or from privateering centuries ago, or in trade, did not mix socially with girls from the lower classes. That was the way things were and Clara could feel disapproval radiating from both her sister and James. If Joss Comerford had taken a liking to her, it was a recipe for disaster.

‘Isn’t it time you were going, Clara?’ Lizzie said in a low voice. ‘Jane will be wondering what’s happened to you.’

‘Yes, of course.’ Clara took the empty basket from her. ‘Madam is keeping all the lace?’

‘Put it on her account,’ Lizzie said grandly. ‘Goodbye, Clara. I’ll come and see you on my afternoon off.’ She turned on her heel and headed towards the servants’ quarters.

‘I must go.’ Clara glanced at James, who leaped to attention and opened the front door.

Joss proffered his arm. ‘Allow me. It’s a long walk so I suggest we take a cab.’

There was nothing Clara could do without appearing rude and she laid her hand on the sleeve of his cashmere coat. James kept his gaze fixed on a distant point as he held the door for them.

‘Go and find a cab, James, there’s a good fellow.’ Joss hesitated on the top step. ‘Dashed inclement weather. I was in two minds as to whether to venture out or not.’ He glanced down at Clara and smiled. ‘But I’m very glad I did or I would not have had the pleasure of your company, Clara. I hope you don’t mind my using your Christian name?’

She shook her head. ‘No, sir.’

‘It would please me greatly if you would call me Joss. I’m uncomfortable with formality.’

‘I doubt if your mama would agree with that – Joss.’

He threw back his head and laughed. ‘I was right. I took you for a spirited woman, Clara. I’m a very good judge of character.’ He leaned forward to get a better view of James, who was slipping and sliding on the snowy street as he attempted to hail a cab. ‘I’d laugh if he took a tumble. James is so stiff-necked he’ll make an excellent butler one day. I sometimes think he must have been born middle-aged, and I doubt if he is a year my senior.’

Clara was just about to tell him she would prefer to walk when James succeeded in attracting the attention of a cabby who had just dropped a gentleman off at a house further along the street. Joss handed her into the hansom cab and climbed in after her. Sitting side by side with a relative stranger was a nerve-racking experience for Clara and she stared ahead, wishing she had risked offending him by refusing his offer. Joss Comerford might not be this friendly if he knew of her involvement with one of the most vicious gangs in London. It was a relief when the cab drew to a halt outside her shop, but the feeling was short-lived.

A man wearing a battered top hat and a greasy woollen muffler was leaning against the pub wall. She recognised him at once and her heart sank.




Chapter Five (#u4ae19803-2512-502e-8c41-8d5ced390335)


‘Thank you, sir.’ Clara gathered her skirts around her and climbed down from the cab before Joss had a chance to assist her. Standing on the icy pavement, she flashed him a smile. ‘I’m very grateful for the cab ride, Mr Comerford.’

‘Don’t mention it, Clara. I hope we meet again soon …’ His voice trailed off as the cabby flicked his whip above the horse’s ears and the cab lurched on its way.

Clara waited until it was out of sight before turning to Bones, Patches’ right-hand man. The mere sight of him was enough to make her flesh creep, but she put on a brave face.

‘I have another day to find the money, Mr Bones.’

‘Not by Patches’ reckoning you ain’t. You’re to come with me and no argument.’

‘All right, I’ll come, but first I must make sure that my little sister is all right. I left her alone in the shop.’

‘You should have thought of that afore you got mixed up with Patches Bragg, my duck.’ He grabbed her by the arm and propelled her along the street with surprising strength for a small man.

Clara gave him a shove, catching him off guard. ‘There’s no need for force. I want to see Patches anyway.’

‘I hope you got the readies.’

‘That’s something I want to discuss with Patches.’

His cackle of laughter made people stop and stare at the odd couple, but Clara held her head high. Patches Bragg might be the leader of one of the roughest gangs in London, but she was still a woman. There must be some common ground for negotiation. Clara’s heart was pounding, but she fought down the instinct to run way and allowed Bones to lead her to Angel Court.

It was daylight above ground, but in the underworld of the illegal gaming club it was permanent night. The smell of oil lamps and the fumes of alcohol mingled with tobacco smoke and the stench of unwashed bodies, and Clara had to fight down a feeling of nausea. Her empty stomach rebelled against the noxious odours and the sight of unkempt, unshaven men lolling in their seats at the gaming table, some of them head down and snoring, while their fellow gamesters played on, staring at their cards with bloodshot eyes.

Patches was in a small cubbyhole, counting her takings.

‘I don’t like to be kept waiting,’ she said gruffly. ‘What kept you, Bones?’

‘She weren’t at home, boss. Had to wait in the freezing cold and then she turns up large as life in a cab with a toff I ain’t never seen afore.’

‘So you got a fancy man, have you?’ Patches leaned forward, her large breasts bubbling over the top of her low-cut gown. ‘He should be good for a bob or two. Where’s me money?’

Clara drew herself up to her full height. ‘I’ve never met the gentleman before today. He’s nothing to me, and I haven’t got the money. You said three days and it’s only been two.’

‘I was counting from the day you turned up here, so don’t play games with me, and that was before your feller blacked my Bertie’s eye. I got a score to settle with Luke Foyle, but that’s another matter. Have you got the cash or not?’

‘I can’t raise that much so quickly. I must have more time.’

‘Must have?’ Patches spat the words as if they were a bitter taste in her mouth. ‘I don’t think you’ve got much choice, not if you want your young sister to walk again. One gammy leg is bad luck, two is a tragedy that you can prevent, and it’ll cost ten guineas. The price has gone up now.’

‘That’s not fair.’ Clara was too angry to feel intimidated. ‘Leave my family out of this. I’ve taken on responsibility for my father’s debts; it has nothing to do with my sisters.’

‘Then you got to pay up, or …’ Patches narrowed her eyes so that they disappeared into slits. ‘There is one way you could make things square.’

‘Go on.’ Clara knew she was not going to like the alternative, but she had little option.

‘I got a score to settle with the Skinner brothers, and I ain’t too pleased with Luke Foyle, neither. He’s supposed to work for me, and keep an eye on the other gangs, but I fear he’s let me down, and that ain’t acceptable.’

Clara’s heart was beating so fast that she could hardly breathe. ‘That has nothing to do with me.’

‘Hoity-toity, ain’t you? But you should be more respectful. I could wring your pretty neck with one hand tied behind me back, and Bones is an expert in other methods of making people co-operate. Do I make meself clear?’

‘Yes,’ Clara said, nodding. ‘Crystal clear.’

‘I knew you was a clever girl.’ Patches lowered her voice. ‘Your feller is small beer and I’ll deal with him, but it’s Ned and Sid Skinner I want put out of the way – permanent like.’

‘I don’t know how I can help you with that. I have nothing to do with the gang.’

‘But your feller does. I want information and it’s worth ten guineas.’ Patches reached for the gin bottle and half-filled her glass. She took a mouthful, swallowed and breathed gin fumes into Clara’s face. ‘The Skinners have gone to ground. I want to know where they’re hiding out. It’s as simple as that.’

‘But surely your men could get that information much quicker than I would?’

‘Not necessarily.’ Patches took another swig of her drink. ‘It ain’t much to ask. Don’t tell me you can’t wrap your man round your little finger if you so wish. Get me what I want within the next twenty-four hours and your pa’s slate is wiped clean.’

‘And if I fail?’

‘You won’t if you knows what’s good for you and your sisters. Don’t think you can play fast and loose with me, because you can’t.’

Clara faced Patches with what she hoped was an outward appearance of calm, but she could see no way out other than to agree to her terms. ‘All right,’ she said reluctantly. ‘I’ll do my best.’

‘I think you’ll do better than that. I want those sewer rats put away for good.’ Patches turned to Bones. ‘Get her out of here. I’m sick of looking at her pretty face.’

‘Why were you so long, Clara?’ Jane asked tearfully. ‘People have been banging on the shop door and I didn’t know what to do.’

‘What sort of people?’ Clara glanced over her shoulder, hoping that Bones was now out of sight. He had marched her back to Drury Lane in grim silence, and, although he had left her at the door and walked away she was afraid he might return later to spy on her.

‘There was an old man in a top hat who kept peering in the window, but that was not long after you left. He knocked several times, but I ignored him. The others were women and they didn’t look too pleased when they realised that the shop was shut.’

‘They’ll come back if they really want something. I’ll open up now. Anyone else?’

‘Luke came and I did open the door to him, Clara. I didn’t know what else to do and he looked so angry I didn’t want to make things worse.’

‘It’s all right, Jane. What did he want?’

‘To see you, of course. He brought me some sugared almonds. He knows they’re my favourites. I hope you make it up with him, Clara. I know he’s in with a bad lot – Pa told me so – but I think deep down Luke is a good person.’

‘Yes, I’m sure he is.’ Clara tried to sound positive, but she was not so sure. The gangs had not affected them directly – until now. ‘What did Luke say? Is he coming back?’

‘I’m still here.’ Luke emerged from the parlour. ‘Where have you been, Clara?’

She was tempted to tell him everything, but Patches’ threats were fresh in her mind and she had no doubt that they would be carried out. ‘I had to deliver some lace to Lizzie’s employer.’

‘On a day like this?’ He stared at her in disbelief.

‘Yes, you know what rich people are like. They don’t think about anyone else, least of all shopkeepers and servants. I had to do it for Lizzie’s sake.’

He glanced at the sodden hem of her skirt. ‘Come and sit by the fire. Jane has just made a pot of tea. You look as though you could do with a hot drink, and something to eat.’

‘I should have stopped to buy some bread,’ Clara said, sighing. ‘I haven’t stocked the larder yet.’

He shook his head. ‘You girls would starve if it weren’t for me.’

‘Where are you going?’ Clara asked as he picked up the empty basket.

‘To buy food, of course. If you get any thinner I’ll be able to see through you, Clara Carter.’ Luke winked at Jane. ‘And you can’t live on sugared almonds alone.’

She giggled. ‘I’d like to try.’

‘Look after your sister, Jane,’ he said firmly. ‘I’ll be back in five minutes or so.’

The door closed on him as he left the shop, and Jane’s smile faded. ‘Where did you go? You lied to him. I was in the shop, and I saw you getting out of a cab. Then you went off with that nasty-looking old man.’

‘I didn’t tell him the whole truth, which isn’t the same as lying.’ Clara took off her bonnet and shawl. ‘I would love a cup of tea, and maybe you could spare me a sugared almond?’ She hurried into the parlour.

‘I’m not a baby, Clara.’ Jane followed her into the room. ‘You can trust me to keep a secret. Where did you go?’

‘I had to sort out Pa’s gambling debt, Jane. It’s nothing for you to worry about.’

‘How can you pay? Did Miss Silver leave you a lot of money?’

Clara thought of the empty strong box and sighed. ‘There was a little, but I used that to pay for her funeral and to buy Pa’s railway ticket. I should have kept it to buy new stock, but you mustn’t worry. We’ll manage somehow. We always do.’ Clara filled two cups with tea and handed one to Jane.

‘You shouldn’t go off with people like that. Luke wouldn’t like it.’

‘Then we won’t tell him. I know what I’m doing, Jane.’

‘We never seem to be free from trouble.’

‘This is our new start. Just you wait and see.’ Clara spoke with more conviction than she was feeling. Getting out of debt meant betraying Luke – it was a terrible choice to have to make. ‘I’ll take my tea into the shop, just in case the customers come back.’

Jane popped a sugared almond into her mouth and nodded.

Luke returned with a basketful of groceries. Clara shook her head. ‘You can’t keep doing this. We’re not your responsibility.’ She emptied the contents onto the table in the parlour. ‘Bread, cake, ham, cheese, butter. This must have cost a small fortune.’

He shrugged. ‘You can repay me by letting me take you to a chop house for dinner this evening. There’s plenty here to feed Jane and Betsy, with some over for tomorrow.’

At any other time Clara might have refused his invitation to dine, but she was desperate to find out where the Skinner brothers were hiding. ‘Thank you. That would be lovely.’

‘Really?’ He stared at her, eyebrows raised. ‘I was expecting an argument.’

‘Things have changed,’ Clara said, forcing her lips into a smile. ‘With Pa safely in the country we can start afresh, as I was just telling Jane.’

Jane eyed the food, licking her lips. ‘Is all this for us, Luke?’

‘It is, and I don’t want to see any waste.’ Luke tweaked a stray golden curl that had escaped from the ribbons in Jane’s hair.

‘There won’t be. I promise.’

Clara was just about to close the shop that evening when Luke arrived.

‘I’m ready,’ she said, tipping the day’s meagre takings into the strong box. The weather had kept customers away and sales had been poor even when the shop was open, but that was to be expected in the middle of winter. Things would look up with the first hint of spring. She glanced at Luke, who was staring at her, a frown creasing his brow. ‘What’s the matter?’ she asked suspiciously.

‘Is that all you have to wear?’

She glanced down at her serviceable, but plain grey dress. ‘Yes, as a matter of fact it is. You know how things were with us, Luke. We had to pawn or sell everything we owned, or starve.’

‘I knew things were bad, but I didn’t realise that you only had that rag.’

‘It’s not a rag. This material is best-quality cotton.’

‘It’s dull grey and makes you look like a drab.’ Luke fingered the bolts of brightly coloured fabrics. ‘I want you to have a gown made in this.’ He pulled out a length of emerald-green silk.

It was all Clara could do not to laugh at his choice, but even so, his words had hurt. She tossed her head. ‘That would make a wonderful afternoon gown for a lady, but not for a shop girl.’

His winged eyebrows drew together in a scowl. ‘Marry me and forget all this, Clara. I don’t want my woman serving in a shop all day.’

She met his gaze with a straight look, but this was not the right time to assert her independence. It was an argument they had had on numerous occasions, always ending in a stalemate. Tonight must be about gaining the information that Patches wanted, and personal feelings would have to be put aside. ‘I’m sorry, Luke, but this is my only gown. If you’re ashamed to be seen out with me …’

He reached out to grasp her hand. ‘Of course not. I just want to show you off. Is that so wrong?’ He lifted the bolt of silk and placed it on the counter. ‘I’m a customer now, Clara. I want enough material to make a dress. You know more about that sort of thing than I do.’

‘And what then? Are you going to take sewing lessons?’ She could not resist the temptation to tease him. He meant it kindly, she was sure, but such a gown would be far too grand for her purposes.

‘You can laugh, girl, but I’m serious. I leave it to you to choose the style and find a good dressmaker.’ He put his hand in his pocket and took out a leather pouch. ‘How much would that cost?’

‘I’d have to work it out, but it’s an unnecessary extravagance and I’m not sure that it’s proper to receive such a gift from you.’

He threw back his head and laughed. ‘You’re such a little prude at heart, my love.’ He tossed a handful of coins onto the counter. ‘Put that in the strongbox and fetch your cloak. It’s bitterly cold outside.’

‘I’ll just make sure that Jane and Betsy have everything they need.’

‘They’re quite capable of looking after themselves for a couple of hours,’ Luke said impatiently. ‘We’ll walk to the Gaiety; it’s not very far.’

‘All right. Just give me a minute to get my cloak and bonnet.’ Clara went through to the parlour where Jane was putting the finishing touches to the supper she was to share with Betsy. ‘That looks good,’ Clara said, smiling. ‘I wish I was staying at home, but Luke is taking me to the Gaiety.’

‘You might see Nathanial,’ Jane said eagerly.

Clara shook her head. ‘I hope not. Luke didn’t take too kindly to him when they met. It would be embarrassing.’

Betsy rested her stockinged feet on the brass fender. ‘I’d love to be taken out to supper, but I’m really too tired. Miss Lavelle was at her worst today. I’m sure she must be troubled with chilblains or something; she’s so crotchety these days.’

‘Perhaps she’s crossed in love,’ Jane said, sighing.

‘You read too many penny dreadfuls.’ Betsy stretched and yawned. ‘Pass me my plate, Jane. I’m dying of hunger.’

Clara put on her bonnet. ‘Don’t squabble while I’m out, and don’t open the door to anyone but me. Make sure you lock up after we’ve gone, Betsy.’

‘Stop fussing,’ Betsy said with a careless wave of her hand. ‘We can look after ourselves. Go out and enjoy your evening. I just wish it was me going to a nice restaurant and not you.’

‘I’m sure your turn will come, and yours too, Jane.’ Clara turned to see Luke standing in the doorway. He might have taken to a life on the wrong side of the law, but with his fair hair waved back from a high forehead, clean-cut features and wide-set grey eyes he had an air of distinction and could easily pass as a gentleman. Just when she thought she knew every facet of his character, Clara discovered something new about Luke Foyle. She hated his way of life, but there was something about him that was both intriguing and fascinating.

Betsy shot him a sideways glance. ‘Ta for the grub, Luke.’

He bowed from the waist. ‘You’re most welcome.’

‘You look very smart,’ Betsy added, looking him up and down. ‘Look at those buttons on his waistcoat, Clara. I bet they’re real silver.’

‘I wouldn’t wear anything less,’ Luke said, chuckling. ‘You have an eye for fashion, Betsy. I paid a handsome price for them.’

‘You’re a shameless peacock.’ Clara hustled him into the shop. ‘We won’t be late, girls.’

The ice-cold air took Clara’s breath away as they trod carefully on the frozen surface of the snow. Above them the indigo sky was studded with twinkling stars and wisps of cloud danced across the silver face of the moon. It would have been a night for romance, had it not been for the grim task ahead. Luke tucked her hand in the crook of his arm, and the scent of bay rum and Macassar oil filled her nostrils. It seemed that the noxious smells of the city had been frozen out of existence, for the time being at least, and when they reached the Strand, lights blazed from the theatres and eating houses, creating a magical snow scene. Ice seemed to fill Clara’s lungs as the cold grew more intense and it was a relief to step inside the Gaiety restaurant where they were enveloped in the aroma of good food and the heady scent of wine, gentlemen’s cologne and expensive perfume.

The cloakroom assistant checked in their outer garments and the maître d’hôtel seemed to know Luke and led them to one of the best tables. A waiter hurried up to present them with menus and took their order. Luke made a selection from the wine list. ‘You’ve very quiet, Clara,’ he said when the waiter had filled their glasses and moved away. ‘Is there something on your mind?’

She covered her confusion by taking a sip of the ruby-red claret. ‘No, of course not.’

‘I don’t believe you.’ He eyed her over the rim of his glass. ‘I know you too well. What is it?’

She met his intense gaze and realised suddenly that a lie was out of the question. ‘I went to see Patches again.’

‘You did what?’ His raised voice attracted the attention of the diners at the next table.

‘She had given me three days to pay off Pa’s debts, but she sent for me today.’

‘Why didn’t you tell me this before?’

‘I didn’t know what to do. She wants certain information and she’s threatened to take it out on Jane if I don’t do as she asked. She plans to get even with you for fighting with her son.’

‘I can stand up for myself, but that’s not all, is it? What is it she wants you to do? Come on, Clara, you know that you can’t keep anything from me.’

She could see the tell-tale pulse throbbing in his temple and his knuckles were white as he grasped the stem of his wineglass. ‘She said she would cancel Pa’s debt if I found out where the Skinners have their hideout. She wants them dead.’ Clara’s voice broke on a sob.

‘Why didn’t you tell me all this in the first place? How much did Alfred owe?’

‘Eight guineas, but she’s increased it to ten because I can’t raise that much money, at least not quickly. I suppose I could if I sold the shop, but that’s my livelihood now.’

‘Your father has a lot to answer for. He’s taken the coward’s way out and left you to take the consequences.’ Luke drained his glass and reached for the bottle. ‘You won’t have to do what Patches wants and you won’t have to find the money. I’ll sort that old bitch out once and for all, and that idiot son of hers.’

‘How? What are you going to do?’

‘It’s not your problem now. This has become personal.’ Luke sat back as the waiter appeared with their food. ‘Enjoy your dinner, and then I’m taking you home.’

‘You don’t know Patches. She’s evil.’

‘I know Patches only too well, and it would take more than a pock-marked old woman to frighten me.’

‘You won’t do anything stupid, will you?’

His eyes twinkled and he raised his glass to her. ‘So you do love me?’

‘I don’t want your death on my conscience,’ she said with a reluctant smile.

‘I suppose that’s a start.’ He raised his glass. ‘Let’s enjoy the evening.’

Clara hardly slept that night for worrying about Luke. He had seen her home, but had left immediately, having laughed off her fears and promised to return next day to let her know that matters had been settled satisfactorily. He had seemed supremely confident in his own ability but she had her doubts. The whole sad affair could end up in one of the gang wars that were the scourge of the East End.

She rose early and went about the chore of lighting the fire and filling the kettle with snow as the pump in the back yard was still frozen. The grey-white world outside felt cold and alien, adding to her feeling of foreboding.

Betsy appeared just as the kettle came to the boil, and after snatching a cup of tea and a slice of bread and jam, she rammed her bonnet on her head and wrapped her shawl around her shoulders. ‘If Miss Lavelle isn’t in a better mood today I’m giving in my notice. I don’t care if I never find another job, but I won’t be treated like a skivvy.’

Clara was used to listening to her sister’s grumbles before she set off each day and she ignored this last remark. ‘I’ve made a sandwich for you.’

Betsy eyed the brown paper package with distaste. ‘She won’t allow us to eat in the workroom in case we get grease on the material.’

‘Never mind. Take it anyway and eat it on the way home.’

‘I wish you’d stop being so cheerful. We’re stuck here, in this tiny shop with hardly a rag to our backs and we have to rely on Luke for our food. It’s all Pa’s fault and I hope he’s suffering too, wherever he is now.’ Betsy tucked the sandwich into her reticule and flounced out of the parlour.

Clara sighed and shook her head. Betsy was right, of course, but there was no point in dwelling on the past. What happened now was more important. She followed her sister through the shop and out into the street. She was about to lock the door when Betsy uttered a gasp and bent down to pluck something from the snowy pavement.

‘Look what I found.’ She held out her mittened hand and a tiny silver button winked in the light of the gas lamp. ‘I’ll swear this is from Luke’s waistcoat.’

Clara took it from her. ‘Yes, I’m sure it is. It must have come off when he saw me home. I’m certain he would have noticed if it was missing in the restaurant.’

Betsy pointed to a dark stain on the churned-up snow. ‘That looks like blood.’

‘It’s your imagination,’ Clara said sharply. ‘You’d better hurry or you’ll be late for work.’

‘Maybe he slipped and fell,’ Betsy insisted. ‘You should go round to his lodgings and make sure he’s all right.’

‘Luke can take care of himself.’ Clara stepped back into the shop and closed the door, but her knees were trembling and the button seemed to burn into the palm of her hand. She hesitated for a moment and then reached under the counter for the button box. It would be safe there, and buttons came off easily enough. She would make sure it was sewn on more securely when she returned it to Luke.

‘Clara, are you there?’ Jane’s voice brought her down to earth with a bump. It was silly to worry about a lost button, and the stain on the snow might be anything. Even if it were blood that didn’t mean to say it was Luke’s. Betsy was over-imaginative at the best of times. Clara hurried into the parlour.

‘I’m here. I just saw Betsy off to work.’

‘She’s forgotten to take the hat I finished off,’ Jane said anxiously. ‘She’ll be in trouble again.’

Clara thought quickly. It was still only half-past seven, and there was no point in opening the shop before nine. ‘I’ll take it to her, if you don’t mind being left alone again.’

‘Of course not. I feel quite safe here, and thanks to Luke I can make some toast for my breakfast. There’s butter and jam – it feels like Christmas.’

‘I’ll open up when I get back. There probably won’t be any customers until later this morning. It’s still freezing outside.’ Clara took her cloak from the peg and slipped it on. ‘I’ll be as quick as I can.’ She picked up the bandbox containing the hat, blew Jane a kiss and set off after Betsy.

Knowing her sister only too well, Clara had guessed correctly. Betsy did not know the meaning of the word ‘hurry’. She caught her up as she meandered along the Strand in the direction of Miss Lavelle’s shop.

‘You left this behind,’ Clara said breathlessly. ‘And you’re going to be late as it is.’

Betsy glared at the hat box as if it were to blame for her employer’s faults. ‘Thank you.’

‘Hurry up, slowcoach.’

‘I will if you promise to go and see Luke. I’m worried about him.’

‘Anyone would think he was your beau, Betsy. I’m going there now, if you must know. Now please, run the last few yards so that at least it looks as if you’ve tried to get to work on time.’

Betsy rolled her eyes and turned away, but she did walk a little faster than usual, and Clara waited until she saw her enter the premises. She could sympathise with her sister, but they needed the money, little though it might be. One day Betsy would be a fully qualified milliner and able to command a high price for her creations – until then she would have to put up with Miss Lavelle’s idiosyncrasies and foul moods. There was no escape for working girls, other than a suitable marriage, and even then that was not necessarily a recipe for a happy ending. Life was not a fairy tale. Clara set off for Luke’s lodging house in Hanging Sword Alley. It was a long way down Fleet Street, she had only been this way once before and that was in Luke’s company. She put her head down, ignoring the comments from passing draymen and carters, all of whom offered to give her a lift in return for favours not expressed in words, but their meaning was obvious.

She reached the lodging house in the narrow alleyway off Whitefriars Street, and knocked on the door. A feral cat shot past with a dead rat in its mouth and a mangy dog in hot pursuit. She knocked again and this time the door was opened just a crack.

‘What d’yer want?’ The woman’s voice was gruff and the words were slurred with drink although it was still early morning. The smell of gin fumes curled upwards in a plume of bad breath as it evaporated into the cold atmosphere.

‘I want to speak to Mr Foyle.’

‘He ain’t here. Never come home last night, according to the slut I pay to empty the slops. Best try the brothels, love. That’s where they usually end up.’ She slammed the door in Clara’s face.




Chapter Six (#ulink_857f8de8-4d2e-5e1c-9f2e-a374bc5ffdd3)


As the hours went by and still no word from Luke, Clara’s fears intensified. Until now she had had supreme confidence in Luke’s ability to take care of himself, but that was before she had met Patches Bragg, when the world of the gambling dens and the criminal gangs had seemed unreal. It had not occurred to her that Pa was so deeply involved with the criminal fraternity, but now she realised just how far he had sunk. For the rest of the day her thoughts kept returning to the silver button nestling amongst its brothers, and the patch of blood in the snow. It had all but disappeared into a mushy grey slush, but the memory of it was still fresh in her mind.

Clara closed up early, making the excuse of going out to purchase hot pies for their evening meal, but instead she made her way to the club in Angel Court. There was no hope of finding the money that Patches had demanded, but that paled into insignificance in the light of Luke’s disappearance. There was only one way to find out if Patches and her gang were involved. She rapped on the door and waited, but no one came. She knocked again, and when there was no reply she turned the knob and found to her surprise that the door was not locked. With her heart hammering against her tightly laced stays, she stepped inside.

‘Is anyone there?’ Her voice echoed throughout the building. There was no sign of Bones or Old Tom, and the only sound was her own ragged breathing. Her first instinct was to turn and run, but perhaps Luke was there in that dank cellar, bound and gagged and unable to communicate.

She made her way through the dark corridors and down the flight of narrow stairs to the basement, and there was no sign of life or sound of anything other than the creaking of old timbers. She opened the door to the gaming room. Light filtered hazily through the grimy window; it was dim but even so she could see that the place was deserted. The tables were bare, as were the shelves behind the bar. Patches and her punters might never have existed other than in her imagination. Clara bent down to pick up a round gaming token that had been overlooked. Even in the semi-darkness she could see that it was similar to the ones that Pa sometimes brought home in his pocket. But for this tiny object she might have been led to believe that she was in the wrong place, or that she had dreamed the whole sorry business.

The sound of footsteps on the stairs made her spin round. She held her breath, poised and ready to run. She had expected to see one of Patches’ men, but it was an elderly woman who stood in the doorway and she looked as scared as Clara was feeling.

‘Who are you?’ the woman demanded tremulously. ‘What are you doing here?’

Clara was shaking from head to foot, but it was with relief and not fear. ‘I might ask the same of you. Where is Patches?’

‘Are you one of her gang? I don’t want no trouble. I’m just the cleaning woman.’

‘No, I’m not one of the gang,’ Clara said angrily. ‘Where have they gone?’

‘I dunno, and I don’t ask questions. Nor will you if you’ve got any sense. I’ve got work to do, and you’d better go about your business, whatever that might be.’

‘I need to know what happened here last night. Please tell me anything you know.’

‘Go away and let me get on. I got a family to feed and I don’t know nothing.’ The woman glanced over her shoulder. ‘He’s coming.’ She scuttled into the room and pushed past Clara, brandishing a broom.

Clara attempted to leave but found her way barred by a swarthy man wearing a billycock hat and a heavy overcoat with its collar pulled up to his unshaven chin. ‘Who are you?’ he demanded, squinting at her from beneath bushy black eyebrows.

‘I’m looking for Luke Foyle,’ Clara said, hoping she sounded more confident than she was feeling. This man had an air of menace about him that made her feel distinctly threatened, but to her surprise his frown was replaced by a broad grin, exposing a row of uneven, yellowed teeth.

‘What’s your name, lovely?’

‘I’m Clara Carter.’

‘So you’re the one,’ he said, chuckling. ‘Luke has an eye for a looker, and that’s the truth.’

‘Where is he?’ Clara demanded breathlessly.

‘You might say he’s had to go on a trip for the sake of his health, miss. You won’t be seeing him for quite a while.’

‘I don’t understand.’

‘Haven’t you heard? There was a fight between the Skinners’ gang and the Braggs’ last night. Very bloody it was too. Those what are left have scarpered.’

‘Who are you?’ Clara demanded furiously. ‘How do I know you’re not lying?’

‘It don’t matter who I am, my duck. I’ll be off soon meself, but it’s a pity about Foyle. You’ll get over him in time.’

Clara felt a bubble of hysteria welling up inside her, but she mustered every scrap of self-control in an attempt to sound calm and collected. ‘What happened to him?’

‘I told you, girl. He left the country and he won’t be coming back for a long while. If he does he faces the hangman’s noose. D’you understand me now?’

‘Did he kill someone?’ Clara’s breath caught on a sob. ‘Was it Patches? Is that why this place is deserted?’

‘I ain’t prepared to say no more. The less you know, the better. Go home, girl.’ He was about to walk past her but she caught him by the sleeve.

‘Why won’t you tell me where Luke has gone?’

He shook her hand off as if it were an annoying bug. ‘Oh, didn’t I say? How very remiss of me. He’s taking in the delights of Paris, so I believe.’ He sauntered off to inspect the bar, or what was left of it, giving Clara the opportunity to escape.

It was not until she was outside that the full force of events overtook her and she leaned against the wall, gasping for breath. It had all begun with a gambling debt, but everything had spiralled out of control, and now Luke had left the country, if that man was to be believed. There must have been a scuffle outside the shop, which would account for the bloodstain on the snow and the loss of a waistcoat button, but what happened after that would remain a mystery.

She walked home slowly, stopping to buy three hot mutton pies from the pieman, and three baked potatoes from the stall a little further along Drury Lane. Her movements were automatic and she was still in a state of shock. She had done her best to persuade Luke to get away from the gangs, and he had managed to keep that part of his life separate, treating it almost as a joke. Now the reality of gang warfare had struck home – Luke must have killed someone, maybe Patches herself, and he had fled for his life. He was a marked man and if he returned to England he would face the full force of the law.

The sound of footsteps made Clara glance over her shoulder. Home and safety were just a few yards away, but to her relief she recognised a familiar figure. With his muffler flying and his hair tousled by the wind, Nathaniel came hurrying towards her with his violin case slung over his shoulder. As he came to a breathless halt she noticed that he had done his coat up on the wrong button and his stiff white collar was coming undone as if he had lost a stud in his hurry to get dressed.

‘Clara, I thought it was you.’ He sniffed the air, like a hungry hound. ‘Mutton pie, my favourite.’

‘You’re welcome to join us, Nathaniel. There’s plenty to go round.’

‘I wish I could, but I’m already late. I should have been at work ten minutes ago. I just hope the conductor hasn’t noticed that I’m not in my place.’

‘Another time then,’ Clara said, smiling, ‘but perhaps you ought to stop off for a moment and fix your collar. You do look a bit untidy, if you don’t mind me saying so.’

‘I was so busy composing that I forgot the time.’

‘You seem to have lost a collar stud.’

‘Devil take the wretched things.’ Nathaniel ran his hand through his windblown hair. ‘I’m always losing them, but I can’t stop now. May I call on you soon, Clara? I don’t want to intrude.’

‘That would be very nice.’ Clara had to suppress the sudden desire to laugh. In the midst of murder and mayhem Nathaniel represented a different world that was infinitely more appealing.

‘Splendid.’ He backed away, smiling. ‘And I haven’t forgotten about the tickets for the show …’ His voice trailed off as he broke into a run, heading in the direction of the Strand.

Clara walked on slowly, making a huge effort to compose herself before she arrived at the shop. What had happened last night was something she wanted to keep to herself for as long as possible.

Jane answered Clara’s knock on the door and she entered the shop with a smile on her face. ‘Look what I’ve got for supper. We’ll eat well tonight.’

‘Did you find Luke? Is he all right?’

Betsy stuck her head round the parlour door. ‘Do I smell hot pies?’

‘Yes to both questions. Luke has gone away for a while, Jane, but he’ll be back before you know it. Betsy, get the plates out, please. The pies are getting cold.’

When her sisters had gone to bed, Clara stayed downstairs on the pretext of locking up, but although she was physically exhausted, she knew that sleep would elude her. She sat by the dying embers of the fire with the box containing her treasures on her lap and she held Luke’s silver button between her fingers. It was beautifully crafted, and the whole set must have been very expensive, but that was typical of Luke – only the best would do. She sighed, wondering what had happened to him. Luke had left the country, or so the man had said, but he could have been lying. Perhaps Luke had simply left London. As far as she knew he had no family living. He had told her that his mother was dead, but he had always been reluctant to talk about his past, and she had respected his right to keep silent about matters that were obviously distressing. She wished now that she had questioned him further as it might have given her a clue as to his whereabouts.

Clara closed the box and rose to her feet, but as she replaced it beneath the counter she remembered that Luke had wanted her to have an elegant gown made from the emerald-green silk. Generosity had been one of his more endearing qualities, and, despite her reservations as to his character, she realised with a sense of shock that she would miss him more than she would have thought possible. She had managed to keep her emotions in check all evening, but now she was alone she could give vent to her feelings and tears trickled down her cheeks. If she were being honest she had to admit that she cared deeply for Luke, despite his many failings, or maybe because of them, but it was his involvement with the criminal world that had made her wary of falling in love. The gangs were constantly at war, but last night Luke had acted on her behalf, and it was her father’s inability to repay his debt to Patches that had brought matters to a head. If she had kept her worries to herself none of this would have happened. She bowed her head and sobbed as if her heart would break.

Lizzie breezed into the shop next morning, smiling triumphantly. ‘Madam was delighted with the lace.’ Her smile faded. ‘What’s the matter with you, Clara? You look dreadful.’

‘I didn’t sleep very well, but I’m fine.’

‘Don’t fib. You can’t fool me. What’s happened?’

There seemed little point in lying. Lizzie would not be fooled easily and Clara knew that she was not looking her best. When she had eventually fallen asleep she had suffered terrifying nightmares that had made her fearful of dozing off again in case they returned. She glanced over her shoulder to make sure the parlour door was closed. Jane was working on a creation that Betsy had brought home to finish off, and Clara did not want her to hear what she had to say.

‘I’ll tell you, but you must keep it between us. No one else must know.’

Lizzie’s eyes brightened and she pulled up the stool that was reserved for privileged customers. ‘Do tell, but make it quick. I’m sure Miss Jones times my absences so that she can report me to the housekeeper. She knows I’m a threat because madam likes me, and I know how to keep on her good side.’

Clara launched into a brief summary of the events leading to Luke’s disappearance. ‘I only have a stranger’s word for it that Luke has left the country. He wouldn’t tell me what really happened, but when I went to Angel Court yesterday there was no sign of Patches or any of her men.’

‘How awful, but very exciting, even though I don’t approve of you taking matters into your own hands.’

‘I still don’t know what happened to Luke.’

Lizzie put her head on one side, eyeing her sister with a wry smile. ‘You said you didn’t care for him.’

‘I don’t, not in a romantic way, but I am fond of him. I wouldn’t want any harm to come to him, especially when he was trying to help us. Patches threatened to hurt Jane, and I believed her.’

‘You didn’t tell me that.’

‘I thought I could handle it on my own, and I certainly don’t want Jane to find out. The poor child suffers enough as it is.’

‘So what happened to Patches? She can’t have disappeared in a puff of smoke.’

‘I don’t know, Lizzie. I wish I did, but I’m not going back there.’

‘Then you must try to put it out of your head.’ Lizzie rose to her feet. ‘Heavens! I’d almost forgotten why I came here today.’

‘You needed to buy needles and thread? More lace?’

‘Yes, that’s it. Miss Jones needs more blonde lace. Madam has taken a liking to it and she wants another gown trimmed with it, but she needs at least ten yards. It’s a very grand gown and I think she wants to show off in front of her husband’s business colleagues and their stuffy wives. Have you got that much in stock?’

Clara shook her head. ‘No, there might be three yards but that’s all, and it means I’d have to go to the warehouse to order more, which would take time.’

‘She wants it by tomorrow. What will we do?’

‘You could probably get some in Oxford Street.’

‘I wouldn’t know where to start.’ Lizzie reached across the counter to grasp her sister’s hands. ‘But you would, Clara. You have an eye for these things.’

‘I have to look after the shop, Lizzie. I can’t just close up on a whim. I’ll lose customers.’

‘Mrs Comerford is a very influential woman. If she’s satisfied with your service she’ll recommend you to her wealthy friends. Please, Clara.’

Lizzie’s pleading expression made it almost impossible to refuse, and the temptation of a shopping trip to Oxford Street outweighed all other considerations. The lure of the big department stores was too strong to refuse. ‘I suppose I could shut for an hour at midday. It’s quite a long walk but I could do it.’

‘Miss Jones gave me the money for a cab. I don’t mind walking back to Bedford Square. If you could bring the lace to the house you’d be saving my life.’

‘I don’t think Miss Jones would stoop to murder,’ Clara said, chuckling, ‘but I’ll do it for you, Lizzie. Just remember you owe me a favour.’

‘I’ll be in your debt for ever.’ Lizzie delved into her reticule and took out a purse. She pressed some coins into her sister’s hand. ‘That should be enough for the lace and the cab fare.’ She moved to the door and paused to blow a kiss. ‘Thank you. I won’t forget this, Clara.’

Oxford Street was thronged with carriages, cabs and horse-drawn omnibuses. People had braved the snow, and the shop windows were filled with displays designed to tempt customers to come in and look around. Clara alighted from the cab outside Peter Robinson’s department store. She headed for the drapery department and stopped for a moment to take in the sheer size and the vast quantity of stock compared to her own small establishment. She took off one glove and fingered the silks, satins and crisp cottons on display. Filmy muslin and delicate lace hung like cobwebs from tall stands, and black-uniformed shop assistants offered their services with a smile. Bolts of linen and other materials had their own fresh smell that acted like wine on Clara’s heightened senses, and she drifted towards the counter, drinking in the atmosphere until she was dizzy with delight. This was what she wanted for herself. An emporium to satisfy the senses and provide beauty and luxury at prices that almost everyone could afford.

‘Can I help you, madam?’ A small, pretty assistant was suddenly at her side. ‘What would madam like to see?’

‘Blonde lace,’ Clara said firmly. ‘I need ten yards.’

‘I’m afraid we don’t stock it any more. It’s fallen out of fashion, but we have some very fine Valenciennes lace, which is very popular at the moment.’

Clara thought quickly. ‘I’d like to see it and also if you have any Chantilly lace, perhaps I could compare the two?’

A flicker of respect lit the girl’s dark eyes and she inclined her head. ‘Certainly, madam. If you would like to take a seat for a moment I’ll fetch them for you.’

Half an hour later Clara had her purchase of Chantilly lace tucked under her arm and she had taken time to walk through the store and inspect the merchandise. She stood outside, and was about to hail a hansom cab when she spotted a ‘To Let’ sign a little further along the street. She could not resist the temptation to have a look at what was on offer.

The four-storey building had once been a town house but the ground floor had been turned into a shop. Peering through the grimy window she could see very little, apart from an upturned chair and the floor strewn with rubbish. The dilapidated exterior, with peeling paintwork and faded lettering on the fascia indicating that it had once been the premises of a bespoke tailor, gave the impression that the shop had been empty for quite some time. In her mind she began refurbishing the interior and filling the shelves with irresistible items that would tempt women of all classes to come and buy. She sighed and turned away. It was just a dream after all. She hailed a cab.

The thaw had set in and the trees in Bedford Square seemed to be weeping as the snow on the branches melted and fell in icy tears to the ground. Spikes of grass had begun to poke through the white blanket and the pavements were slippery with slush. Clara made her way carefully towards the steps leading down to the area, but as she was about to open the gate a waft of warm air made her look up to see Joss Comerford emerge from the house and head down the steps. She was about to continue but he had spotted her and smiled.

‘Miss Carter, this is a pleasant surprise. Has my mama been putting more business your way?’

‘In a manner of speaking, sir.’

‘There’s no need to use the servants’ entrance.’ Despite her protests, he ushered her into the house. James stood to attention, gazing into the distance, but Clara could feel disapproval emanating from him in waves. She walked past him with her head held high.

‘I have a package for Miss Jones,’ she said firmly.

Joss took off his top hat and tucked it under his arm. ‘James will see that she gets it.’ Joss curved his lips into a lazy smile as he slowly peeled off his kid gloves.

Clara tightened her grip on the package. ‘Thank you, sir, but I really need to speak to Miss Jones in person.’

‘Oh, all right, if you insist. James, I want you to find Miss Jones and ask her to come to the morning parlour.’

‘Yes, sir.’ Holding himself stiffly erect, James headed for the back stairs.

‘Come, Miss Carter. I’ll show you to the morning parlour. It’s much warmer in there and you’ll be more comfortable.’

‘Thank you, but I really can’t stay long. I had to close the shop.’

‘Really? An inconvenience, I’m sure.’ Joss led the way across the wide entrance hall and ushered her into an elegant reception room where a fire burned in the grate. He laid his hat on a rosewood side table together with his gloves. ‘Do take a seat and make yourself comfortable. Would you like some refreshment?’

Clara remained standing. ‘No, sir. Thank you, but as I explained I have to get back to the shop.’

‘Ah, yes. The shop – it’s rather small, isn’t it? I mean it can’t provide much of an income.’

‘It’s a living, sir. I’m only just starting out in the drapery business, but I have ambition to go much further.’ She glanced around, taking in her surroundings with a feeling of envy. The morning parlour had been decorated and furnished with a feminine touch, and no expense had been spared. The delicate blues and greys of the silk upholstery and the elegant furniture seemed dwarfed by Joss Comerford’s presence.

He unbuttoned his greatcoat and perched on a chair that seemed too fragile to bear his weight. ‘Have you indeed? I’d like to hear more about that.’ He stretched his legs out to the fire.

‘There’s not much to tell. It’s a dream really, but when I’ve made enough money I’d like to rent premises in Oxford Street. I’d start quite small and I’d build up gradually until I had a treasure house filled with beautiful things at a price that most people could afford.’

‘That sounds wonderful, but aren’t there already several department stores in Oxford Street?’

‘The more, the better. It would bring people in from the country, and with the railways spreading ever further it’s not beyond the bounds of possibility that people could come to London just for the day. Imagine Christmas with lights and decorations all along the street and shop windows filled with luxury items.’

‘By golly, you’ve sold the idea to me already. When will you start this odyssey?’

Clara folded her hands tightly around the parcel of lace. ‘As I said, sir, it’s just a dream at present, but one day—’ She broke off at the sound of a faint tap on the door.

‘Enter,’ Joss said grandly.

The door opened and Miss Jones sidled into the room. ‘You wanted to see me, sir?’

‘Miss Carter has something for you, Jones.’ Joss rose to his feet. ‘I’ll wait for you in the hall, Miss Carter.’

Clara shot him a questioning look. ‘Why, sir? I explained that I have to hurry home.’

‘I’m going your way. Another luncheon at Simpson’s. A bit of a bore, but I have to keep in touch with friends.’ He left the room, allowing the door to swing shut.

‘What is this, Miss Carter?’ Miss Jones looked down her pointed nose, glaring at Clara as if she had done something unforgivable.

‘I had to go to Oxford Street to get the lace, Miss Jones.’ Clara handed her the neatly wrapped package. ‘They didn’t have any blonde lace and the assistant told me that it went out of fashion some time ago.’

‘I don’t know about that. I always thought it was a favourite with royalty,’ Miss Jones said stiffly. ‘You provided us with such lace from your little shop.’ The emphasis she put on the last two words made them sound like an insult.





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