Dodger

Dodger - By Terry Pratchett

CHAPTER 1

In which we meet our hero, and the hero meets an orphan of the storm and comes face to face with Mister Charlie, a gentleman known as a bit of a scribbler

THE RAIN POURED down on London so hard that it seemed that it was dancing spray, every raindrop contending with its fellow for supremacy in the air and waiting to splash down. It was a deluge. The drains and sewers were overflowing, throwing up – regurgitating, as it were – the debris of muck, slime and filth, the dead dogs, the dead rats, cats and worse; bringing back up to the world of men all those things that they thought they had left behind them; jostling and gurgling and hurrying towards the overflowing and always hospitable river Thames; bursting its banks, bubbling and churning like some nameless soup boiling in a dreadful cauldron; the river itself gasping like a dying fish. But those in the know always said about the London rain that, try as it might, it would never, ever clean that noisome city, because all it did was show you another layer of dirt. And on this dirty night there were appropriately dirty deeds that not even the rain could wash away.

A fancy two-horse coach wallowed its way along the street, some piece of metal stuck near an axle causing it to be heralded by a scream. And indeed there was a scream, a human scream this time, as the coach door was flung open and a figure tumbled out into the gushing gutter, which tonight was doing the job of a fountain. Two other figures sprang from the coach, cursing in language that was as colourful as the night was dark and even dirtier. In the downpour, fitfully lit by the lightning, the first figure tried to escape but tripped, fell and was leaped upon, with a cry that was hardly to be heard in all the racket, but which was almost supernaturally counterpointed by the grinding of iron, as a drain cover nearby was pushed open to reveal a struggling and skinny young man who moved with the speed of a snake.

‘You let that girl alone!’ he shouted.

There was a curse in the dark and one of the assailants fell backwards with his legs kicked from under him. The youth was no heavyweight but somehow he was everywhere, throwing blows – blows which were augmented by a pair of brass knuckles, always a helpmeet for the outnumbered. Outnumbered one to two as it were, the assailants took to their heels while the youth followed, raining blows. But it was London and it was raining and it was dark, and they were dodging into alleys and side streets, frantically trying to catch up with their coach, so that he lost them, and the apparition from the depths of the sewers turned round and headed back to the stricken girl at greyhound speed.

He knelt down, and to his surprise she grabbed him by the collar and whispered in what he considered to be foreigner English, ‘They want to take me back, please help me . . .’ The lad sprang to his feet, his eyes all suspicion.

On this stormy night of stormy nights, it was opportune then that two men who themselves knew something about the dirt of London were walking, or rather, wading, along this street, hurrying home with hats pulled down – which was a nice try, but simply didn’t work, because in this torrent it seemed that the bouncing water was coming as much from below as it was from above. Lightning struck again, and one of them said, ‘Is that someone lying in the gutter there?’ The lightning presumably heard, because it sliced down again and revealed a shape, a mound – a person, as far as these men could see.

‘Good heavens, Charlie, it’s a girl! Soaked to the skin and thrown into the gutter, I imagine,’ said one of them. ‘Come on . . .’

‘Hey, you, what are you a-doing, mister?!’

By the light of a pub window which could barely show you the darkness, the aforesaid Charlie and his friend saw the face of a boy who looked like a young lad no more than seventeen years old but who seemed to have the voice of a man. A man, moreover, who was prepared to take on both of them, to the death. Anger steamed off him in the rain and he wielded a long piece of metal. He carried on, ‘I know your sort, oh yes I do! Coming down here chasing the skirt, making a mockery of decent girls. Blimey! Desperate, weren’t you, to be out on a night such as this!’

The man who wasn’t called Charlie straightened up. ‘Now see here, you. I object most strongly to your wretched allegation. We are respectable gentlemen who, I might add, work quite hard to better the fortunes of such poor wretched girls and, indeed, by the look of it, those such as yourself!’

The scream of rage from the boy was sufficiently loud that the doors of the nearby pub swung open, causing smoky orange light to illuminate the ever-present rain. ‘So that’s what you call it, is it, you smarmy old gits!’

The boy swung his home-made weapon but the man called Charlie caught it and dropped it behind him, then grabbed the boy and held him by the scruff of his neck. ‘Mister Mayhew and myself are decent citizens, young man, and as such we surely feel it is our duty to take this young lady somewhere away from harm.’ Over his shoulder he said, ‘Your place is closest, Henry. Do you think your wife would object to receiving a needy soul for one night? I wouldn’t like to see a dog out on a night such as this.’

Henry, now clutching the young woman, nodded. ‘Do you mean two dogs, by any chance?’

The struggling boy took immediate offence at this, and with a snake-like movement was out of the grip of Charlie, and once again spoiling for a fight. ‘I ain’t no dog, you nobby sticks, nor ain’t she! We have our pride, you know. I make my own way, I does, all kosher, straight up!’

The man called Charlie lifted the boy up by the scruff of his neck so that they were face to face. ‘My, I admire your attitude, young man, but not your common sense!’ he said quietly. ‘And mark you, this young lady is in a bad way. Surely you can see that. My friend’s house is not too far away from here, and since you have set yourself up as her champion and protector, why then, I invite you to follow us there and witness that she will have the very best of treatment that we can afford, do you hear me? What is your name, mister? And before you tell it to me, I invite you to believe that you are not the only person who cares about a young lady in dire trouble on this dreadful night. So, my boy, what is your name?’

The boy must have picked up a tone in Charlie’s voice, because he said, ‘I’m Dodger – that’s what they call me, on account I’m never there, if you see what I mean? Everybody in all the boroughs knows Dodger.’

‘Well, then,’ said Charlie. ‘Now we have met you and joined that august company, we must see if we can come to an understanding during this little odyssey, man to man.’ He straightened up and went on, ‘Let us move, Henry, to your house and as soon as possible, because I fear this unfortunate girl needs all the help we can give her. And you, my lad, do you know this young lady?’

He let go of the boy, who took a few steps backwards. ‘No, guv’nor, never seen her before in my life, God’s truth, and I know everybody on the street. Just another runaway – happens all the time, so it does; it don’t bear thinking about.’

‘Am I to believe, Mister Dodger, that you, not knowing this unfortunate woman, nevertheless sprang to her defence like a true Galahad?’

Dodger suddenly looked very wary. ‘I might be, I might not. What’s it to you, anyway? And who the hell is this Galahad cove?’

Charlie and Henry made a cradle with their arms to carry the woman. As they set off, Charlie said over his shoulder, ‘You have no idea what I just said, do you, Mister Dodger? But Galahad was a famous hero . . . Never mind – you just follow us, like the knight in soaking armour that you are, and you will see fair play for this damsel, get a good meal and, let me see . . .’ Coins jingled in the darkness. ‘Yes, two shillings, and if you do come you will perhaps improve your chances of Heaven, which, if I am any judge, is not a place that often concerns you. Understand? Do we have an accord? Very well.’

Twenty minutes later, Dodger was sitting close to the fire in the kitchen of a house – not a grand house as such, but nevertheless much grander than most buildings he went into legally; there were much grander buildings that he had been into illegally, but he never spent very much time in them, often leaving with a considerable amount of haste. Honestly, the number of dogs people had these days was a damn scandal, so it was, and they would set them on a body without warning, so he had always been speedy. But here, oh yes, here there was meat and potatoes, carrots too, but not, alas, any beer. In the kitchen he had been given a glass of warm milk which was nearly fresh. Mrs Quickly the cook was watching him like a hawk and had already locked away the cutlery, but apart from that it seemed to be a pretty decent crib, although there had been a certain amount of what you might call words from the missus of Mister Henry to her husband on the subject of bringing home waifs and strays at this time of night. It seemed to Dodger, who paid a great deal of forensic attention to all he could see and hear, that this was by no means the first time that she had cause for complaint; she sounded like someone trying hard to conceal that they were really fed up, and trying to put a brave face on it. But nevertheless, Dodger had certainly had his meal (and that was the important thing), the wife and a maid had bustled off with the girl, and now . . . someone was coming down the stairs to the kitchen.

It was Charlie, and Charlie bothered Dodger. Henry seemed like one of them do-gooders who felt guilty about having money and food when other people did not; Dodger knew the type. He, personally, was not bothered about having money when other people didn’t, but when you lived a life like his, Dodger found that being generous when in funds, and being a cheerful giver, was a definite insurance. You needed friends – friends were the kind of people who would say: ‘Dodger? Never heard of ’im, never clapped eyes on ’im, guv’nor! You must be thinking of some other cove’ – because you had to live as best you could in the city, and you had to be sharp and wary and on your toes every moment of the day if you wanted to stay alive.

He stayed alive because he was the Dodger, smart and fast. He knew everybody and everybody knew him. He had never, ever, been before the beak, he could outrun the fastest Bow Street runner and, now that they had all been found out and replaced, he could outrun every peeler as well. They couldn’t arrest you unless they put a hand on you, and nobody ever managed to touch Dodger.

No, Henry was no problem, but Charlie – now, oh yes, Charlie – he looked the type who would look at a body and see right inside you. Charlie, Dodger considered, might well be a dangerous cove, a gentleman who knew the ins and outs of the world and could see through flannel and soft words to what you were thinking, which was dangerous indeed. Here he was now, the man himself, coming downstairs escorted by the jingling of coins.

Charlie nodded at the cook, who was cleaning up, and sat down on the bench by Dodger, who had to slide up a bit to make room.

‘Well now, Dodger, wasn’t it?’ he said. ‘I am sure you will be very happy to know that the young lady you helped us with is safe and sleeping in a warm bed after some stitches and some physic from the doctor. Alas, I wish I could say the same for her unborn child, which did not survive this dreadful escapade.’

Child! The word hit Dodger like a blackjack, and unlike a blackjack it kept on going. A child – and for the rest of the conversation the word was there, hanging at the edge of his sight and not letting him go. Aloud he said, ‘I didn’t know.’

‘Indeed, I’m sure you didn’t,’ said Charlie. ‘In the dark it was just one more dreadful crime, which without doubt was only one among many this night; you know that, Dodger, and so do I. But this one had the temerity to take place in front of me, and so I feel I would like to do a little police work, without, as it were, involving the police, who I suspect in this case would not have very much success.’

Charlie’s face was unreadable, even to Dodger, who was very, very good at reading faces. Solemnly, the man went on, ‘I wonder if those gentlemen you met who were harassing her knew about the child; perhaps we shall never find out, or perhaps we shall.’ And there it was; that little word ‘shall’ was a knife, straining to cut away until it hit enlightenment. Charlie’s face stayed totally blank. ‘I wonder if any other gentleman was aware of the fact, and therefore, sir, here for you are your two shillings – plus one more, if you were to answer a few questions for me in the hope of getting to the bottom of this strange occurrence.’

Dodger looked at the coins. ‘What sort of questions would they be, then?’ Dodger lived in a world where nobody asked questions apart from: ‘How much?’ and ‘What’s in it for me?’ And he knew, actually knew, that Charlie knew this too.

Charlie continued. ‘Can you read and write, Mister Dodger?’

Dodger put his head on one side. ‘Is this a question that gets me a shilling?’

‘No, it does not,’ Charlie snapped. ‘But I will spring one farthing for that little morsel and nothing more; here is the farthing, where is the answer?’

Dodger grabbed the tiny coin. ‘Can read “beer”, “gin” and “ale”. No sense in filling your head with stuff you don’t need, that’s what I always say.’ Was that the tiny ghost of a smile on the man’s face? he wondered.

‘You are clearly an academic, Mister Dodger. Perhaps I should tell you that the young lady had, well, she had not been well used.’

He wasn’t smiling any more, and Dodger, suddenly panicking, shouted, ‘Not by me! I never done nothing to hurt her, God’s truth! I might not be an angel but I ain’t a bad man!’

Charlie’s hand grabbed Dodger as he tried to get up. ‘You never done nothing? You, Mister Dodger, never done nothing? If you never done nothing then you must have done something, and there you are, guilty right out of your own mouth. I’m quite certain that you yourself have never been to school, Mister Dodger; you seem far too smart. Though if you ever did, and came out with a phrase like “I never done nothing”, you would probably be thrashed by your teacher. But now listen to me, Dodger; I fully accept that you did nothing to harm the lady, and I have one very good reason for saying so. You might not be aware of it, but on her finger there is one of the biggest and most ornate gold rings I have ever seen – the sort of ring that means something – and if you were intending to do her any harm you would have stolen it in a wink, just like you stole my pocketbook a short while ago.’

Dodger looked at those eyes. Oh, this was a bad cove to be on the wrong side of and no two ways about it. ‘Me, sir? No, sir,’ he said. ‘Found it lying around, sir. Honestly intended to give it back to you, sir.’

‘I can assure you that I believe in full every word you have just uttered, Mister Dodger. Although I must confess my admiration that in the darkness you were not only able to see the form of a pocketbook, but also so readily decided that it belonged to me; really I’m quite amazed,’ said Charlie. ‘Settle down; I just wanted you to know how serious we are. When you said, “I never done nothing”, all you were doing was painting the whole of your statement with negativity, crudely but with emphasis, you understand? Myself and Mister Mayhew are cognisant of the generally unacceptable state of affairs throughout most of this city, and by the way, that means we know about such things and endeavour in our various ways to bring matters to the notice of the public, or at least to those members of the public who care to take notice. Since you appear to care about the young lady, perhaps you could ask around or at least listen for any news about her; where she came from, her background, anything about her. She was badly beaten, and I don’t mean a domestic up-and-downer, a slap, maybe. I mean leather and fists. Fists! Over and over again, according to the bruises, and that, my young friend, wasn’t the end of it!

‘Now there are some people, not you of course, who would say we should go to the authorities, and this is because they have no grasp at all of the realities of London for the lower classes; no grasp at all of the rookeries and the detritus of decay and squalor that is their lot. Yes?’

This was because Dodger had raised a finger, and as soon as he saw that he had got Charlie’s full attention the boy said, ‘OK, certainly it can be a bit grubby down some streets. A few dead dogs, dead old lady maybe, but well, that’s the way of the world, right? Like it says in the Good Book, you got to eat a peck of dirt before you die, right?’

‘Possibly not all in one meal,’ said Charlie. ‘But since you raise the subject, Mister Dodger, for your two shillings, and one more shilling, quote me one further line from the Bible, if you please?’

This seemed something of an exercise for Dodger. He glared at the man and managed, ‘Well, mister, you have to goeth – yes, that’s what it says, and I don’t see no shilling yet!’

Charlie laughed. ‘“You have to goeth”? I’ll wager that you have never attended church or chapel in your life, young man! You can’t read, you can’t write; good heavens, can you give me the name of one single apostle? By the look on your face, I deduce that you cannot, alas. But, nevertheless, you came to the aid of our young lady upstairs when so many other people would have looked the other way, and so you will have five sixpences if you undertake this little task for me and Mister Mayhew. So ask around, search out the story, my friend. You may find me by daylight at the Morning Chronicle. Do not look for me anywhere else. Here is my card if you should need it. Mister Dickens, that’s me.’ He passed Dodger a pasteboard oblong. ‘Yes, you have a question?’

Dodger looked more uncertain now, but he managed to say, ‘Could I see the lady, sir? ’Cos I never really clapped eyes on her – I just saw people running away, and I thought you fine gentlemen was with them. I ought to know what she looks like if I’m going to ask questions around and about, and let me tell you, sir, asking questions around and about can be a dangerous way to make a living in this city.’

Charlie frowned. ‘At the moment she looks black and blue, Dodger.’ He thought for a moment and went on, ‘But there is some merit in what you say; the household has been turned upside down by this, as you must understand. Mrs Mayhew is getting the children back to sleep and the girl is in the maids’ room for now. If you are to go in there, make sure your boots are clean, and if those little fingers of yours . . . You know the ones I mean, the kind I am aware of that are adept at finding other people’s property in them, and “Oh, dear me, and stone the crows”, you had no idea how it got there . . .’ He trailed off. ‘Do not, I repeat not, try that in the house of Mister Henry Mayhew.’

‘I’m not a thief,’ Dodger protested.

‘What you mean, Mister Dodger, is that you’re not only a thief. I will accept, for now, your story about how my pocketbook ended up in your hands . . . for now, mind you. I note that the slim crowbar you have about your person is designed for opening the lids of drain covers, from which I deduce that you are a tosher; a grubber in the sewers – an interesting profession, but not one for a man hoping for a long life. And so I wonder how you still survive, Dodger, and one day I intend to find out. Don’t come the innocent with me, please. I know the backside of this city only too well!’

Although he gasped at this and protested that he was being spoken to as if he was a common criminal, Dodger was quite impressed: he’d never before heard a flash geezer use the term ‘stone the crows’ and it confirmed his view that Mister Dickens was a tricky cove, the sort who might bring a lot of nastiness down on a hardworking lad. It paid to be careful of flash geezers like him – else they might find someone to do something with your teeth, with pliers, like what happened with Wally the knacker man, who got done up rotten over a matter of a shilling. So Dodger minded his manners as he was led up and through the dark house and into a small bedroom, made even smaller by the fact that the doctor was still there and by now was washing his hands in a very small bowl. The man gave Dodger a cursory glance which had quite a lot of curse in it and then looked up at Charlie, who got the kind of smile that you get when people know you have money. Just as Charlie had surmised, Dodger hadn’t had a day’s proper schooling. Instead, his life had mostly been spent learning things, which is surprisingly rather different, and he could read a face much better than a newspaper.1

The doctor said to Charlie, ‘Very bad business, sir, very nasty. I’ve done the best I can; they’re pretty decent stitches if I say so myself. She is, in fact, a rather robust young woman underneath it all and, as it turned out, has needed to be. What she needs now is care and attention and, best of all, time – the greatest of physicians.’

‘And, of course, the grace of God, who is the one that charges the least,’ said Charlie, pressing some coins into the man’s hand. As the doctor left, Charlie said, ‘Naturally, Doctor, we will see that she gets good food and drink at least. Thank you for attending, and good night to you.’

The doctor gave Dodger another black look and hurried back down the stairs. Yes, you had to know how to read somebody’s phizog when you lived on the cobbles, no doubt about it. Dodger had read the face of Charlie twice now, and so he knew that Charlie had little liking for the doctor, any more than the doctor did for Dodger, and, from his tone, Charlie would be more inclined to put his trust in good food and water than in God – a personage that Dodger had only vaguely heard of and knew very little about, except perhaps that He had a lot to do with rich people. This, generally speaking, left out everybody Dodger knew (except for Solomon, who had negotiated a great deal with God somehow, and occasionally gave God advice).

With the man’s ample bulk out of the way, Dodger got a better look at the girl. He guessed her age at only about sixteen or seventeen, although she looked older, as people always did when they had been beaten up. She was breathing slowly, and he could see some of her hair, which was absolutely golden. On an impulse he said, ‘No offence meant, Mister Charlie, but would you mind if I watched over the lady, you know, until dawn? Not touching or nothing, and I’ve never seen her before, I swear it – but I don’t know why, I think I ought to.’

The housekeeper came in, casting a look of pure hatred at Dodger and, he was happy to see, one that was not much better towards Charlie. She had the makings of a moustache, from below which came a grumble. ‘I don’t wanna speak out of turn, sir. I don’t mind keeping an eye on another “author of the storm”, as it were, but I can’t be responsible for the doings of this young guttersnipe, saving your honour’s presence. I hope no one will blame me if he murders you all in your beds tonight. No offence meant, you understand?’

Dodger was used to this sort of thing; people like this silly woman thought that every kid who lived on the streets was very likely a thief and a pickpocket who would steal the laces out of your boots in a fraction of a second and then sell them back to you. He sighed inwardly. Of course, he thought, that was true of most of them – nearly all of them really – but that was no reason to make blanket statements. Dodger wasn’t a thief; not at all. He was . . . well, he was good at finding things. After all, sometimes things fell off carts and carriages, didn’t they? He had never stuck his hand into somebody else’s pocket. Well, apart from one or two occasions when it was so blatantly open that something was bound to fall out, in which case Dodger would nimbly grab it before it hit the ground. That wasn’t stealing: that was keeping the place tidy, and after all, it only happened . . . what? Once or twice a week? It was a kind of tidiness, after all, but nevertheless some short-sighted people might hang you just because of a misunderstanding. But they never had a chance of misunderstanding Dodger, oh dear no, because he was quick, and slick, and certainly brighter than the stupid old woman who got her words wrong (after all, what was an ‘author of the storm’? That was barmy! Somebody who wrote down storms for a living?). Nice work if you could get it, although strictly speaking Dodger always avoided anything that might be considered as being work. Of course, there was the toshing; oh, how he loved that. Toshing wasn’t work: toshing was living, toshing was coming alive. If he wasn’t being so bloody stupid he would be down in the sewers now, waiting for the storm to stop and a new world of opportunity to open. He treasured those times on the tosh, but right now Charlie had his hand firmly on Dodger’s shoulder.

‘Hear that, my friend; this lady has you bang to rights, and if you emulate Genghis Khan in this household and I hear of it, then I will set some people I know onto your tail. Understand? And I will wield a weapon that Genghis himself never dreamed of and aim it straight at you, my friend. Now I must leave the stricken young lady in the care of yourself, and the care of you to Mrs Sharples, upon whose word your life depends.’ Charlie smiled and went on, ‘“Author of the storm”, indeed; I must make a note of that.’ To the surprise of Dodger, and presumably to the surprise of Mrs Sharples, Charlie took out a very small notebook and a very short pencil and quickly wrote something down.

The housekeeper’s eyes gleamed with a cheerful malignance as she regarded Dodger. ‘You can trust me, sir, indeed you can. If this young clamp gets up to any tricks, I shall have him out of here and in front of the magistrates in very short order, indeed I will.’ Then she screamed and pointed. ‘He has stolen something of hers already, sir; see!’

Dodger froze, his hand halfway to the floor. There was a very anxious moment.

‘Ah, Mrs Sharples, you indeed have the eyes of – how can I say . . . Argos Panoptes,’ Charlie said smoothly. ‘I happened to notice what the young man was picking up and it has been by the bed for some time – the girl had been clutching them in her hand. No doubt Mister Dodger was concerned that it should not be overlooked. So, Dodger, hand it over, if you please?’

Wishing earnestly for a piss, Dodger handed over his find. It was a very cheap pack of cards, but there had been no time to look at it with Charlie’s eyes on him.

Charlie got on Dodger’s nerves, but now the man said, ‘A children’s card game, Mrs Sharples; rather damp and rather juvenile, I would consider, for a young lady of her age. “Happy Families” – I have heard of it.’ He turned the pack over and over in his fingers and said at last, ‘This is a mystery, my dear Mrs Sharples, and I shall put it back into the hands of someone who will move heaven and earth to take that mystery by its tail and drag it into the light of day; to wit, Mister Dodger here.’ With that, he handed the cards back to the astonished Dodger, saying cheerfully, ‘Do not cross me, Dodger, for I know every inch of you, I will take my oath on it. Now, I really must go. Business awaits!’

And Dodger was certain that Charlie winked at him as he went out of the door.

The night passed fairly quickly because so much of it had already slid away into yesterday. Dodger sat on the floor, listening to the slow breathing of the girl and the snoring of Mrs Sharples, who managed to sleep with one eye open and fixed on Dodger like a compass needle that steadily points north. Why had he done this? Why was he freezing on this floor when he could have been snug and curled up by Solomon’s stove (a marvellous contraption, which could also be a furnace if there was a lot of gold to melt)?

But the girl was beautiful under her injuries, and he watched her as he turned the damp pack of stupid grubby cards over and over in his hands, staring at the girl whose face was a mass of bruises. The swines had really done her up good and proper, using her like a punchbag. He had given them some handy smacks with his crowbar, but that was not enough – by God, it was not enough! He would find them, he surely would, and see the bastards in lavender . . .

Dodger woke up on the floor in a semi-gloom illuminated by just one flickering candle, totally disorientated until he recognized his surroundings, which included Mrs Sharples in her chair, still snoring like a man trying to saw a pig in half. But more importantly there was the sound of a very small and trembling voice, saying, ‘May I have some water, if you please?’

This caused in Dodger a near panic, but there was a jug of water on the basin and he filled a glass. The girl took it from him very carefully, and motioned for a refill. Dodger glanced at Mrs Sharples, refilled the glass, handed it to her and whispered, ‘Please tell me your name.’

The girl croaked, rather than spoke, but it was a ladylike croak, such as might be made by a frog princess, and she said, ‘I must not tell anybody my name, but you are most kind, sir.’

Dodger was aflame. ‘Why were those coves beating you up, miss? Can you tell me their names?’

Once again there was the sorry voice. ‘I should not.’

‘Then may I hold your hand, miss, on this chilly night?’ It was, he thought, a Christian thing to do – or so he had heard. Slightly to his amazement, the girl did indeed reach out and take his hand. He clasped it and very carefully looked at the ring on her finger, and thought: a lot of gold here, and a crest; oh my word, a boy can get into trouble with a crest. A crest with eagles on it and foreign lingo. A ring that meant something, Charlie had said; a ring that somebody most certainly wouldn’t want to lose. And somehow those eagles looked rather vicious.

She noticed his interest. ‘He said he loved me . . . my husband. Then he let them beat me. But my mother always said that if anyone got to England, they would be free. Do not let them take me back, sir – I do not want to go.’

He leaned over and whispered, ‘Miss, I ain’t no sir, I’m Dodger.’

Sleepily, the girl said in what Dodger figured was a German accent, ‘Dodger? One who dodges, which is to say, moves about a lot? Thank you, Dodger. You are kind, and I am tired.’

Dodger just managed to catch the glass as she slumped back into the pillows.

1 Contrary to what he had said to Charlie, Dodger could read, having had some tuition from Solomon the watchmaker, his landlord, and the Jewish Chronicle – but it was never in anyone’s interest to tell anybody anything that they didn’t need to know.