‘Judge Thistledon, I heard a woman gave birth in your court,’ said Fraser Pyke, stepping into the void that had followed Alasdair’s outburst. ‘Can it be true?’

‘Indeed, it is true,’ said Thistledon, refolding his napkin and placing it neatly on his plate. For a moment he held Pyke in his gaze and his eyes did not blink. ‘And if one did not know better, one might actually believe the wretched women did it on purpose. She had already shown her utter contempt and misuse of the judiciary, so it is not absolutely outside the bounds of possibility that she planned the whole thing.’

‘Misuse of the judiciary? However did she do that?’ asked Cecily Pyke with a curious half-smile. One never knew with the judge if he was speaking in jest, though it was perhaps safest to assume he was not.

‘I am afraid to say it, Mrs Pyke, but they all do it. That is, the poorer class of female who finds herself approaching her confinement having made no provision whatsoever to shelter or support herself. They commit some minor misdemeanour and get themselves incarcerated for a week or two and have their confinement in the comfort of a prison infirmary at the expense of the taxpaying citizen. Then off they go, pleased as punch. This wretch had done it twice already—although she had not come before me prior to today or she would have paused to think again. And you can be sure I did give her pause—I informed the woman in no small way I knew what her game was and that I was not going to put up with it. Gave the woman three years’ hard labour.’

Mrs Pyke started. Her husband said, ‘For what offence? What is it they do to get themselves arrested?’

‘This particular wretch had broken a window. A butcher’s shop window, I believe.’

This was met with a silence.

Mrs Pyke, in a quiet voice, said, ‘Do you mean to say that when she heard her sentence it caused this woman to commence her confinement?’ She looked down at her napkin and not at Thistledon. Two spots of bright colour had appeared on either side of Cecily Pyke’s face.

‘Who may say what caused it, for am I no physician, but that was the moment at which it happened, yes,’ said the judge, and he plucked a cigar from the box before him on the table. They were American hand-rolled cigars.

‘And the woman and her child,’ said Fraser Pyke, shaking his head when the box of cigars was turned towards him, ‘how did they both fare?’

‘The woman is serving her sentence at Darlinghurst Gaol. As for the child—’ Thistledon paused to strike a match ‘—that I cannot say. I can tell you my courtroom had to be cleared and was not fit for use again for the remainder of the day.’