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streets of London? And after all the publicity that little snoop Dickens had brought to the needy and the homeless, not to mention the criminal class. You think something would have been done by now about the crime rate and the appalling condition of the poor, but the politicians kept waving their Union Jacks, fretting over Ireland, swilling champagne and stuffing themselves with oysters, and couldn’t be bothered. In these circumstances, the astute madam entertained no illusions about the police being within a thousand yards of the neighborhood, and protected herself. An acquaintance of mine had provided me (at an exorbitant price, I might add) with a fine Webley British Bulldog, along with a number of lessons in its use, conducted in the forest a few miles from London and prying eyes. You may think the .442 caliber of the Bulldog to be too much to handle for a woman of my size, but I’m wiry (not to mention stubborn), and I had conquered the massive kick of the firearm. It is amazing what a woman can do if only she ignores what men tell her she can’t. If I do say so myself (and I seldom refrain from doing so), I’m a deuced fine shot, and if anyone feels inclined to meddle with me, he can expect some hot lead for his hubris. Consequently, while I was cautious, I was not frightened. The cold weight of my pistol in my purse comforted me.
    I traversed a lonely stretch of pavement lined with shops that sold used clothing, mutton pies, secondhand furniture, and cheap tobacco, all shuttered for the night, with the faint glow of candles or lamps from the living quarters above leaking feebly into the street. The sidewalks were piled with rubbish, and the air smelled of horse dung, soot and grease. Most of the citizenry had retired for the night, but occasionally a shadow crossed a lighted window or a dim figure passed by on the opposite side of the street, appearing and disappearing like a conjurer’s phantom through the swirling mist. In the distance, a dog barked once, sharply, then fell silent. My footsteps echoed on the pavement.
    I turned north into Pagan Alley and saw the dark silhouette of the steeple of a church outlined indistinctly against the faint orange glow of the city. Water had pooled among the uneven cobblestones so that I had to lift my skirts and thread my way carefully through the filthy puddles. The odor was nauseating: putrefying vegetables and excrement, the decomposing carcasses of rats (and only rats, I hoped) and rancid ale. The buildings on either side of the lane rose ominously overhead, rendering the alley perilously dark and desolate. But I was not alone.
    On either side of the narrow passage, shapeless forms huddled in doorways or clustered together in an attempt to stay warm. Some of the figures stirred as I walked past; one or two stretched out a beseeching hand, as if by some instinct they realized the steps that passed belonged not to another unfortunate creature, but to someone who might part with a shilling or two (quite mistaken on that point, I assure you). My progress had slowed to a crawl; I had to inch forward to avoid stepping on any of the alley’s inhabitants, and I was sure that I was drawing close to my destination, though it was difficult to tell in the mist and smoke and darkness.
    Behind me, a boot scraped the stones; there was a scuffling noise, a crash and a venomous oath split the air. I whirled round at the commotion, but it was impossible to see down the length of the alley. Around me, the sober sleepers bolted upright, while the drunks whimpered and moaned and thrashed about.
    “Oi!” said a rough voice. “Watch where you’re walkin’, you great oaf.”
    I heard a low murmur; the rough voice swore, grumbled and subsided. The alley’s inhabitants remained poised for a moment, sniffing the air, debating whether the ruckus heralded the arrival of the peelers to roust them out of their night’s accommodations, then hearing nothing further, as one body they turned in