“I’ve been much further afield than London. I was a soldier, Miss Scott. I lost both legs in the Crimea.”

“Oh no! How dreadful. You poor man.”

But Mr. Scott shook his head, patting her hand with his other filthy paw before letting her go. “It was almost ten years ago now.”

The Crimean War. She dredged her mind and came up with a blank. Her sister Victoria, needless to say, had made an album about the war, including maps and clippings from the Times, but Margaret hadn’t been in the least bit interested. “I’m so sorry,” she said, with real regret. “I know next to nothing about it. Save, there is a poem, isn’t there? I remember now: ‘The Charge of the Light Brigade.’”

“Stupidity and needless slaughter dressed up as heroism. Lucky for me, I was a mere foot soldier, and not fit to ride with Cardigan’s Cherrybum’s—begging your pardon for being so vulgar, miss.”

Margaret giggled. “Cherry what?”

“Bums. Their jackets were too short and their breeches were too tight, you see. They were all guts and glory. The first part, at least, was true enough.”

“Mr. Scott, how is it that—forgive me for being blunt—how is it that you came to be sitting on a wooden trolley in the middle of the night?”

“As it happens I’m working. I’ve been keeping an eye on Percy Wharf, which you’ve just passed through. If you look over, you’ll see this is a fine vantage point, and no-one expects a cripple to be a lookout. I can’t give chase, unless the pilferer is a tortoise with an injured foot, but I can blow my whistle if I see anything, and get the nightwatchman’s attention.”

“Even so, it sounds like dangerous work.”

“It has its moments, but most of the would-be thieves are no more than bairns. Mudlarks, they’re called, urchins who come down to the water at low tide to scavenge.”

“What on earth can they possibly find in the mud?”

“Coal, mostly, lumps that have fallen overboard. They sell it on the street for a few pennies. As far as I’m concerned, that’s not stealing. Though some of them are bold pieces, clambering up onto each other’s shoulders to reach the decks of the barges. I’ve no option but to blow the whistle on them, though it pains me to do it.”

“And if they are caught?”

The Scotsmen shrugged. “Get off with a caution, if they’re lucky enough to get a magistrate with a soft heart. At worst, a few weeks locked up, then they’re straight back to work again.”

“Good God, they put children in gaol?”

“Well, they have to make an example of some of them. It stops the others going to bad, so they say.”

“You don’t believe that?”