The redhead cocked her eye at him, taunting. ‘Or what?’ she demanded. ‘Or you’ll shut it for me?… Strangle me, like you strangled this poor sod, eh?’ She cast a sideways glance to where the whore’s body lay. And she was alarmed to see the eyelids momentarily flutter. ‘I’m no fool!’ she told him now, coming forward in order to block his view of the whore. ‘The minute you’ve gone, matey, I intend to write out a detailed story of what took place here, in this room. Oh, I can write, sweetie! I ain’t the complete fool you take me for. Then I shall put that story in a place where neither you nor anybody else could find it, unless I was to suddenly disappear, o’ course! Try double-crossing me, matey,’ she warned, her loathing of him evident in her every word, ‘and you’ll live to regret the day!’

Caleb Crowther knew that she had him at her mercy. He had been all kinds of a damned fool. He was under no illusions but that he would have to pay the price. For now at least! Later though, when he was in less of a torment and had recovered enough from the ordeal to contemplate it, there might be something he had overlooked. Some little thing that could alter the situation to his advantage.

For now, though, he had no option but to play along. The club was too full of prying eyes and, as this bitch had pointed out, there was a danger of betraying his compromising situation to those who were enemies of old. Enemies who would take great pleasure in seeing him charged with murder, even though their own reputation might be damaged by their presence in such an establishment. Such a one was Bartholomew Bent, a legal man of considerable influence who had once been brought under severe pressure by Caleb Crowther, and who had a particular dislike of the fellow. He was here! Caleb Crowther had seen him with his own eyes some hours ago, though he had managed to keep discreet his own presence here. ‘You have my word,’ he reluctantly conceded. ‘What are we to do about… about…’ He pointed to the bed, but was too cowardly to look at it.

‘You just leave that to me,’ she retorted, at the same time throwing the corner of a blanket over the ‘body’, yet being careful not to cover the face. ‘Take your shoes up!’ she told him. ‘I’ll see you off the premises. Hurry! Hurry, you fool!’ She waited impatiently until he had flung his cape over his arm and gathered up his cravat, white silk scarf, and the black polished shoes that were stuffed with socks and suspenders.

Quietly opening the door, the redhead gestured for him to go before her, out into the corridor. As he did so, she caught sight of a fat wallet protruding from his back trouser pocket. The wallet itself was of secondary importance to her, as were the notes within, although she could certainly make good use of them. But what prompted her to snatch it away were the gold initials etched into it: his initials. A vital piece of evidence as far as she was concerned. And, if that in itself wasn’t enough, she plucked out the contents of one of his shoes; it had struck her as being amusing that many a gent took pride in displaying his initials on the fastener of his sock suspenders. A quick glance told her that this ‘gent’ was no different.