Free Rivals in the City by Y. S. Lee Page B

changed him more than he’d ever dreamed possible. He was no longer entirely at home with his peers, thanks to her. If he lost her now, what on earth would become of him?

Seven
    Wednesday, 17 October
    Newgate Street, London
    O n her third day as a strolling vendor, Mary found herself feeling oddly at home in Newgate Street. All evidence of Monday’s hangings had been cleared away, and only the looming wall of the jail reminded passers-by of the suffering within. Any shadow it cast over the street was mostly literal. The people of Newgate Street carried on their daily lives much like those in any other city street. There were the traders: butchers and bakers and candlestick-makers, and labourers of all descriptions who trudged through on their way to work. There were women aplenty, too: market-traders like Mary, sleepy-looking prostitutes at noon, the occasional apple-cheeked countrywoman, all agog at what the capital had to offer. And at each end of the street there was a coffee-stall where one could buy a mug of coffee and two very thin slices of bread and butter for a penny.
    There were, of course, others: a one-legged beggar, rank and ragged, sucking comfort from a filthy bottle; an angry, chattering woman who stalked the street, lurching and screeching at anyone who looked in her direction; and the usual contingent of idling errand boys playing with whatever refuse approached the shape of a football.
    And then there were the characters who embraced Newgate Street precisely because of the jail and the nearby Old Bailey. There was a gaunt man with long wisps of grey hair who paraded daily before the prison, crying at frequent intervals, “Repent ye and be saved!” There were the bookmakers, who materialized on hanging days to offer odds on everything to do with the execution: whether death would be instantaneous, how long the condemned might strangle before finally suffocating, what method Calcraft might use to speed his (or, occasionally, her) death, and even whether Calcraft might speak or sneeze as he performed his job. There was more variation of the food and drink vendors depending on the weather and, of course, whether there was a crowd gathered for an execution. At those times, there was a distinctly festive feel in the air, and the food reflected it: hot mulled wine, roasted nuts and lardy cakes, rather than the daily fare of boiled puddings and jacket potatoes. After Monday, Mary had exchanged her gingerbread for apples, to reflect the altered atmosphere.
    One of the regulars who caught Mary’s eye was a slightly threadbare but respectable-looking lady who stood by the prison gates handing out tracts. Each morning, she arrived a little after ten o’clock with her basket of improving literature and spent her days meekly offering it to all who passed through the prison doors. She seemed inured to angry rebuffs, cold shoulders and the general chaotic rudeness of humanity.
    Unusual , thought Mary. A shabby-genteel widow – the lady wore mourning clothes – was an unlikely candidate for this particular type of religious obsession. Oh, she might earnestly desire the salvation of all souls. But to stand outside a jail, day by day, in highly variable weather? It seemed distinctly strange. Add to that the woman’s serenity in the face of screamed insults and obscene gestures, and Mary thought it possible that the widow was seeking something else entirely.
    Could it really be this straightforward? The woman was tall, neither slender nor fat, and much of her head and face was conveniently concealed by a deep bonnet. She just might be Mrs Thorold. But truly, she might be almost any woman in London. What Mary required was a closer look.
    Unfortunately, that was nearly impossible. A clear view of the widow’s face would require her to expose her own, and Mrs Thorold was not the sort of person one underestimated twice. As James had learned, she preferred murder to the benefit of the doubt. Furthermore, the widow