It was different walking along the Strand with Lucien than it was with Vincent. There’d only been one time with Vincent, and for every step of the way, even though it had been late at night after I’d finished at the theatre, I’d felt as though we were watched. That anyone who saw us would question how and why we were together. Walking side by side with Lucien it seemed that no one cared. We were just two free Londoners going about our business. Business was the right word, too, for with Lucien it felt like I was going places. Vincent’s stride was long and loping. There was a languidness to him, an assurance that wherever he was headed people would wait for him, that because of who he was he could never be late. Lucien’s confidence was of a different order. It demanded that he be taken seriously, that people would pay him attention. Better yet, I got no sense that it was a front. He truly believed in his right to be anywhere, do anything he wanted. He walked with purpose, face set, eyes straight ahead. He had a good profile. I didn’t have to feel ashamed of what people would think if they saw me with him.

Fleet Street was quieter than the Strand. It had fewer shops and more offices where clerks and hacks worked on getting the daily papers sent to press. We trotted along, past the Old Bailey, past a barber’s with its red-and-white-striped pole, past a wig shop where curled white hairpieces sat on sightless wooden heads. Up in front, stood the proud spire of St Paul’s. The wind stung my face, making my eyes water, but I didn’t care. I decided that from now on, whenever tears dried to salt on my face, I would remember this exact moment: the bite of the cold, the tapping of Lucien’s cane against the flagstones and the sensation of walking arm in arm with a man and feeling no fear in it.

‘You’re quiet, Zillah. I thought you had lots to tell me?’

‘Where is it you’re taking me? The Dog and Duck, you said?’

‘It’s a little further down, just past Chancery Lane.’

‘And they’ll know about the Leopard Lady?’

‘All we can do is ask, but I feel hopeful, yes.’

It was just over a week since I’d seen her exhibited in Crillick’s library. She’d been scared then, but not broken. I wondered what had happened to her at the warehouse. The blood droplets could have belonged to any one of Crillick’s prisoners but I desperately hoped they were not the Leopard Lady’s or her child’s. Please God I could find out more about their whereabouts. There was only one more question I had to ask.

‘Will I be welcome?’