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stiffened: she could not afford to think like this. Savagely she jabbed her palm with her nails; it had helped her gather her wits before, and it did so now. Venn was dead and gone, she told herself through the pain. But what he had told her – his testimony, as she thought of it – was burned on her memory.
    Once again, as she had done many times that night, Betsy went over his garbled account as if rehearsing a speech for the theatre. And it was that which helped her endure the final minutes, when at last the moment came for her deliverance. Though it came not with stealth, as she had somehow imagined, but with a bang on the door only inches from her ear, and the rasp of the lock. The door opened, waking everyone, and a voice called out.
    ‘Where’s the harlot?’
    A lantern’s beam swept the room, blinding Betsy as it fell upon her, then a shadow loomed behind it. ‘Get up, woman. You’re coming with me!’ And before she could move, the guard seized her shoulder and pulled her to her feet, slamming her against the door.
    The pain made her gasp, before one thought overwhelmed her: she was getting out. And the next moment, to her own surprise, she was shouting! Only later did she realize that she had played her role so long, it must have become second nature.
    ‘Get off!’ she yelled. ‘I’ll spike your eyes, you stinking rogue! Where are you taking me—?’
    A crack across the mouth silenced her. Tasting blood, she was shoved outside. The cell door slammed, the lock squealed, and she was being dragged through the echoing passages of the King’s Bench, blinking yet wild with elation – until a sudden pang of doubt struck her, chilling her to the bone.
    What if this isn’t Crabb’s doing
? she asked herself.
Suppose Sarah was right: the turnkeys are going to violate me
… and to her dismay, her legs buckled. But even as they slipped from under her, and the guard cursed at the sudden weight, she heard a voice that wasn’t his. In fact, it seemed familiar … She struggled to right herself, but her strength had gone. Half-dazed with fear and pain, she found herself set on her feet by a pair of strong arms, while from nearby came the squeal of a bolt being slid. She was yanked through a narrow doorway, and a gout of cold air hit her. She was outside! Then a door slammed, and she was in darkness. Breathlessly she looked round, to see a huge shape leaning over her.
    ‘It’s me, Crabb – you’re free.’
    Shakily Betsy reached out and, as if to make sure he was real, she touched him. ‘Free?’ she muttered vaguely. ‘Then … why did the warder have to be so rough?’
    ‘To make it look right,’ came the reply. ‘Are your legs working now? There’s a boat waiting.’
    A boat?
she struggled to take it in. They were in a narrow street, in the shadow of the prison wall. ‘Where are we going?’ she asked.
    ‘To Tower Wharf,’ Crabb told her. ‘Lean on me if you like … but come on!’

    The night was cold. Betsy shivered in her filthy gown, but she didn’t care. Freedom, after those days in the King’s Bench, was the sweetest thing she had ever tasted. Dawn was breaking as, walking at the best pace she could manage, she and her rescuer threaded their way through the grimy streets of Southwark, to emerge by the river. To her left the bridge loomed, while acrossthe Thames lights twinkled … and at the sight of it, she could have wept.
    But there was no time to give vent to such feelings. As Crabb had promised, a boat was waiting at a jetty, its stern lantern lit. Still shivering, Betsy clambered down the steps, grateful for the hands of the waterman who helped her aboard. She sat down, lurching as the young giant’s sudden weight almost capsized them. But soon he was seated beside her, exchanging words with the boatman. The man put his oar to the jetty and pushed, and in a moment the vessel was propelled into the current. Then they were out on the river and at last, Betsy sagged with relief.
    ‘I