The Button Box: Gripping historical romance from the Sunday Times Bestseller. Dilly Court
to the darkness. The air was thick with the smell of rotting vegetables and night soil, and the buildings that towered above her were shuttered and silent. All her instincts told her to run away and the hairs on the back of her neck stood on end like the hackles on an angry dog, but she kept walking. The alley opened out into a small court surrounded by equally tall buildings with only a scrap of midnight-blue sky visible and a single, solitary star twinkled at her as if it were wishing her well.
A faint glimmer of candlelight flickered in a basement window, and Clara was about to knock on the door of what might once have been the home of a respectable family, when it opened suddenly and a hand shot out. She was dragged unceremoniously into the building.
‘What d’you want? You ain’t one of the usual girls.’
A lantern held close to her face dazzled her so that she could not see her assailant, but his voice was gruff and his breath smelled strongly of stale beer and rotten teeth.
‘I don’t know who you think I am, but you’re mistaken.’ Clara was nauseated and terrified, but she was not going to give up now. She stood her ground. ‘I want to see Patches Bragg.’
‘Does you indeed? Well, you got a nerve, I’ll say that for you. You must be one of them salvationists, come to rescue our souls. Patches eats girls like you for breakfast.’
‘I’m here on a private matter,’ Clara said hastily. ‘I’d like to speak to her and then I’ll leave.’
‘That’ll be up to her.’ He leaned closer. ‘Take a tip from Old Tom. Go home now and forget you ever heard of Patches Bragg.’
‘Thank you, but it’s really urgent. Please take me to her.’
Old Tom held the lantern higher and for the first time she could see him clearly. His snuff-stained whiskers and wispy white beard contrasted oddly with his shiny bald pate. He shook his head. ‘You might live to regret this, but if you insist you’d best follow me.’ He ambled off along a narrow corridor and came to a halt at the far end where he tapped out a pattern of knocks on the door. It opened, and a wave of sound and the smell of raw alcohol, tobacco smoke and other unpleasant odours enveloped Clara in a noxious cloud.
‘Come this way.’ Old Tom walked past the man at the door, who leered at Clara, giving her a gap-toothed grin. ‘Keep yer hands to yerself, Bones. This one wants words with the boss.’
The sound of Bones’ cackling laughter followed them down the steep flight of stairs to the basement, which opened out into a large room, hazy with smoke. It was heated by an enormous range, which took up most of one wall. The fug was sickening, although it did not seem to worry the male occupants and the gaudily dressed women, most of whom were the worse for drink. They lolled against the men, who seemed to be more intent on their cards than the charms of their female companions. Piles of coins lay in front of the players and no one took the slightest notice of Clara.
Old Tom led her to the bar, where a large woman perched on a stool with a glass of gin in her hand. Her low-cut gown exposed a vast expanse of bosom with the odd patch dotted here and there, and when she turned her head to look at Clara it was easy to see why she had earned her nickname. At a quick glance Clara guessed that Patches Bragg must be fifty years old or thereabouts. Her grey hair and sagging jowls might give her the appearance of a respectable matron, but her heavy-lidded grey eyes were sharp and shrewd. Her thin lips seemed to disappear beneath folds from her plump cheeks, which were heavily rouged and with patches carefully applied to conceal disfiguring scars. It was a fashion that Patches’ grandmother might have adopted many years ago, and it was one that made her instantly recognisable.
As the pale eyes raked over her, Clara felt a shiver of fear run down her spine, but she held her head high.
‘Who have we here, Old Tom?’ Patches demanded in a gruff voice with just a hint of a French accent.
‘She’s come wanting to see you, boss. I never asked her name.’
‘She don’t look like one of them salvationists.’ Patches beckoned to Clara. ‘Come closer so I can get a better look at you. What’s your name and what d’you want with me?’
‘My name is Clara Carter. I think you know my pa.’
Patches raised the glass to her lips and drained the contents. She thumped it down on the counter where the barman was quick to add a generous tot of gin. ‘I know many men. What’s so special about your pa?’
‘His name is Alfred Carter and I know he comes here. I think he owes you money and I want to come to an arrangement.’
Patches threw her head back and laughed. ‘Well, here’s a novelty. Are you saying he ain’t good for what he owes?’
‘I don’t know how much it is, but I’ll make sure you’re paid every last penny. I just need time.’
‘Don’t that beat everything you’ve ever heard?’ Patches downed another mouthful of her drink, but her eyes narrowed to slits in her pudgy face and the black stars and moons moved closer together. ‘Suppose I don’t like that arrangement? What will you do then?’
‘My pa is a good man at heart, but he hasn’t been the same since Ma died and my youngest sister was crippled by the same disease.’
‘Stop, you’re breaking my heart.’ Patches leaned closer, fixing Clara with a hard stare. ‘Your old man is a gambler and you’d be better off with him out of the way, which is what will happen if I don’t get my money in full.’
‘How much does he owe you?’ The words came out in a single breath – a whisper of desperation. Clara was scared, but determined to see this through, whatever the cost.
Patches straightened up and turned to the barman. ‘Alf Carter, Wych Street, Bob. How much is on the slate?’
He reached beneath the counter, produced a dog-eared notebook and flipped through the pages. ‘Eight guineas, boss.’
‘Eight guineas it is then, and to show you that I’m a fair woman I won’t add any interest, but I want my money.’
‘That’s a huge sum.’ Clara stifled a gasp of horror. Eight guineas was more than she earned in a whole year. A wave of anger washed over her. How could Pa have been so profligate with the money they needed to survive?
‘But I ain’t such a bad woman,’ Patches continued cheerfully. ‘I’ll give you three days to find the cash.’
Clara licked her dry lips, forcing herself to remain calm. ‘And if I can’t raise that much?’
‘Put it this way, my duck, your pa has two good legs at the moment. He might find it difficult to walk again if I don’t get my money on time. My boys are experts when it comes to maiming and crippling them as get on the wrong side of Patches Bragg. Do you understand, sweetheart?’
Lost for words, Clara nodded.
‘Three days, Miss Carter. Not an hour more. Now get her out of here, Old Tom. I’m sick of looking at her milkmaid complexion.’
The chill outside hit Clara like a slap in the face. Quite how she arrived on the pavement outside the alley she could not remember, but taking deep breaths of ice-laden air brought her abruptly back to her senses. She looked round, half hoping to find Luke waiting for her, but he was nowhere to be seen. It was only now that the impact of what had happened in the illegal gaming club hit her with full force. Eight guineas was a small fortune and she had about as much chance of raising such a sum in three days as she had of flying to the moon. She wrapped her shawl around her slender body and set off for home, ignoring lewd suggestions from the few men who were about on such a night, and the shrill threats from the women who braved the winter weather to solicit from doorways or open windows. She was numbed not only by the cold and the fact that Luke had abandoned her, but by the sheer impossibility of her