The roll of honour began as a sheet of paper during the war, updated weekly and hung on a board on the railings of St Mary’s Church. The vicar had started it. He had been a lively young man, desperate to volunteer for the war himself. He had written down the names of any lad in the parish who had signed up, so everyone could see them and pray for them. Then a second sheet had begun, noting those who had died or were missing in action. The vicar had gone out to France as a chaplain, and his parishioners had added to the list by themselves while he was away and laid piles of flowers on the pavement underneath the names. The vicar had returned, sombre, paler. The inked sheets of paper had been removed and a painted board had been put up in its place, with containers for the flowers either side. He had paid for it himself. The board was always covered with flowers, and everyone who passed it whispered the names they knew, touched their hats or pressed a hand to their heart.

‘How do they know it was the MacCarthys?’ Edith asks.

‘It wouldn’t be anyone from around here, would it?’ Maggs growls. ‘People here have more respect.’

Most of them do. Some people will nick anything that isn’t nailed down, but no one steals from their own. And no one from the Borough would disturb so sacred a site.

Gertrude Squires, the seamstress, wanders over, a dainty glass of sherry in her hand.

‘We’re talking about the fight, Gert,’ Edith says, pushing out a seat for her. She raises her voice a little because Gert is hard of hearing. She spent too much time in the mills, years ago, surrounded by the noise of the machines. ‘Not the boxing match, the other fight.’

‘I heard about the match,’ Gert says, sitting down and making room for herself. ‘Mad MacCarthy’s fighting – he’s one of their own, so all the Clerkenwell boys will be there. Ronnie and Bert Richmond have gathered our lads together to go and sort them out. Teach them a lesson.’ She takes a sip of her sherry and shrugs. ‘He’s a good fighter, Mad MacCarthy. I’ve seen him myself once or twice. I hope the Richmonds let him go a few rounds before they start…’

‘The coppers’ll be all over it, if they get wind of it,’ Grace says wryly.

They will. The combination of an illegal boxing match, betting and a fight between two notorious London gangs will be too much to resist, and the police will probably stir up extra trouble so they can make a few arrests.

A draught whistles across the pub floor as the door opens. Annie Richmond marches in, shaking the evening’s rain from her shoulders.