Noah watched Susannah’s hackney move away with a sigh of relief. ‘Where can we take this piece of filth?’
Pitchfork gestured with his head to walk on. ‘I know the very place.’
Crabbe refused to move. ‘Leave off. I’ll call out, you fuckers. Friends here. My ones.’
Pitchfork pushed his knife into Crabbe’s back hard enough to break the skin. ‘You take a breath to shout and it’ll be your last, friends or not.’
‘Fuckers,’ Crabbe said, again. He hawked and spat. But walked on.
Pitchfork led them down towards the Thames and then westwards along streets with buildings backing onto the shore. The river could be seen from time to time where stairs or a slipway went down to the mud, for the tide was low. Then, reaching the sprawling wooden premises of what looked to be a prosperous pike fishery,
