The Potato Factory

Chapter Sixteen

Mary had been cast into a communal cell in Newgate to await her sentencing. Charged before a magistrate for running a bawdy house and with moral corruption, she was bound over in Newgate to await trial at the Old Bailey.

She had good reason to hope that her sentence might be a lenient one. Prostitution and earning a living off prostitutes did not generally earn the penalty of transportation. Indeed one might venture to say that 'moral corruption' was a fair description of the institution of the State itself.

The hard times which followed the Peninsular War against Napoleon, the effects of factory-produced cotton from Manchester on the wool and silkweaving cottage industries, and the migration of the Irish to England during the famines, created untold misery in the rural population. Their desperate migration in search of work caused calamity in the cities and, in particular, London, where among the poor prostitution, though not officially stated as such, was looked upon as a legitimate occupation for women who would otherwise be destitute, reduced to the workhouse or left to starve.

Mary had every reason to feel confident that she would receive perhaps as little as three months and no more than twelve months. Prior to her trial she had been approached by a City police officer to turn King's evidence against Ikey. But she had not implicated him, insisting that their relationship had been one of great circumspection and that he was merely her landlord.

Mary had invested ten pounds of her limited resources on a lawyer and hoped that the judge would see through the hypocrisy of her arrest, or, in any event, judge her most leniently. The lawyer, too, was confident and assured her of a speedy trial with, at most, a short sentence.

'Why, my dear, there is every chance that the judge has himself enjoyed the tender ministrations of your young ladies and behind his worship's wig and po-faced visage he bears you nothing but goodwill!' He was pleased that so simple a case to plead had earned him so generous a fee, for had Mary claimed hardship, he would happily have taken a case so free of conjecture for half the amount she had paid him.

It was therefore a shock beyond any imagining when Mary, arraigned before a judge she did not recognise at the Old Bailey, listened in increasing consternation to the clerk of the court. He, having read the original indictment, paused and informed the judge that the prosecution wished to add a further two charges, requesting the court's permission to do so. The judge agreed to add a further two counts and issued the warrant returnable immediately.

Mary listened in horror while the new charges were read out: 'That the accused had wilfully and maliciously killed the pet cat of Miss Maude Smith, nanny to the house of Sir James Barker of the King's Road, Chelsea. Furthermore, and in the second indictment, that she did steal a book, to wit, Gulliver's Travels, loaned to her through the negotiations of Thomas Bishop, the butler to Sir James, who had sought the co-operation of his master to make his private library available to the accused.'

Mary's lawyer immediately entered a plea asking that the two additional charges be set aside for a later hearing, pointing out that his client had not been apprehended for either supposed crime.

The prosecution then presented a warrant for Mary's arrest and the judge agreed that it be served on her within his court, whereupon he ruled that both new charges could be included with the original indictments and that they could be heard concurrently.

In discovering the details of Mary's background Sir Jasper Waterlow had proved himself a clever detective. At the same time he had met Hannah's conditions without the need for complicity with a member of the bench. While the charge of running a bawdy house was unlikely to receive a sentence of transportation, this was not the case with the new charges.

It was during the hearing of the second set of indictments that Mary's life came suddenly and irrevocably unstuck. Despite her desperate pleas from the dock that she had not put a hand on the ageing, nose dripping, fur shedding, pissing, fur ball vomiting Waterloo Smith and, furthermore, that the book, Gulliver's Travels, had been a parting gift from Thomas Bishop himself, it soon became obvious that she had no hope of being believed by the court. Both Nanny Smith and Thomas Bishop appeared as witnesses for the Crown, and while Nanny Smith was triumphant in her testimony, Bishop spoke quietly with downcast eyes throughout the hearing.

Whether the judge was a cat lover or a bibliophile, or both, is not known, but he seemed to be strangely agitated by the evidence he had heard. Before pronouncing sentence he saw fit to deliver, to the increasing delight of a cackling Nanny Smith, a lengthy address on Mary's moral turpitude.

'I find myself unwilling to grant leniency in this case before me, as it strikes at the very heart of civilised behaviour. It is common enough in the assizes to confront a person, a yokel who may have stolen a sheep, or pig or poached game, a fat pheasant or a clutch of partridge eggs, from his master's estate. Heinous as these crimes may be, it can be argued that the poor wretch may have had need of the flesh of these beasts or birds to feed a hungry family. While his be no less a crime in the eyes of the law, it is one which, in some instances, is worthy of our compassion, if not our mercy.'

The judge sniffed and looked about the court, finally allowing his eyes to rest again upon Mary. 'A sheep or a pig or a game bird, though valuable to its owner, is seldom an object of great love unless it be a champion.' He paused and looked about him as though he were delivering his message at the Lord Mayor's Banquet. 'But a cat? A cat is another matter. A cat to its owner can be an unquestioning and loyal friend when no other may exist. That the cat in question, so brutally disposed of in this case, was an object of great love and comfort to its owner is not, for one moment, to be doubted.' He looked across at Mary again. 'You did cold heartedly and with malice aforethought do away with one Waterloo Smith, a cat owned by the plaintiff, Miss Maude Smith.' He wagged an admonishing finger at Mary. 'This court cannot take lightly such a callous and deliberate action to bring about the death of one of God's innocent creatures.' The judge paused and glared at the jury, who had previously found Mary guilty. It was as if he felt that guilty was probably not sufficient, that perhaps they should have pronounced her 'Very guilty' or 'Guilty beyond normal guilt'. He turned again to Mary. 'You have been found guilty and I choose therefore to sentence you in exactly the same way as if you had stolen and killed a prize sheep, or bull, or pig, or poached a brace of pheasants from the country estate of an honest gentleman.'

The judge brought his gavel down as though he were about to pronounce sentence, but, in fact, the judicial hammer was intended to serve only as a punctuation. Warmed to the task of castigation, he now continued: 'As to the second charge against you. You found yourself in a position of great privilege in the home of Sir James Barker who, due to the kind interceding on your behalf of his butler…' The judge paused to look at his notes, 'er… Thomas Bishop, it was agreed by Sir James that you should have the full use of his considerable library. In this one magnanimous gesture he was, in effect, opening up to a mere servant girl, if I should not be mistaken a laundry maid, the whole sublime world of literature and learning. It appears that you did not with honesty and a full heart, mindful of the great privilege accorded you, take advantage of this opportunity. On the contrary, in the face of such remarkable generosity, you chose instead…' he paused, searching for the correct words. 'You who have shown intelligence enough to have mastered reading and writing, to plunder this depository of knowledge by stealing from it one of its most precious jewels!'

The judge now brought his gavel down three times and in an even more sonorous voice than he had previously employed picked up his written judgment and commenced to read it.

'Mary Klerk, also known as Mary Abacus, it be therefore ordered and adjudged by this Court, that after having served three months in Newgate Gaol in accordance with the previous judgment of this court, you be transported upon the seas, beyond the seas, to such as His Majesty King George IV, by the advice of his Privy Council, shall see fit to direct and appoint, for the term of seven years!'

The judge's gavel rose up and went down upon its block one last time. The sound of it reverberated around the dusty, close-smelling and largely empty courtroom, and Mary's life was once again plunged into the darkest despair as she was manacled and led from the dock to the public cells, the 'bird cages' in the dungeons of Newgate Gaol. For Mary it was a descent back into hell.

It was her companions, those women with her in the cage, against whom she knew she must needs take the greatest care. There were few who would not tear her eyes out for the promise of a tot of gin and, in their drunken state, when the candles burned down, she would need to constantly defend herself against the groping hands that would possess her. At night, the grunting, panting cries of the fornicating women intensified when the younger women were seduced or raped by the larger 'bull whores' who owned the darkness.

Mary attempted to keep to herself, occupying one small corner of the large cell which contained eleven others. She had been placed with prostitutes who had been caught at various crimes – thieving, drunkenness and destroying public or private property. At the approach of a drunken woman Mary would reveal her blackened talons and snarl. But it soon became apparent that she could not remain separate. In a gaol cell it is the strong who rule and the weak who must be made to submit. The time would come, Mary knew, when she would be subjected to the needs of the strongest in the cage. Mary waited until her fellow inmates were drunk and distracted and then she bribed a turnkey to have a tinsmith visit her.

She instructed him to make four brass rings half an inch in breadth which fitted tightly to the topmost knuckle of the second and third fingers of each hand. Mary then told the tinsmith to fashion from each band a metal talon, sharpened to a point and arched, an inch beyond the extremity of each finger, to give the effect of four vicious nails. The tinsmith delivered them the next day, demanding an extortionate price in return for his speedy workmanship. But he had created weapons for her hands most fearsome to behold and Mary was happy to pay.

Mary attached the lethal hooks to her fingers and saw that they fitted well, then she placed them in the pocket of her pinny. The final meeting with the tinsmith had taken place in the morning before eight of the clock while her cell mates still slept, snoring and blubbering and often shouting in some nightmarish dream, unaware of her newfound protection. She knew that they would soon awaken and scream for water to quench their parched tongues and cool their throbbing brows. She was now ready to make her presence felt.

Mary paid the turnkey twopence for a large bucket of water and a ladle which she placed in the corner beside her. The water was their daily entitlement, an allowance of three gallons for each communal cell. The turnkeys demanded payment for it, although it was intended that it should be free. There was very little that came free in Newgate, and starvation was as much a cause of death within its walls as was gaol fever or brutality. If the twopence was not paid the turnkey would sell the bucket of precious water for a penny to an adjacent cage or, if there was no hope of gain, place it at his feet and piss into it before handing it into the cell.

Mary waited for the first of the women to wake up. It was Ann Gower, who couldn't remember when she hadn't been on the streets. She was probably still in her thirties but the effects of gin and her brutal life had left her looking twenty years older. Two of her front teeth were missing and matted brown hair hung over her eyes, which she was now in the process of knuckling in an attempt to clear her head of the gin she'd swallowed the previous night.

'Water, where's water?' she mumbled, as she stumbled over to the bars of the bird cage. Grabbing them she shouted, 'Bring the fuckin' water!' The shrill sound of her own raised voice caused her to hold her head and groan in agony.

'Ere,' Mary said, 'Over 'ere, love.'

Ann Gower turned slowly and looked at Mary through bloodshot eyes. 'You? Little Miss 'Orner what sits in a corner?'

Mary laughed, surprised at the woman's wit considering the state of her health.

'Wotcha fuckin' laughin' at?' the other woman snarled.

Mary, still with a smile on her face, dipped the ladle into the bucket and held it up towards Ann Gower. 'Drink.'

Ann Gower's hands were shaking as she took the large wooden spoon. She brought it unsteadily up to her lips and managed to spill a good portion of it down the front of her dirty pinny and upon the floor. The remainder she drank, slurping greedily. 'More!' she demanded, handing the ladle back to Mary.

'Sorry, love, that be it, there ain't no more.' Mary calmly put the ladle back into the bucket and stood up with one hand behind her back.

'Who says?' Ann Gower advanced menacingly towards Mary.

'I says,' Mary said, keeping her voice calm. 'That be your lot, Ann Gower.'

'I spilled 'arf of it!' Ann shouted.

'That be your problem, love. Next time be more careful.' Mary's voice remained steady and betrayed none of the fear she felt in the pit of her stomach. She was ready when Ann Gower lashed out at her and her hand came swiftly from behind her back, the two brass hooks at the end of her fingers cutting a double streak of crimson straight across the line of Ann Gower's jaw.

'Jesus!' she gasped, clutching at her face in surprise. 'The fuckin' bitch cut me!'

'Don't fuck with me, Ann Gower,' Mary said defiantly.

Ann Gower took one of her hands from her cheek and saw that it was covered with blood. 'Jesus! I'm bleedin'!'

'Next time it be your eyes.'

'I only wanted some water, wotcha do that for?' Ann Gower whined.

Mary forced a grin. 'Teach you some manners, darlin'.'

Mary was only five feet and two inches and carried no lard and Ann Gower was half as heavy again and at least three inches taller. But the larger woman, her head pulsating, and her cheek burning from the savage cut to her cheek, knew the ways of the street and realised she must make her move now or be beaten. The look in Mary's clear, cold green eyes told her that she had met a formidable opponent.

'You takin' charge, then?' Ann Gower said in a much mollified voice, one hand still clutched on her bleeding face.

'Somethin' like that,' Mary said.

Ann Gower smiled, the gaps in her teeth showing as she appeared to accept. 'Can I 'ave some water then?' she said, looking directly at Mary.

'No!'

Mary's eyes held the other woman's gaze and Ann Gower took two involuntary steps backwards. The fight was over, Mary had won. She had shown she was strong enough, hard enough to win the other woman's respect, or whatever passed for respect among the dispossessed.

Mary had also proved to herself that she had not forgotten the harsh lessons of the street and now indicated the sleeping women in the cell with a jerk of her chin. 'Wake them lot up, will you, tell 'em there's water, show 'em your face, tell 'em there's more where that come from if any should want it.'

Though Mary now controlled the cell she did not try to convert it to better ways. The women became drunk at any opportunity they could get their hands on a quart of gin and the nocturnal couplings continued. But the bullying stopped, the water was equally shared among all, and the cell was cleaned.

She was challenged on several occasions by older women, emboldened by a pint of gin in their bellies. But they stood little chance against her ferocious claws, and soon the rumour grew in Newgate Gaol of Mother Mary Merciless, who sat like a vulture in a corner of the whore cage cleaned of shit and dirt. It was said that she possessed the blackened talons of a great bird of prey and, if one should venture near, great slabs of flesh would be torn off in a single terrible swipe to feed her need for fresh blood and live human flesh.

A report which appeared in the Newgate Calendar, itself treated with gross exaggeration, was turned into a scurrilous and wholly lurid pamphlet sold in the streets and at fairs and in the Vauxhall Gardens and which was entitled: 'Mother Mary Merciless, the flesh eating demon of Newgate Gaol!' It sold ten thousand copies at the full price of a penny ha'penny.

Though her infamous name did nothing but good for her reputation, increasingly Mary came to impress her cell mates with her tongue, sharp eyes and the agility of her mind. They marvelled at the rapidity with which she worked the beads and boasted to the other inmates that she could do any calculation which might come into their minds. The number of days Methuselah had lived, and then the hours and minutes. Or if an ounce of dried peas should contain one hundred peas, how many peas would there be in a two-hundred-pound sack? Though they had no hope of verifying the answers, it was the speed of Mary's fingers as they flew across the wire slides to push the blurring beads this way and that which confounded and fascinated them. With such skill, they reasoned, the answers she gave must be correct. Furthermore, if any should have any unseemly ideas, hands so cruelly tortured which could move so fast were a reminder to them all that the dreaded claws could strike before they had a chance to blink.

They became like small children, enchanted and silent when Mary read to them by the light of the candle from Gulliver's Travels. For the much-worn volume, which, in the end, cost her so dear, like her precious abacus had seldom left her side.

Mary also read to them from the Bible. But they were stories of conquests and the persecution of the Israelites and the wonders of the land of Canaan. She did not read to them of Christ's love and salvation, sharing with them the lack of enthusiasm for this particular God of love, and much preferring the one of wrath who practised revenge and waged war in the hurly-burly of the Old Testament.

Mary took to writing petitions for prisoners and preparing their pleas to be read in court, for few could afford the fees of even the most down-at-heel lawyer or screever. She would write letters to the authorities about husbands and the welfare of children of inmates carted off to orphanages. Or she would write to loved ones, this latter in particular for the Irish, who placed great store in the mystical properties of the written word. While they, and those who received their letters, could neither read nor write, the priest in their parish could, and so the entire parish would know of their love and tenderness. They fervently believed that writing a letter was a divine affair which would bestow good fortune and protection upon those they loved who still lived in the sad and broken places they had fled from in Ireland. A letter of love, they most fervently believed, had the spiritual substance to prevent these same loved ones from suffering the sad fate to befall its sender.

Mary would always begin an Irish letter with the same words, for it was this single opening sentence which inevitably brought those on whose behalf she wrote to swoon with the ecstasy of its poetry.

My dearest beloved,

The prayers of a sincere heart are as acceptable to God from the dreary Gaol as from the splendid Palace. The love of a prisoner as pure and sweet as that of a prince…

The cost in delivering such a letter to Ireland was prohibitive and would often mean that the sender must sell all that she possessed. But for the comfort it brought her, and the gift of love it was thought to bestow on the receiver, it was thought among the Irish women to be but a pittance to pay.

The inmates, usually the women, would often bring their squabbles to Mary to settle. Her judgments, using the peculiar logic of the criminal, left each with a portion of self-respect, and neither party's guilt confirmed. This would indubitably stop further trouble in the bird cages. When Mary was forced to judge one or another to be guilty this was seen as an exception, and her verdict, with the penalty she imposed, accepted by all and duly carried out.

This did not stop the drunkenness and lechery, the fighting and the cruelty, for these things were as much a part of Newgate as the bricks, and damp, the excremental filth and the gaol fever. But there was observed to be some small measure of calm about the bird cages. Mary was tough and her talons fierce and she was one of their own kind. Hers was a light which had not been dimmed and was a great source of courage to them all.

The most cherished moment of Mary's life came the day Abraham Reuban arrived at Newgate to visit her.

The excitement of Ikey's escape from custody was on everyone's lips that day, the story of his escape having spread like gaol fever among the inmates. The tale of how he had persuaded the two turnkeys to take a coach which had been 'conveniently upon the spot' when it was needed, and how he had persuaded both turnkeys to unlock his manacles and be his guest at the Pig 'n Spit was the cause of great laughter in Newgate. The simple device of picking the pocket of Titty Smart, the fat turnkey, and letting himself out of the door of Mary-belle's parlour, leaving the key on the lintel, was told with glee and constantly repeated with not a little admiration for his brazenness.

Ikey Solomon had, after all, escaped from the most notorious gaol in Britain without resort to violence and had been gone a full hour or more before the dunderheads realised anything was amiss. Moreover, the cunning of Ikey had seen to it that Popjoy, the more diligent turnkey, with the help of a strong potion, was locked in the arms of Morpheus, slumped in the corner of Marybelle Firkin's parlour, while his older partner was too drunk to take two steps in pursuit of a quarry without falling full upon his own face. By the time the constabulary was alerted, as one of the penny papers reported: Ikey Solomon was allowed time enough to row himself to France with sufficient over to fish midstream for a rack of herring to sell in Paris to the Frenchies!

Moreover, when the police had been alerted, they had immediately contacted the City division who had informed them, somewhat pompously, of the Bank of England's recapture of the villain. It had been a full eight hours later before Reuban Reuban revealed his true identity, and at least nine or ten since Ikey's initial escape from the Pig 'n Spit. By the time the hunt for him was under way again, Ikey had already slipped down the Thames, his ship long buried in the coastal mist as it headed for the North Sea and the kingdom of the Danes. In fact, even at the point when Reuban Reuban had revealed his true identity, the City police officials on duty that night had not believed him, thinking that Ikey had merely shaved his head in some clever ruse. But no amount of logic applied to the conundrum could reveal what intention this clever ruse might serve. Ikey had, after all, presented himself as himself at the premises of Coutts amp;Company, and if this be a ruse it was a most mysterious one. It was only then that Sir Jasper Water-low had been visited at his home in Kensington and aroused from his bed to be informed of the presence in the cells of the duplicate Ikey.

Ikey's double had been duly charged with complicity but this was small consolation for Sir Jasper who knew that, unless he brought the true Ikey Solomon to trial, his hopes for an illustrious future as Britain's foremost police officer, and ultimately a seat in the House of Lords, had been completely dashed.

He swore silently that Hannah, whom he immediately believed responsible for his humiliation, would pay dearly for her husband's escape, though, on further thought, this conclusion made little sense, for his detective's mind reasoned that if she had not told him of Ikey's intended escape she would have been thought by him to have been equally guilty of complicity. Sir Jasper was therefore reluctantly forced to conclude that Hannah had been telling the truth and that the cunning Ikey had outsmarted them both.

The curious thing was that neither The Times nor any of the penny papers made mention of Ikey's subsequent visit to Coutts amp; Company in the guise of a gentleman of means returned that very day from abroad.

It may only be supposed that the directors of the bank, not wishing to be the laughing stock of all England, had remained silent about the presence in the bank of the real Ikey and the transaction he had made. In fact they had suggested to The Times that the abortive ruse by Reuban Reuban was merely an attempt to gain notoriety. He was not to know at the time that the real escape of the notorious fence was taking place. A difficult coincidence to believe, but a coincidence nonetheless, life itself being so often stranger than fiction.

In actual fact, the Bank of England had deliberately conspired with Coutts amp; Company not to release the story of the real Ikey's visit in the supposed interest of national safety, thus making the story of the hapless actor's attempt at publicity necessary to explain the arrest of Reuban Reuban. In any event, Ikey's transaction was allowed to go through without hindrance to New York and the banker, Nathaniel Wilson, found himself somewhat of a hero for the manner in which he had conducted himself.

Furthermore, Sir Jasper Waterlow, conscious that royalty itself made use of the great private bank, was not in the least keen that the notorious Ikey Solomon's patronage of the same facility be known to the public at large. He had therefore dropped the conspiracy charges against Reuban Reuban, merely holding him in solitary confinement for a week, charged with being a public nuisance. When the greater part of the public furore over Ikey's escape had died down, he was sentenced to twenty-five lashes and released on the condition that he would say nothing more to the newspapers than was already known.

This was thought by Reuban Reuban to be the mildest of sentences. He had received the sum of one hundred pounds for his role as a thespian, the highest salary he would ever be paid for plying his craft. Realising that he had just completed the greatest performance of his life in a real life drama, Reuban Reuban hit upon the idea of using the money Ikey had paid him to mount a grand theatrical production in which he starred and was titled: 'The Jew who Bankrupted England!'

Though this, when the sensibilities of the times changed under the new young queen, would be altered on the poster hoardings and outside the theatre to read: 'The Man who Bankrupted England'

Presenting, in the title role: The great Reuban Reuban himself!

The original and real life impersonator in the escape of the notorious Ikey Solomon!

His role playing Ikey Solomon, Prince of Fences, in his own production was to earn the previously struggling actor a handsome living for the remainder of his career.

When Abraham announced his visit the day after Ikey's escape, Mary withdrew with him to a dark corner of the dungeons, taking a candle so that she might see the truth in his face. It was here that he told her the entire story, though the young tailor omitted the details of Ikey's passage on a Danish ship carrying ballast back to Denmark. Instead, he suggested that Ikey had left their coach on the road to Southampton and had been met by another, which was presumably to take him to a ship bound for America.

He told Mary of Ikey's most earnest resolve that she should have money to facilitate her voyage to Australia and that it was Ikey's fondest hope and desire she should lack nothing in order to extract the maximum comfort from so arduous and unpleasant an experience upon the high seas.

Abraham stressed Ikey's most heartfelt regrets at what had happened to Mary, and then took great pains to explain Ikey's reasons for making no attempt to contact Mary while they had both been incarcerated in this very same gaol – the explanation being that Ikey, thinking only of Mary's personal welfare, was mindful that their past association might reflect badly upon her and cause needless suffering and humiliation.

It was a succinct enough explanation and Abraham, who had watched his father at rehearsal since he had been a small boy, delivered Ikey's message with sufficient ardour to suggest that he might himself have enjoyed a career upon the stage.

Mary became at once so bemused with Abraham's message containing Ikey's solicitude that she could scarcely believe her ears. It was with great difficulty that she forced into her mind the true picture of the rapacious, greedy, whingeing, entirely selfish and self-serving Ikey she knew as her erstwhile partner.

'What does 'e want?' she demanded sternly, pushing the candle close to Abraham's face.

'In truth, I swear, he seeks only your high regard, Mistress Mary,' the young tailor protested, much enjoying the sound of such high-minded phrasing. 'Those are the words from his own dear lips,' he added.

'Ha!' Mary replied. 'Ikey never done nothin' in 'is whole life what wasn't for profit! 'Igh regard, you says? Where's the profit to be found in that?'

'His sentiments were most soft in your regard, most spontaneous soft, Miss,' Abraham protested again. ' "Abraham, my dear," he says to me, "you must convince Mistress Mary of my high regard, my most 'umble 'igh regard!" He said it three times, I swear it, Mistress Mary. There was tears in his eyes when he spoke them words and then he handed me the soft. "You must give 'er this fifty pounds, for she 'as been done a great wrong and it is I who is responsible!" That's what he says to me, Gawd's truth!' Abraham concluded.

Mary looked genuinely startled. 'Ikey said that? Ikey said it were 'im what was responsible?'

Abraham nodded. 'He was most sad, most very sad indeed at the inconvenience he'd caused your fair self.'

'Gawd 'elp us! Miracles will never cease!'

Despite her deep suspicion, Mary could think of no way that Ikey, at the moment of his escape, could possibly profit from her by a further penny. So why, she asked herself, had he parted with a small fortune? Could it possibly be for the reasons Abraham had given? Had Ikey grown a conscience? She could not imagine a repentant Ikey, nor one who was capable of feeling the slightest remorse for a fellow human. We all want to feel the love of another and Mary had not been loved since she had been a small child, when she had briefly known the tenderness of a consumptive mother. Did Ikey really love her, not simply regard her as a profitable partner, as she had always quite contentedly supposed? It seemed too bizarre for words that he might do so, or for that matter, that she could harbour in her breast, unbeknownst to her, a love for him in return.

Love was not a word in the vocabulary which had existed between Mary and Ikey. Even on those rare occasions when she had taken him to her bed, there had been no thought of love. Mary had long since packed that hope away, concealing it in the darkest corner of her soul. Love was not for such as her. And so she simply shook her head, silently forcing back a tear, truly not knowing what to think of the whole matter of Ikey's amorous protestations brought on the importuning lips of a young man with a strong sense of melodrama.

At that moment Abraham Reuban produced Ikey's Duke of Wellington medal.

'Ikey wishes you to have this as a further token of his most remarkable esteem, Mistress Mary,' he said, holding the medallion and chain against the light of the candle. 'It be pure gold an' all!'

'So, where'd 'e steal it, then?' Mary asked tartly, though her heart thumped within her breast at the sight of the medallion.

'No, no, missus, it be his luck, what be called his talisman!' Abraham then told Mary the story of the medallion as Ikey had related it to him in the coach.

Mary had a dim recollection of having once observed a gold chain about Ikey's neck. Stripped down to his vest and long johns, the gold chain had disappeared into the top of his tightly clinging woollen upper garment so that she had no knowledge of what might be contained at its extremity. Now the thought that it might be his medallion, Ikey's talisman, opened her heart like a summer rose. She took the Wellington medallion from Abraham and, turning it over, read the inscription nestled between the garland of laurel leaves. Whereupon Mary's broken hands pressed Ikey's talisman to her bosom and she knew with a fierce certainty that she would survive, that she would never surrender and that somehow she had inherited Ikey's uncanny luck.

At that moment, despite his innumerable faults and thinking him no more than she knew him to be, Mary loved Ikey Solomon.