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.’

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