Bandyleg Walk is dangerously situated amongst the never-ending narrow courts and winding streets of The Mint. Dilapidated houses, a few without roofs, are havens to fugitives from the law, debtors, and those who are driven from the slums by the men who build roads and railways. Henrietta from the penitentiary is found in The Mint off Borough High Street where she has embraced an opportunity to stitch together a life far from the alleys and corners of Mayfair.
The kitchen work to which Henrietta was assigned while in the tench, just as that frightening Fowler had promised, proved to be a boon. For she discovered that she was capable of rolling a crust and turned a fine hand to it. So pleased was Matron, that Henrietta was promoted to assistant cook for the Millbank staff and held the coveted position until she received her ticket-of-leave.
Here in Bandyleg Walk, on the ground floor of three crumbling storeys, a lodging house has prime place on the dingy corner where all the buildings are blackened from smoke. Henrietta made wise and frugal use of the purse of coins Clovis Fowler had tossed at her. She has set up and operates a soup-house. And by God, she cooked an outrageous amount of soup in the tench.
Steam rises in a smelly mist on the windows where basins and ladles are in full display for those who cannot read a bill of fare. For tuppence, a punter enjoys a prime basin of soup and a slice of bread. Add another penny and Henrietta throws in a potato. She is tough but fair; there are no handouts. She is known to employ two staff, always convicts returned to the world, but suffers no thieves or cheats on her staff. A burly lodger upstairs is her booter-outer. A sharp knife hides always within her reach.
Busy all day and half the night, the quantities she sells are large enough to afford a dream of a new venture. One day soon, away from this slum, she will have dining rooms. She is good at chops.
The supper rush is over and so efficiently run that Henrietta’s frock is still fresh and unstained. She cannot say that she pines for her silk dresses and feathered and ribboned hats. Her plain, green wool suffices; though she could not resist sewing a neat row of small black velvet bows down the bodice.
Henrietta’s back is to the door when it opens and the night air enters whilst the odour of twelve hours of simmering soup escapes.
‘No more soup.’ She does not bother to turn to her guest and continues scrubbing a rickety table.
‘I am not here for soup.’
Henrietta pauses, and then wrings her rag. She scrubs again.
‘What can I do for you, Clovis Fowler?
Even people who are captains of their own ships form habits. Those who have the freedom to come and go as they please, rely on some ritual to mark their day. It is Nora Mockett’s ritual to cross the Commercial Road when there is a lull in the traffic, well after the two-thirty bell tolls. Three weeks after her visit to Bermondsey Street she wraps a package for Mr Wright, the cabinetmaker across the road. He is a good customer, a loyal one who is in constant need of syrups, tonics and lozenges for his large family.
These last three weeks Nora has had to work a little harder to muster the smile she normally brings to his workshop. Lately she grows impatient with his neighbourhood gossip and is eager to return to her own place of business. Each day she awaits news from Bermondsey and would not like to miss a message.
When she has collected the payment and indulged Mr Wright for a short but polite time, the road is already moving again at a quick pace. Nora stands on the kerb waiting for the traffic to subside, with a chopped view of the Mockett shopfront. It really does outshine any others on the Commercial Road she thinks, and then turns her head to seek an empty slot so that she might make a dash. Suddenly she catches the odour of something like weak stew, with a prevailing scent of onion. She is hatless, and without her shawl, neither needed for her daily ritual, and so feels a warm breath on her neck.
Nora is on the verge of turning her head to see who crowds so close to her, when a firm hand is pressed onto her back. One shove and she goes down.
Nora hears a distinct crack near her temple. How cold the pavement feels against her cheek, she thinks. It is her last thought before a coach-and-four trample her. She lies dead, her eyes open, her neck broken, her body crushed.
A woman walks calmly away from the shambolic scene, pulling her cloak tightly around her green dress adorned with black velvet bows.