in a plume of bad breath as it evaporated into the cold atmosphere.
‘I want to speak to Mr Foyle.’
‘He ain’t here. Never come home last night, according to the slut I pay to empty the slops. Best try the brothels, love. That’s where they usually end up.’ She slammed the door in Clara’s face.
As the hours went by and still no word from Luke, Clara’s fears intensified. Until now she had had supreme confidence in Luke’s ability to take care of himself, but that was before she had met Patches Bragg, when the world of the gambling dens and the criminal gangs had seemed unreal. It had not occurred to her that Pa was so deeply involved with the criminal fraternity, but now she realised just how far he had sunk. For the rest of the day her thoughts kept returning to the silver button nestling amongst its brothers, and the patch of blood in the snow. It had all but disappeared into a mushy grey slush, but the memory of it was still fresh in her mind.
Clara closed up early, making the excuse of going out to purchase hot pies for their evening meal, but instead she made her way to the club in Angel Court. There was no hope of finding the money that Patches had demanded, but that paled into insignificance in the light of Luke’s disappearance. There was only one way to find out if Patches and her gang were involved. She rapped on the door and waited, but no one came. She knocked again, and when there was no reply she turned the knob and found to her surprise that the door was not locked. With her heart hammering against her tightly laced stays, she stepped inside.
‘Is anyone there?’ Her voice echoed throughout the building. There was no sign of Bones or Old Tom, and the only sound was her own ragged breathing. Her first instinct was to turn and run, but perhaps Luke was there in that dank cellar, bound and gagged and unable to communicate.
She made her way through the dark corridors and down the flight of narrow stairs to the basement, and there was no sign of life or sound of anything other than the creaking of old timbers. She opened the door to the gaming room. Light filtered hazily through the grimy window; it was dim but even so she could see that the place was deserted. The tables were bare, as were the shelves behind the bar. Patches and her punters might never have existed other than in her imagination. Clara bent down to pick up a round gaming token that had been overlooked. Even in the semi-darkness she could see that it was similar to the ones that Pa sometimes brought home in his pocket. But for this tiny object she might have been led to believe that she was in the wrong place, or that she had dreamed the whole sorry business.
The sound of footsteps on the stairs made her spin round. She held her breath, poised and ready to run. She had expected to see one of Patches’ men, but it was an elderly woman who stood in the doorway and she looked as scared as Clara was feeling.
‘Who are you?’ the woman demanded tremulously. ‘What are you doing here?’
Clara was shaking from head to foot, but it was with relief and not fear. ‘I might ask the same of you. Where is Patches?’
‘Are you one of her gang? I don’t want no trouble. I’m just the cleaning woman.’
‘No, I’m not one of the gang,’ Clara said angrily. ‘Where have they gone?’
‘I dunno, and I don’t ask questions. Nor will you if you’ve got any sense. I’ve got work to do, and you’d better go about your business, whatever that might be.’
‘I need to know what happened here last night. Please tell me anything you know.’
‘Go away and let me get on. I got a family to feed and I don’t know nothing.’ The woman glanced over her shoulder. ‘He’s coming.’ She scuttled into the room and pushed past Clara, brandishing a broom.
Clara attempted to leave but found her way barred by a swarthy man wearing a billycock hat and a heavy overcoat with its collar pulled up to his unshaven chin. ‘Who are you?’ he demanded, squinting at her from beneath bushy black eyebrows.
‘I’m looking for Luke Foyle,’ Clara said, hoping she sounded more confident than she was feeling. This man had an air of menace about him that made her feel distinctly threatened, but to her surprise his frown was replaced by a broad grin, exposing a row of uneven, yellowed teeth.
‘What’s your name, lovely?’
‘I’m Clara Carter.’
‘So you’re the one,’ he said, chuckling. ‘Luke has an eye for a looker, and that’s the truth.’
‘Where is he?’ Clara demanded breathlessly.
‘You might say he’s had to go on a trip for the sake of his health, miss. You won’t be seeing him for quite a while.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘Haven’t you heard? There was a fight between the Skinners’ gang and the Braggs’ last night. Very bloody it was too. Those what are left have scarpered.’
‘Who are you?’ Clara demanded furiously. ‘How do I know you’re not lying?’
‘It don’t matter who I am, my duck. I’ll be off soon meself, but it’s a pity about Foyle. You’ll get over him in time.’
Clara felt a bubble of hysteria welling up inside her, but she mustered every scrap of self-control in an attempt to sound calm and collected. ‘What happened to him?’
‘I told you, girl. He left the country and he won’t be coming back for a long while. If he does he faces the hangman’s noose. D’you understand me now?’
‘Did he kill someone?’ Clara’s breath caught on a sob. ‘Was it Patches? Is that why this place is deserted?’
‘I ain’t prepared to say no more. The less you know, the better. Go home, girl.’ He was about to walk past her but she caught him by the sleeve.
‘Why won’t you tell me where Luke has gone?’
He shook her hand off as if it were an annoying bug. ‘Oh, didn’t I say? How very remiss of me. He’s taking in the delights of Paris, so I believe.’ He sauntered off to inspect the bar, or what was left of it, giving Clara the opportunity to escape.
It was not until she was outside that the full force of events overtook her and she leaned against the wall, gasping for breath. It had all begun with a gambling debt, but everything had spiralled out of control, and now Luke had left the country, if that man was to be believed. There must have been a scuffle outside the shop, which would account for the bloodstain on the snow and the loss of a waistcoat button, but what happened after that would remain a mystery.
She walked home slowly, stopping to buy three hot mutton pies from the pieman, and three baked potatoes from the stall a little further along Drury Lane. Her movements were automatic and she was still in a state of shock. She had done her best to persuade Luke to get away from the gangs, and he had managed to keep that part of his life separate, treating it almost as a joke. Now the reality of gang warfare had struck home – Luke must have killed someone, maybe Patches herself, and he had fled for his life. He was a marked man and if he returned to England he would face the full force of the law.
The sound
