just for the boy concerned, but for his extended family as well. This was the bind she too had felt, during her childhood. As a young pickpocket and later, a housebreaker, she had acquired her money in daily scraps and infrequent windfalls. What she didn’t spend was liable to be stolen from her, in turn. And all the time, there was the need to keep her head down, keep her real identity a secret. It was an exhausting life, for she was constantly on the alert, always on the defensive. And except for the heady rush of danger that came with each theft, it was a lonely, joyless existence. It was perhaps understandable that when caught red-handed, she hadn’t felt her life worth saving. But Anne and Felicity had.
The carriage halted and Mary blinked. Her eyes were moist and she dabbed them hastily with a handkerchief – another luxury. It took her a moment to return to the present, and it was only when the carriage door clicked open that she felt fully a lady once more. And what a lady!
She descended to the pavement with mincing steps and allowed Felicity to hand down the hamper. “Wait here,” she said in the general direction of the carriage.
“Very good, ma’am.”
The house was a narrow two-storey strip of brick in the middle of a row, made conspicuous by the large, slightly wilted black bow fastened to the door knocker. As Mary rapped on the door, she heard voices inside fall silent.
A small, tousled boy opened the door and gaped up at her.
“I’ve come to see your mother,” said Mary in a carrying voice.
As she’d expected, at the sound of her voice a young woman came hurrying towards the door. “Don’t keep the nice lady waiting, Johnny. Let her in, there’s a good boy.” She bobbed a curtsey to Mary. “Please to walk in, ma’am.”
Mary allowed her gaze to travel over the woman and the contents of her house. The sitting room was clean and sparsely furnished, and someone had tried to ornament it with a bunch of white wildflowers arranged in a cracked mug. Despite its plain appearance, it was a large and fairly costly-seeming house for a labourer – even a skilled one like Wick. But the most noticeable feature of the room was the number of children in it: four at a glance, plus the boy by the door. “You’re Mrs Wick?”
The young woman bobbed again. “Yes, ma’am.” She was about twenty, fair-haired, and so very thin that she appeared almost translucent. She had recently had a colossal black eye, which was now fading to a greeny-yellowy colour. “If – if you come to see the body, ma’am, it ain’t here. I ain’t had many callers, ’cause of the ink – the ink—” She stumbled to a halt.
“The inquest?”
“Aye, that’s the one, ma’am.” Something inside Mrs Wick’s dress shifted and Mary blinked: there was a sixth child, an infant, cradled to her breast. She blushed and smiled at Mary’s expression. “My youngest, Robert. He’s over a year, now, for all he’s so tiny.”
Mary bent forward to look at the baby, a bald, wizened little man suckling away, oblivious of her inspection. She had no idea what to say: he wasn’t pretty, or well-grown, or alert, or any of the usual things one complimented in babies. “And this is your eldest?” she indicated the boy who’d let her in.
“Aye, that’s John, named for his father. He’s rising seven. And the others are Katy, Michael and Matthew – twins, they are – and Paul. But won’t you take a seat, Mrs – er, ma’am?”
“Fordham. Mrs Fordham. Thank you.” Mary sat in the chair indicated, the only solid one in the room, and smiled at the children. The children stared back. They looked ridiculously alike, with their mother’s round eyes and defenceless expression.
Paul let out a sudden, thin wail and, in response, a deep voice came from the back of the house. “No call for cryin’, little Paul. Tea’s ready now.” This confident pronouncement was followed by the opening of the interior door – the kitchen door, Mary now saw – and a man entered carrying a tray. He halted, mid-step, at the sight of Mary. Surprise, embarrassment, alarm all flashed across his face. His still-bruised face.
It was Reid.
Reid, the bricklayer.
Reid, with whom she’d gone round site yesterday, collecting donations for the widow Wick.
The silence was broken by Mrs Wick’s nervous half-sob. “What must you think on me,” she asked Mary, “my husband