‘Indeed, Mistress Dickson, I am. But I keep that a bit of a secret, you see, as I have a man in the port of Gothenburg who passes me some very precious goods that are vital items in perfume receipts, and in turn I have set up a buyer in London, who is a man with a shop that makes bespoke perfumes for his clients. But neither I nor he is minded to pay the high prices on the open market or the import taxes, if you catch my drift, which I am sure you will, as your own ma and da make their spare pennies from folk like me. The tea men,’ he added, when I pretended to look puzzled. ‘Except that the difference between the tea men and myself is that there is more money to be made in a pouch of perfume ingredients than there is in a sack of tea. For whilst tea soothes the soul, perfume is medicinal.’

He paused to sip his coffee, making sure I was listening, intent, which I most certainly was.

‘It is,’ he went on, ‘I do believe, a magical potion that can turn a gent’s head and make a plain lady quite alluring, or make an unwashed gent smell clean. Some say it can purify a room of disease.’ He stopped here, aware that he had got a bit carried away with himself, but nonetheless I saw it all. I did! I saw the brassy door-plates of the perfumiers’ shops. I saw the glassy bottles on the ladies’ dressing tables. I saw their maids sneak a dab or two as they dusted and cleaned, unable to help themselves. In short, I saw the London of my own dreams, and this time I could smell it too. It smelled not of dank, sulphurous Thames water or beggars’ grot. Not of reeking rush candles or billowing chimneys, or armpit sweat or rat piss, as Joan declared it would. Not of the mussel bait or stale whitefish that hung in the air of Fisherrow. It smelled of perfume and riches and romance.

I didn’t take the perfume packet home with me that morning. Spencer tried to press it on me, but I was not about to be caught with that in my scrapbook, for it would no doubt match the unique scent of Spencer’s parcel and Joan would be on to me straight away; or, worse, Da. Instead I savoured two cups of strong coffee and both scones and declared myself fit to burst. Buzzing from the drinks, I sat back in my chair and listened to Patrick Spencer.