The Button Box: Gripping historical romance from the Sunday Times Bestseller

‘I know Patches only too well, and it would take more than a pock-marked old woman to frighten me.’

‘You won’t do anything stupid, will you?’

His eyes twinkled and he raised his glass to her. ‘So you do love me?’

‘I don’t want your death on my conscience,’ she said with a reluctant smile.

‘I suppose that’s a start.’ He raised his glass. ‘Let’s enjoy the evening.’

Clara hardly slept that night for worrying about Luke. He had seen her home, but had left immediately, having laughed off her fears and promised to return next day to let her know that matters had been settled satisfactorily. He had seemed supremely confident in his own ability but she had her doubts. The whole sad affair could end up in one of the gang wars that were the scourge of the East End.

She rose early and went about the chore of lighting the fire and filling the kettle with snow as the pump in the back yard was still frozen. The grey-white world outside felt cold and alien, adding to her feeling of foreboding.

Betsy appeared just as the kettle came to the boil, and after snatching a cup of tea and a slice of bread and jam, she rammed her bonnet on her head and wrapped her shawl around her shoulders. ‘If Miss Lavelle isn’t in a better mood today I’m giving in my notice. I don’t care if I never find another job, but I won’t be treated like a skivvy.’

Clara was used to listening to her sister’s grumbles before she set off each day and she ignored this last remark. ‘I’ve made a sandwich for you.’

Betsy eyed the brown paper package with distaste. ‘She won’t allow us to eat in the workroom in case we get grease on the material.’

‘Never mind. Take it anyway and eat it on the way home.’

‘I wish you’d stop being so cheerful. We’re stuck here, in this tiny shop with hardly a rag to our backs and we have to rely on Luke for our food. It’s all Pa’s fault and I hope he’s suffering too, wherever he is now.’ Betsy tucked the sandwich into her reticule and flounced out of the parlour.

Clara sighed and shook her head. Betsy was right, of course, but there was no point in dwelling on the past. What happened now was more important. She followed her sister through the shop and out into the street. She was about to lock the door when Betsy uttered a gasp and bent down to pluck something from the snowy pavement.

‘Look what I found.’ She held out her mittened hand and a tiny silver button winked in the light of the gas lamp. ‘I’ll swear this is from Luke’s waistcoat.’

Clara took it from her. ‘Yes, I’m sure it is. It must have come off when he saw me home. I’m certain he would have noticed if it was missing in the restaurant.’

Betsy pointed to a dark stain on the churned-up snow. ‘That looks like blood.’

‘It’s your imagination,’ Clara said sharply. ‘You’d better hurry or you’ll be late for work.’

‘Maybe he slipped and fell,’ Betsy insisted. ‘You should go round to his lodgings and make sure he’s all right.’

‘Luke can take care of himself.’ Clara stepped back into the shop and closed the door, but her knees were trembling and the button seemed to burn into the palm of her hand. She hesitated for a moment and then reached under the counter for the button box. It would be safe there, and buttons came off easily enough. She would make sure it was sewn on more securely when she returned it to Luke.

‘Clara, are you there?’ Jane’s voice brought her down to earth with a bump. It was silly to worry about a lost button, and the stain on the snow might be anything. Even if it were blood that didn’t mean to say it was Luke’s. Betsy was over-imaginative at the best of times. Clara hurried into the parlour.

‘I’m here. I just saw Betsy off to work.’

‘She’s forgotten to take the hat I finished off,’ Jane said anxiously. ‘She’ll be in trouble again.’

Clara thought quickly. It was still only half-past seven, and there was no point in opening the shop before nine. ‘I’ll take it to her, if you don’t mind being left alone again.’

‘Of course not. I feel quite safe here, and thanks to Luke I can make some toast for my breakfast. There’s butter and jam – it feels like Christmas.’

‘I’ll open up when I get back. There probably won’t be any customers until later this morning. It’s still freezing outside.’ Clara took her cloak from the peg and slipped it on. ‘I’ll be as quick as I can.’ She picked up the bandbox containing the hat, blew Jane a kiss and set off after Betsy.

Knowing her sister only too well, Clara had guessed correctly. Betsy did not know the meaning of the word ‘hurry’. She caught her up as she meandered along the Strand in the direction of Miss Lavelle’s shop.

‘You left this behind,’ Clara said breathlessly. ‘And you’re going to be late as it is.’

Betsy glared at the hat box as if it were to blame for her employer’s faults. ‘Thank you.’

‘Hurry up, slowcoach.’

‘I will if you promise to go and see Luke. I’m worried about him.’

‘Anyone would think he was your beau, Betsy. I’m going there now, if you must know. Now please, run the last few yards so that at least it looks as if you’ve tried to get to work on time.’

Betsy rolled her eyes and turned away, but she did walk a little faster than usual, and Clara waited until she saw her enter the premises. She could sympathise with her sister, but they needed the money, little though it might be. One day Betsy would be a fully qualified milliner and able to command a high price for her creations – until then she would have to put up with Miss Lavelle’s idiosyncrasies and foul moods. There was no escape for working girls, other than a suitable marriage, and even then that was not necessarily a recipe for a happy ending. Life was not a fairy tale. Clara set off for Luke’s lodging house in Hanging Sword Alley. It was a long way down Fleet Street, she had only been this way once before and that was in Luke’s company. She put her head down, ignoring the comments from passing draymen and carters, all of whom offered to give her a lift in return for favours not expressed in words, but their meaning was obvious.

She reached the lodging house in the narrow alleyway off Whitefriars Street, and knocked on the door. A feral cat shot past with a dead rat in its mouth and a mangy dog in hot pursuit. She knocked again and this time the door was opened just a crack.

‘What d’yer want?’ The woman’s voice was gruff and the words were slurred with drink although it was still early morning. The smell of gin fumes curled upwards 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.

Chapter Six (#ulink_857f8de8-4d2e-5e1c-9f2e-a374bc5ffdd3)

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.