As their voices faded into the gloom, she crept out. Behind her someone laughed, making her heart leap in her chest. Peering over her shoulder, she couldn’t see anyone at all, but her skin prickled all the same with awareness of someone being close by, watching her. The last sparks of elation were doused by a cold trickle of fear. She was in the middle of the docks. A flight of stairs led down to the river, which was lapping near the top step, covering it in a layer of scum. Several of the barges she knew were called lighters were moored, though all seemed deserted. Behind her was a row of shuttered warehouses. Her sensitive nose twitched at the rich aroma of coffee beans and spice. Cinnamon? Nutmeg? A loose rope dangling from a winch swayed in the breeze like an empty noose on a gallows.

Cold sweat pricked her back. A small cat—she fervently hoped it was a small cat—slunk by, disappearing into the pitch-black, narrow slit of an alleyway between the warehouses. The tall, shadowy shapes of the large cranes being used on the embankment works looked sinister, like monstrous giants waiting to claim the unwary who stumbled into the deep trenches they guarded.

Margaret shivered, too late realising how vulnerable she was. Just ahead of her on the river was a suspension bridge. Below it, she could make out a light swinging from side to side as the craft it illuminated bobbed on the tide. A blur of flashing light, clanking metal, and billowing smoke rattled across at speed. A night train carrying freight or post most likely. Which meant that must be the Hungerford railway bridge. Yes, and that huge building must be the Charing Cross terminus. The more her eyes became accustomed to the dark, the more she could see. The station was glowing almost invitingly compared to the gloom surrounding her. It didn’t look so very far away. From there, she could find her way onto Whitehall, to street lamps and safety.

Gathering her courage and her crinoline, Margaret hurried along as fast as her tired legs would allow. She was sure she could feel eyes monitoring her progress. A nightwatchman lifted his lamp. In its glow she caught his astonished gaze. She heard his shout, but she didn’t stop. Onwards she ran, past a brightly lit riverside tavern crammed full of people, even at this hour. She heard the discordant clink of a piano. A man, who stood in the doorway inhaling the contents of a large tankard, made a drunken lunge for her, catching hold of one of the swags of her gown.

“Looking for business, my pretty?”