‘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.
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