Nelly’s eyes grew wide and frightened. ‘Whoooh,’ she breathed. ‘We wouldn’t want that now, would we, eh? Not when we know how to keep us mouths shut, eh?’

‘I’m glad we understand each other, Nelly.’ Bridget was satisfied she wouldn’t tell. ‘Come on now, we’d best make tracks. I must get back before Tom, or he’ll have all manner of questions to ask.’

‘That’s right, m’dear.’ Now that she’d got three shiny coins tucked away in her skirt pocket, Nelly was pleased as punch. ‘Don’t forget though, I’m a good listener – that is, if you’ve got a mind to talk about it when yer get back.’

‘I’m sure Fanny won’t want me discussing her business with anyone,’ Bridget told her, ‘but it’s good of you to be so concerned, Nelly.’

The houses down King Street were all the same: two or three bedrooms, a back yard with an outside lavvie, and a fire range that did everything from boiling a kettle to warming the bedpan. Like Bridget, most folk took a pride in their homes, making them cosy and welcoming.

Not Nelly though. Her curtains hung in holes, and her rugs were threadbare, but she paid no mind. As long as she had enough to keep her gin bottle topped up and a fire to warm her bony knees, she was content.

‘It’s a good job you don’t know why I’m really going to Fanny’s,’ Bridget muttered as she went away down the street, ‘or it would be all over Blackburn by morning.’ Nelly was a good soul, but a terrible gossip.

Behind her, Nelly’s voice sailed through the air. ‘Don’t forget what I said. If there’s trouble brewing, two heads are allus better than one. I know what I’m talking about, lass. I’ve had a lot of experience in these things.’

Smiling to herself, Bridget pretended not to hear. Least said, soonest mended, she thought.

Going at a brisk pace, over the bridge and left into Montague Street, Bridget frequently glanced about, worried that Tom might be making his way back to see if she was all right. He was like that. Sometimes he could be the sweetest soul, while other times he could be a hard-headed and self-opinionated pig.

Fanny lived right at the top of Montague Street, on the right-hand side, just before the Preston New Road. It was pleasant, long and steep, with wide pavements and houses with big bay windows; on the corner was a warehouse where the rag-and-bone man kept his goods, and after that a row of curious little shops. There was a grand old inn situated to the right; this was Fanny’s favourite haunt. Bridget wondered fleetingly if she might be there now. Women who frequented such places were viewed as coarse and easy, which was one reason why Tom insisted that she should put as much space between herself and Fanny as possible.

At first glance, Fanny’s house looked as though no one was home. The downstairs curtains were closed and there was no sign of any lamplight from inside.