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Many areas of London such as Bethnal Green and Whitechapel were slums. Here, malnourished and intensely poor people packed into inadequate housing with sewage flowing freely down the filthy streets.

As our money started to dry up, we were forced to rent space on the floor of a room in an overcrowded ramshackle house in the heart of the Whitechapel slums. A family of two little children and their parents occupied the room. At night they rented out a corner to us and two Irish dock-hands.

We didn’t care about the cramped conditions, or the lack of bedding and intolerable smell from the overflowing cesspit beneath the house. Nor did we care about the snoring Irishmen, the crying children and the bitter cold. We were free from the routine of the workhouse. Our bodies could rest and our minds explore an overload of new sensations, free from oakum and forced labour, free from abuse.

We continued to squander what money we had on food - delicacies from the pie and eel shop, pig’s trotters and spicy faggots from the German butcher as well as tobacco and cheap ale. We discovered Scotch too, and found it to be a perfect antidote to the cold nights, burning down our throats and sending flames flickering through our bodies.

As news of the murder spread, we became local heroes. Everyone knew that the girl walking the streets with vibrant red hair and ice blue eyes was the child described in the papers. But as weeks passed into months and the excitement surrounding us subsided, people were becoming reluctant to hide us, especially as we could no longer reward them for their assistance. The school master’s money had finally run out and we began to feel increasingly vulnerable and alone.

I used our last few pence to pay a barber to shave off my hair in the hope that I would no longer be recognised. I emerged from his dirty little shop bald, penniless and unbelievably cold, my identity left scattered all over the floor.

Snow began to fall. Jude and I took shelter huddling together under a bridge with other outcasts, drunks and cripples. I held my shaved head in my hands to try to protect it from the chill. That night, for the first time, the reality of our situation became apparent. We trembled with cold and fear. I resolved to find a way to survive because we had endured too much to just die under a blanket of snow.

In the dark hours, I held my knife to the throat of a sleeping cripple. I pressed it hard enough against his skin to wake him and draw a small trickle of blood. I wondered with childish curiosity if blood could actually freeze in such bitter cold. I told him that if he didn’t hand over the large overcoat which hung from his emaciated frame, I would slit his throat.

He tore it from his body in fear, intimidated by a threat of violence from a dirty, bald-headed little demon. He ran away into the night and I draped the coat over Jude and myself. When I think of it now, I still believe that the warmth and shelter it gave us probably saved our lives.

We were abruptly woken the next morning by a group of ten scruffily-dressed young boys kicking and shaking us. I grabbed my knife and jumped to my feet, instinctively pulling Jude behind me to keep him safe.

I waved the knife threateningly as the leader of the gang approached us, his grubby little tribe standing back and watching. He was taller than the rest and a few years older too.

“Don’t come near us, or I’ll use it!” I shouted.

My aggressor was quite stocky with an unruly fringe escaping from under his flat cap. He wore a white neck scarf in a jaunty style, a waistcoat, bell-bottomed trousers and a large buckled belt emblazoned with studs. He was an interesting sight to behold and very confident. But I refused to be intimidated by his menacing presence.

He started to speak with a voice that was thick with the accent of the East End.

“This is our street, an’ anything you rob has to be given to us. It’s the rules, our rules. That’s a fine coat you got there, bit big for me but I ain’t fussy. Just hand it over then leave our street and we’ll leave you be.”

He reached to take the coat and I slashed his hand with the knife. His gang were drawing close all around us.

“I’ve killed with this knife before and I’ll do it again no bother, so just leave us alone,” I shouted, hoping that the tremor in my voice would not betray my anxiety.

He glared at me, wincing through his pain.

“You’re her ain’t you, that workhouse girl? Respect to you for what you did, that bastard had it comin’ all right. But this is still our street and strangers are not allowed.”

His gang had surrounded us by now and were clearly eager for a fight. I realised that I was powerless against so many, and that we were powerless and alone in the world generally. We needed allies not enemies.

Then I saw our current situation as an opportunity rather than a threat. I drew back my knife and pierced the skin of my hand. As the blood began to leak, I took his injured hand and pressed my wound against his own. He tried to pull away but I kept a tight hold.

“We’re not strangers anymore, we are blood-bound now. Let us join you.”

I squeezed his hand even tighter and pulled him close to me so that I could whisper in his ear. “I’ll do whatever it takes.”

He hesitated slightly until he was sure of my meaning, then his face relaxed into a knowing, excited smile. He turned away from me, back towards his gang.

“Go, all of you, be gone, now!” he cried, waving his arm at the other boys. As they started to disperse he pulled me towards the underside of the bridge.

“Go Jude, follow them,” I urged my timid little friend as a hand started to tear hungrily at my clothes. “I’ll be all right, promise.”

The experience was a continuation of what I had learnt on my last night in the workhouse, that compliance is often the best form of defence. I had also learnt how the power of my own body could compromise the power of a man.

The ordeal under the bridge was thankfully over very quickly and me and Wiggins, as I now knew him, rejoined the rest of the newly-extended Dean Street gang. We began to scheme for our survival in the poverty-stricken, God-forsaken East End. A lawless underworld of gin houses, brothels and slums where my childhood ended and my criminal life began.

Wiggins was an orphan, as were most of the gang. He was cock-sure with a swift hand to pick pockets and a repertoire of cheeky banter to con an unsuspecting gentleman. He had good knowledge of street life and I learned a lot from him. But what he lacked was intelligence and common sense.

Though he had the respect of his gang and fear of his enemies, the income generated from their disorganised petty crimes was barely enough for us all to survive. In the early days I didn’t question or interfere, just obeyed and observed, but I could see that there was much to be done to improve upon Wiggins’ leadership.

He took me to the docks to join the scabby, cheaply dressed women who survived by selling their bodies to gentlemen and sailors for pence at a time. He doubted that I would gain much business myself on account of being bald and so young. But my cold defiant stare and childlike body made me a constant favourite over the loud, garish doxies.

Over the passing months I learnt more about what men wanted, the characters they liked me to play, how to breathe the way they liked and speak the words which heightened their passions. I always knew that the more effective I became, the sooner the experience would be over.

Wiggins took what I earned and shared it out with the gang, and then gave me a small portion.

We shared shelter in two rooms of a slum house. The gang became eyes and ears for me and Jude, watching for the police and protecting us from anyone who intended to turn us in.

The city of London was such an interesting contrast, full of extremes. The poor and the wealthy were all crammed together jostling for space amid the tide of rapid population expansion.

If I had moments to myself during those early months of pick-pocketing and prostitution, my curiosity pushed me to run out through the back of the rookery lanes to the affluent streets that lay around the next corner.

To this point in my life, I had only ever seen poor. I had known the filth of the workhouse and its wretched inhabitants, the slums of the East End and the starving disease-ridden folk trying to survive, but little else.

Seeing the elegant houses of the better-off with their shiny front doors and carriages outside was almost surreal. But the paradox of that Victorian veneer of respectability and the seething immorality hiding underneath was a lesson once learnt never forgotten.

I was a toy that respectable gentlemen could play with when they wanted then throw back into the toy box once the fun was over. That seemed the perfect analogy to me. The great London underworld with its gin houses, brothels and opium dens was like a toy box full of pleasurable delights to be used and abused before closing the lid and walking away, back to a respectable life.

I would stand on the pavement of an affluent street, watching as smart carriages rattled by and gentlemen with top hats strolled past iron railings surrounding grand town houses.

It was such a different world to my own but I wasn’t afraid of it. I felt no shame about my dirty scruffy clothes or my inelegance and stubbly red hair breaking lose all over my head. I was proud, confident and completely without a sense of class. I understood that sometimes the clean streets were the dirtiest of all. I knew that some of those respectable men were quite possibly passing on syphilis to their dutiful unsuspecting wives.

In truth, I probably felt quite superior. My life was honest and free from the rigid codes of behaviour which were so prevalent at that time. I felt pity for the elegant ladies tottering along the street in their finery, trussed up in corsets and giggling to their companions. I did not envy their sheltered, naive lives and conventions which controlled their existence. Poor women were free from all that.

I knew in my heart that I had no intention of staying poor and I craved status and respect after so much abuse, but also knew that I never wanted to turn into a conventional Victorian lady forced to hide her intelligence and curtail her opinions. I felt they received even less respect from society than I did and resolved that one day I would be a wealthy, powerful woman.

Twelve months or so had passed by since Jude and I escaped from the Whitechapel and Spitalfields Union Workhouse. During that time all the members of the Dean Street gang became a little less poor due to my proficiency as a prostitute and thief.

The boys taught Jude to fight, pick pockets and find a little confidence in himself. He started to mature and form his own personality but remained devoted to me. When we worked as a team we always knew what the other was thinking, enabling us to steal and fight together most effectively.

I learnt to lure men into alleys where Jude would be waiting to jump them, forcing their hands behind their backs whilst I held a knife to their throat and emptied their pockets. The ideas and the ambition were always mine, with Jude faithful and diligent.

I tried to inspire the gang with my visions of money and wealth. Simply robbing enough to fill our bellies and drink ourselves into a stupor was not sufficient for me. The more time I spent with lecherous men playing the submissive whore and being laughed at by rival gangs for being a girl, simply fuelled my ambitions.

I would fight anyone who belittled me, brawling in the streets like a wild animal. Strong muscles developed over years of physical labour gave me a powerful punch and I was fearless. I had to be even tougher than the boys, stronger and braver to gain any kind of respect.

Due mainly to my own ambitions and physical prowess we were able to expand our territory way beyond Dean Street. We took control of a large area by seeing off rival gangs in vicious brawls. We picked pockets, robbed houses and frightened shop keepers into handing over regular cash in return for assurances to leave them alone.

I used my whoring to acquaint myself with a whole host of local criminals, safe breakers, lock pickers, explosives experts, forgers, poisoners, and opium sellers. I learnt to trade sex for knowledge, equipment and contacts.

As another year passed my ruthless ambition and superior knowledge threatened Wiggins. He watched as his little petty criminal gang grew into a strong controlling force feared throughout the streets of Whitechappel, fully armed and proficient at their game.

At first he accepted the situation with good grace, enjoyed all the extra money we now earned and let me play a leading role. But this understanding between us was not to last.

He and some of the gang members told me about an interesting little sideline they had developed earning small amounts of money by running errands for a Mr Sherlock Holmes.

Initially I found this very amusing, the thought of my proud boys running around following the instructions of a toff, especially when they explained that he worked with the police. I haughtily pointed out that I didn’t run errands for anyone, especially not a snooty gent with friends at The Yard.

Over time however, I became increasingly curious about this mysterious, eccentric figure. Wiggins described him as a consulting detective and assured me that he was not like the usual police at all. He explained that the peelers went to Mr Holmes when they were stuck for answers and he seemed to have as little respect for their abilities as we did.

Eventually, I asked Jude to go with the boys the next time they were summoned by Mr Holmes. I needed Jude to report back to me about what he was actually like. I wondered what sort of a person assisted the official police but operated so separately from them?

What sort of gentleman would pay a grubby band of street urchins to scurry around the underworld finding people and information in exchange for a few pence? I concluded that Mr Homes must be a very astute and unusual character. I even felt a shiver of excitement at the prospect of meeting him.

When Jude reported back to me after his first visit to Sherlock Holmes’ apartment in Baker Street, that he was indeed polite, respectful and an unusual free spirit, I couldn’t resist an opportunity to see for myself. Especially when he told me that Mr Holmes knew exactly which way they had walked to Baker Street that morning just by looking at the colour of the mud on their shoes.

Wiggins rather enjoyed regaining a little power over me, and hesitated longer than necessary before agreeing that I could accompany him to Baker Street on his next visit.

When the occasion finally arose I remember feeling surprisingly excited by the prospect of meeting this intriguing man. I even felt a little nervous. I brushed such feelings aside with my usual bravado and purposely resisted an unfamiliar urge to tidy my hair and wash my face.