And then, at last, with the light nearly gone, the judge smacks his bench, making the white edges of his papers curl up like fingers, and says he’s surprised that we’ve reached the end of the day before the end of this trial. ‘I’ll give you one more day.’ But, in the light of his crowded docket, the pair of you had better come prepared to finish on Monday.

And there ends the first day.

Because it’s Friday, I face two days in Newgate before we come back. They stretch ahead of me. Minutes will flick lazy as dogs in sun, hours will gallop. The clock’s either as orderly as a multiplication table or as unruly as a fart. But this whole rigmarole should take longer than it takes to clean windows, shouldn’t it? Why should you beg permission to take your time fighting for a woman’s life? Nevertheless, we must set our clocks by the judge, for he’s the sun who rises and sets over the Old Bailey. And he says it’s taking too long.

Chapter Forty-Three

Monday morning. The second day. After I’m brought in, you lean over the prisoner’s dock, bounce on your toes. I try to still my hands, to quiet the clanking of my shackles.

‘I have a surprise,’ you say. A small grin. There’s no time to say more than that, for the judge is coming in.

I’d welcome a surprise. The events of last Friday, and the week-end at Newgate, have worn me out. There was a riot last night: a group of the old girls hacking at the cell with stones chipped out of the wall. It’s how they say goodbye to the stone jug when they’ve been sentenced to the hulks. Transportation is a fate worse than the gibbet, some say. Though I’d welcome it now. It’s no wonder they behave so in there, for a corset drawn too tight is bound to split, and even more so if you squirm against it. Newgate’s that sort of corset. They squeeze us from there to the Old Bailey to the Dead Man’s Walk to the gallows. Like they’re making sausages. The thought makes me clutch at my own stomach, and I’m taken aback for a moment to feel silk there. I look down. A new dress. I’d almost forgotten. One of the good-doers brought it on Saturday. Something for court. You can’t wear that rough thing you had on yesterday. They’ll convict you on the strength of that alone. I do feel the power of this new dress. A kind of dignity coming back. A greater confidence. Held up by that, and your promise of good news, I hold my skirts, and lean forward so I can pay attention.

When you tell the judge you’d like to recall Dr Wilkes, Jessop sits up, frowns.

‘I know he was here on Friday, My Lord,’ you say smoothly. ‘I noted Your Lordship’s observations about time on that occasion. However, a few questions have arisen and I’d beg Your Lordship’s indulgence. I won’t need to trouble him long.’