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looks like, but by all accounts he is your dyed-in-the-wool, stone-hard killing cove. I think it might be his first time in England, but I’m getting word that he’s been asking questions about “somebody called Dodger” and some girl. Don’t know much about him. Some say he’s a Dutchman, sometimes they say he’s a Switzer, but always they say he is a killer, who comes out of the dark and goes back into the dark and gets his money and disappears. No one knows what he looks like, no one knows him as a friend, and the only thing that anyone knows is that he likes the ladies. They say that he will always have a girl on his arm, never the same one twice.’ Her brow wrinkled. ‘Don’t know as why I ain’t seen him here yet, given that liking. Maybe we will. But no one can tell you what he actually looks like. I mean that: sometimes they say that they’ve met him and he’s tall and thin, and other times that he’s a fairly short cove. From what I understand, I reckon he must be a master of disguise, and if he wants to talk to you he sends one of his ladies with a message.’

Mrs Holland stared down at the small and smoky fire in the grate and looked unusually troubled. ‘I cannot say he is in my league, the Outlander; he’s more like a nasty dream. Mostly, of course, he stays in Europe where they deserve people like him. I don’t like the idea that he’s turning up here. I quite like you, Dodger, you know that. But if the Outlander gets on your tail, you’re going to have to order up a whole new bag of smarts.’

Dodger checked his face was as cheerful as he could make it. ‘And no one’s ever really seen him, yes?’

‘No,’ said Mrs Holland. ‘Like I said, lots of people have seen him, but they never seem to see the same man.’

Her concern was palpable; Dodger could feel it pouring off her, and this was a woman who would have no great compunction about sending a drunken sailor to, quite probably, a watery grave. Now it seemed that there were some things that even she got nervous about, and she said, ‘It might surprise you, my boy, that a nasty old creature like me has got some standards, and so if I was you, I’d keep my eyes open even if I was asleep. Now give me a great big kiss, ’cos it may be the last one I’ll ever have off of you!’

Dodger did so, much to the amusement of Bang, and he was careful not to wipe his face until he was well away. Then he went back home via the sewers, as much as that was possible.

So somebody that you couldn’t really describe was out there after him and/or Simplicity . . .

Well, they would have to wait in line.

1 The Crossbones cemetery in the borough of Southwark was known as the single women’s churchyard, after the single women in question plied their single women’s trade under licence from the Bishop of Winchester, who owned that part of the riverside, which was why they were humorously named ‘Winchester geese’. Delicacy, of course, prevents the author from describing what exactly they were trading. Although it does suggest that the Church of the time had an understanding and, one might say, very forward-thinking approach to the matter.

CHAPTER 14

A lighterman gets a surprise, an old lady vanishes, and Dodger knows nothing, hears nothing and – unsurprisingly – was not even there

THERE WAS SO much that needed doing, he thought as he hurried home. He had to get ready to go to the theatre later on, but first of all and most importantly, what he had to do was pray. Pray to the Lady.

Dodger had been in churches occasionally, but on the whole the street people kept clear of them unless the promise of food was in the offing; after all, a cove could put up with quite a lot of ‘Come to Jesus’ for the sake of a full stomach, so now he was down in his beloved sewers wondering how to go about a prayer.

He’d never seen the Lady, although Grandad had always talked about her as if she was a friend – and he had seen her before he died, and if you can’t trust the word of a dying man then who can you trust? Oh,