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Before we set off I hid my hair under a flat cap and wore Wiggins’ waistcoat and bell bottoms to disguise myself as a boy. Wiggins told me that Holmes’ sharp mind with its vast encyclopaedic knowledge of crime would surely remember the murder of the house master of the Whitechapel and Spitalfields Union Workhouse by a young girl with flame red hair and bright blue eyes. I could not risk going to Baker Street without a disguise.

Then at 9.30 on a crisp morning, Wiggins, Jude, myself and five other dirty, scruffy, barefoot gang members walked purposefully along Baker Street pushing past the throng of well-dressed gentlemen and over-dressed ladies. I had come into possession of a Webley revolver and insisted on taking it hidden under the layers of clothing I was wearing to disguise my female curves.

Jude stayed close to my side and kept muttering about how this was such a bad idea. I dismissed his pessimism and we eventually arrived at 221B, a tall, elegant white town house with a polished black door.

Wiggins strode up to the door and rang the bell. I stood back a little, for once happy to let him take charge and ashamed by my nerves. I could almost feel the presence of this unusual man before even entering the house.

The door was answered by a skinny page. Then, a bustling plump woman ushered us up a narrow flight of stairs. At the top, she opened a door and announced our arrival. A strong voice from within summoned “Come!” and she stepped aside to let us enter.

Wiggins bounded into the room first, followed by the other five boys then Jude and finally myself. We stood in an orderly line, out of some inexplicable reverence.

I looked around the room in fascination. I had never been into a middle-class home before and the interior was not the formal layout I was expecting.

The floor was covered with masses of newspapers and piles of books. In the corner stood a rickety long table with an eclectic assortment of test tubes, brightly-coloured chemical substances and even more books. Letters were stuck to the mantel piece with a dagger and a huge ‘VR’ made from what looked like bullet holes, was emblazoned onto the wall. The leftovers from breakfast, ham and eggs, still remained upon a large dining table. The air was laden with tobacco fumes which lingered like a fog and stung my eyes.

By the window stood a rather formal man of early middle years with unruly thick brown hair which refused to be tamed. He had light coloured eyes, was rather short in height and average in general stature. He wore an indistinctive grey suit with the chain of a pocket watch hanging from his waistcoat. A tiny coffee cup and saucer were balanced in his hand.

He looked at us with obvious disdain and turned to look through the window, lifting the coffee cup daintily to his lips. He caused me only passing interest however, because he was completely eclipsed by the man whose presence dominated the room.

Holmes was sitting cross legged in a chair beside the fire wearing a purple smoking jacket. The chaos seemed to flow around him culminating in a large messy pile of papers at his feet. He sat with fingertips pressed together, his eyes closed and a pensive look possessing his face.

We stood expectantly, patiently awaiting instruction. I held my breath and felt physically moved by this man and his natural authority.

Eventually Wiggins stepped forward and spoke. “Got your message sir and brought ’em on sharp.”

Slowly, the cross-legged figure lifted his head and opened his eyes. They were perfectly brown, a rich deep shade, full of intensity. His clean-shaven face was slim and as perfect as porcelain, with sharply-defined cheek bones, a strong jaw and thin lips. His hair was as brown as his eyes and neatly swept back.

This was the first time I had ever stood before someone who seemed to possess the freedom of spirit and arrogant defiance which I had cultivated so strongly within myself.

I was sixteen years old by now and realised in that moment, staring into that engaging face, that I was not infallible and that the power of a man could actually overwhelm my own. For once I was humbled and I do believe that my heart actually stopped for a second when his penetrating stare rested upon me.

His eyes lingered and I knew instinctively that my disguise did not fool him. I stared back, refusing to be intimated.

Finally, he turned to Wiggins. “Here you are,” he said, producing some coins from his pocket. “In future they can report to you Wiggins, and you to me. I cannot have the house invaded in this way.”

His voice was strong and purposeful, clearly that of a gentleman and full of self assurance. I wanted him to look at me again and felt a sudden rush of jealously towards Wiggins.

Holmes proceeded to ask us to find a steam launch called the Aurora, black with two red funnels, owned by a Mr Mordecai Smith. It was believed to be somewhere down river and the scale of pay would be the usual plus a guinea to the boy who found the boat first.

He handed us a shilling each and I noticed that my hand was shaking when I held it out to accept the pay. His long bony fingers touched my sweaty palm and he hesitated slightly, looked at me again with a keen, searching expression. I could feel heat spreading across my face, turning my cheeks the colour of my hair which was already starting to escape from under my cap.

He dismissed us with a wave of his hand. We filed out through the door, me last of all, and as the boys hurried down the stairs I felt a strong hand suddenly take hold of my arm. I turned and looked up into the face of Sherlock Holmes.

“Don’t ever enter my house again armed and disguised, you insult my intelligence by being so presumptive. I know who you are, your eyes and hair betray you, and the oakum imbedded in your finger tips clearly shows me that you are a product of the workhouse. Whitechapel and Spitalfields I presume? I suggest you run from here as fast as you can and don’t ever return.”

His voice was intense and his finger tips burned into my flesh, making me feel both afraid and excited at the same time. I breathed deeply to calm myself and retorted, “I am a product of my own making. Do not credit the house with that.”

He stared into my wide blue eyes intently, clearly surprised by my response, and then finally released his grip on my arm.

I resisted the urge to run down the stairs, to escape this man who had shaken me in a way which I didn’t fully understand. Instead I simply walked slowly backwards, not taking my eyes from his.

“Wait!” he called, and started to descend the stairs towards me. “Did you really think that I would let a wild cat like you back out onto the streets with a weapon? Give it to me.”

He held out his hand in anticipation and I laughed at his naivety.

“Are you completely insane?” I asked, then turned and ran as fast as I could down the stairs and out through the front door, knowing that this encounter would stay in my mind for a very long time. An infatuation was born.

When I joined Jude and the other boys Wiggins rounded on me angrily. He was shouting at me, asking why I always acted superior and why I went in there with a weapon when the others knew such an action would anger his patron. Why should I have a share of Holmes’ money when the whole enterprise was his idea and I had always been so dismissive of it?

I think he was simply jealous that I had received more attention from Holmes than he did. He also knew there was every chance that if I put my mind to finding the Aurora, I would be the one walking away with a guinea in my pocket.

Jude jumped to my defence and pointed out that Wiggins had a lot to thank me for as I had brought more money and organisation to the gang than he ever had. This just made matters worse and as we walked away from Baker Street back to the slums, the argument raged on and degenerated to a running brawl between myself and Wiggins.

All his frustrations and jealousies finally surfaced and his pride could not let him ignore them any longer.

It was common in the East End for abattoirs to be built underground. They were huge slaughter houses which operated day and night butchering a constant stream of skinny, malnourished cattle. The poor animals’ cries could be heard rising up into the street as their blood splattered the floors and coloured the whole environment a hellish red. It was a constant source of entertainment for slum children who would line up by the doors and look down at the slaughter with a mix of horror and delight.

As Wiggins and I passed such a place on our journey home that morning, his simmering resentment bubbled over uncontrollably. He suddenly gave me a forceful shove down the steps that led into the slaughter house. I tumbled awkwardly and landed in a heap at the bottom.

I slowly took in my surroundings. Blood ran everywhere, down the walls, off the lines of carcases hanging all around me, all over the floor and into every crevice. The stench was indescribable.

I was stunned for a few seconds and my head hurt from the fall but I managed to raise myself from the floor. I looked back up the stairs to where Wiggins and the others were standing together laughing at my misfortune. Jude ran down to help me but recoiled in horror as a butcher took an axe to the neck of a live cow.

Their laughter angered me; I felt humiliated and knew that if I tolerated such behaviour I would lose the respect of the boys which would put me in a very vulnerable position.

“Want to join her do you?” Wiggins shouted to Jude who was still half way down the stairs. “Wish we had never let you in our gang, either of you!” he cried, charging down the stairs and kicking Jude in the back. Wiggins lashed out with such force that he lost his balance and tumbled with Jude down the stairs and into the abattoir, joining me in the stinking gore.

“You witch, I’ll get you and beat you so bad you’ll know exactly why this is my gang and not yours,” Wiggins shouted, swinging a punch. I ducked and ran as he chased me deeper into the hell of blood and slaughter.

Then we were grappling with each other, much to the amusement of the butchers who all stopped work to shout and laugh as the short girl dressed as a boy with wild red curls took on the muscular, tall older boy who looked far more likely to win the scrap.

“You can leave the fresh meat here when you’ve finished,” one of them shouted to Wiggins, laughing crudely. “We can have some fun with it when you’re gone.”

The laughter enraged me. I knew that I needed to win this fight and win it comprehensively but was also aware that the victory alone would not be enough. I needed to put on a show, a dramatic and unquestioning performance which would silence the laughter and command respect.

Soon people from the streets flooded into the slaughter house to watch. A motley collection of cheering vagrants appeared, all circling around to watch the girl get a beating. Though I still had my hidden revolver, I decided not to use it and threw it to Jude. It was time to prove my worth as a fighter, the only girl in a gang of boys ready to demonstrate why I deserved to be their leader.

I put up my fists and prepared to box, much to the amusement of the crowd. Wiggins laughed and struck the first punch. It hit me hard in the face but mattered not; I would let him have a little fun to intensify the drama. The crowd cheered as he hit me again and split my lip. I just smiled and wiped away the blood.

“Come on, what you got? I’ve seen you fight better than this. Or am I just too good for you, is that it?” Wiggins jeered, taunting me in front of his appreciative crowd and then punched me in the stomach.

As the excitement peaked I knew my moment had come. I felt the power begin to swell in my feet and let it start to work its way up just like famous prize-fighter Steve Dixie had shown me when giving me coaching in exchange for passion.

The power rose from the soles of my feet like a hurricane of controlled rage and travelled up my body. I clenched my fist, waiting for the moment to swing and punch from my shoulder just like Steve had taught me, launching a huge surge of power through my arm and out through my fist.

I punched Wiggins so hard that his jaw dislocated and as he staggered away I just kept on hitting and kicking. Now the crowd became silent.

Wiggins cowered under my onslaught. “Stop, please!” he pleaded.

I took some paces back regaining my composure. Wiggins coughed out a little blood and looked up at me. “You witch, don’t think you’ll take my gang. They’ll never follow a girl, never!”

I turned to Jude and signalled for my gun which he threw to me. A look of horror spread across Wiggins’ bloodied, swollen face and he scrambled to his feet.

“Don’t please, I beg you, no!” he shouted, falling back onto his knees. I laughed and pointed my Webley at his head.

“Beg then, go on, and beg well. Tell me you’ll leave the gang, tell me it’s mine, tell me I’m better than you,” I shouted, aiming my weapon.

His eyes were filled with tears and part of me cringed at my own cruelty but my life had taught me that in the absence of money, gaining people’s fear and respect was the best way to be safe.

“Please, please, yes I’ll leave; just let me go, please. Take anything you want, you’re better, always were. Please...”

The tension in the crowd peaked and I decided it was time for my finale. As my victim sobbed loudly with his face in his hands, I pointed the Webley at my target.

The perfect shot disintegrated a hook holding a carcass directly above Wiggins’ head. It fell and landed squarely upon my rival tumbling him to the bloody floor.

The tension in the room exploded into applause from my appreciative audience who were by now firmly on my side and in complete awe of my display. I turned to them and bowed like a true showman, relishing every single clap.

“We’re with you, we’re with you!” cried out members of the Dean Street gang. My victory was complete, my leadership assured and from then on the Dean Street gang had far more important things to do than go looking for the illusive Aurora.

Chapter Three

I strode through the labyrinth of corridors which led from my study to my husband’s quarters with the oil painting tucked under my arm. I passed rooms full of underlings playing their part in the growth and development of the Moriarty criminal empire.

The house was home to an army of staff who catered for our individual needs. They worked on various projects, illicit and otherwise, which generated vast sums of money.

Each member of staff who passed by me looked down at the floor and quickened their pace. I was a powerful person in the operation, my husband’s gatekeeper.

I flounced confidently through the doors to his study as two of his personal retinue held them open for me. Professor James Moriarty rose from his chair, polite as always, and stood behind his desk as I placed the painting upon it. A smile spread across his lean face and he lifted it with his eager thin fingers.