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stories about their fantastic parties, and the glamorous hostess
in the middle of it all, Mary Kelly – or whatever surname she’d be using then.
    She sighed.
    Five years on and those grand ideas of her silly younger self were so ridiculous that she laughed every time she recalled them. A bitter laugh, and usually accompanied by a tear or two.
She’d got some of the way there, though, hadn’t she? Some of the way. Then she was stupid, careless, and threw it all away.
    And now she was here, in this one room. In a room that reeked of damp wood and mothballs, and the vinegar-burn tang of stale urine from the tenant before who was either too sloppy with his
night-water bowl, or just too lazy to use it and so pissed in the corner.
    She looked back down at the satchel in her lap. Her hand stole in again under the flap. A thief. Occasional pickpocket. That was her now. And a tart; not even an honest tart. She tried to
convince herself that the only thing which put her one modest step above all the other ‘girls’ she kept company with now was that a part of her old self was still alive somewhere
inside. Still believing there was a way out of this dead-eyed existence.
    But then stealing this bag from a dying man? Was it possible to sink any lower? She wondered whether he’d died or whether that approaching cab driver had found him, perhaps even
done the decent thing and taken him to a hospital? Saint Bartholomew’s was just a stone’s throw away, wasn’t it?
    Her cheeks burned with shame. She could have called out for help to the cabbie, or gone and looked for a patrolling policeman. But no. She’d taken this bag off him and run.
    What’ve you become, Mary?
    It was then that her fingertips found the feathery-fan texture of the end of a tight bundle of paper. She fumbled by touch, heard the rustle of paper inside the bag. Gently she pulled it out of
the satchel and held the bundle up in front of her face. She frowned, not quite sure of what she was looking at at first. She pulled the net curtain back a bit to allow a little more of the meagre
grey light into her room.
    ‘Oh my . . .’ she whispered hoarsely. ‘Oh my . . .’

CHAPTER 5

    13th September 1888, Saint Bartholomew’s Hospital, London
    M ary Kelly turned in through the entrance gates of Saint Bart’s. The one-way arc-shaped driveway was already busy with traffic: hansom cabs
and private coaches bringing in hospital visitors or taking away patients well enough to return home; food vendors wheeling in hand-pulled traps to sell in the hospital’s foyer.
    This morning had been an agonising tug of war for Mary. Money. So much money in that bag, she hadn’t even brought herself to consider counting it yet. But enough in there, surely,
that she’d never need to do a stitch of work again in her life. Ever.
    She was troubled though. Not so much on the ethics of the situation. Bugger that, the money was hers. But, she was troubled by more practical matters. A lingering concern pricked her bubbling
euphoria. There was a lot of money being carried by that gentleman. She wondered whether it was being transported from one place to another. It was somebody’s money. Somebody who had a
lot more of it? Somebody powerful and rich? Somebody who was going to be looking for it? And god help the poor wretch holding onto it when that somebody found out who they were and came knocking at
their door.
    Mary was almost certain that she was safe. As long as she was discreet and clever about it, she was going to be fine. Almost certain. She’d be a lot happier if she knew for certain
that the gentleman in Argyll Street had been brought in dead, though. He’d seen her. He’d looked at her. It would put her mind to rest to know for sure that he’d bled out.
    If he’d been found by that cab driver or someone else later on yesterday morning, then the body would still have been brought here to this hospital, the nearest one. It was a matter of
careful enquiry. And if