Charlie Wagstaff, a mountain of a man with a shock of ginger hair, is talking loudly about the betting on the match. He’s the bookmaker, on the side, when he’s not working for the brewery – the occupation he always gives to the coppers.

A woman, known to everyone as Doll, sits peeling her potatoes a few seats away from Ruby. A sliver of dirty peel falls to the floor, and she reaches down to gather it up, mouthing a curse and then laughing. She blows off the sawdust and drops the curl into the pile that’s gathering on the sheet of newspaper spread over the table. She puts the naked potato into the pocket of her apron before taking another mouthful of her brown stout. She’ll make it last, that single pint, before making her way back to the chaotic crowd of children in her house. Not all of them are hers. She minds the babies for the women who travel over the river to char and launder. She’s always tired, is Doll. Not far past twenty-five, but she looks nearer forty. The old woman who lives in a shoe – like in the nursery rhyme.

A cheer rises from the other side of the saloon; men’s voices, nearer the door to begin with, but then the women join in. They’re chanting and clapping as a small crowd of people enters the pub. Everyone has been waiting for them. Ruby sets her glass down and claps along with the rising rhythm. Grace bangs the table, her rings smacking so hard on the wood that Ruby hears the crack, crack, crack above everything else. Maggs starts a low cheer. Ruby strains for a glimpse of the woman who will emerge through the crowd at any moment.

The chant grows louder, faster. ‘A-nnie, A-nnie, A-nnie!’ Even Billy Walsh is joining in. He’s given up on Daisy and is standing with the men, elbowing and shoving, laughing as he spills his beer over a nearby table.

The cluster of women in the centre of the saloon breaks apart, and one woman makes her way through them towards the bar. A drink has already been poured for her – a glass of stout, as always. She takes it, raises it in a toast to the company, and the company responds with a roar.

Annie Richmond has arrived. The Queen of the Forty Thieves.

Ruby’s heart beats faster. She loves this. Loves the thrill of it. Loves to imagine that, one day, it’ll be her name that’s chanted and her drink that’s waiting on the bar. When she’s the Queen and famous throughout London. One day. One day… Ru-by, Ru-by.