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I paused and pulled all my hair over my right shoulder. “Look, I know I’ve made a fool of myself here tonight and I’m sorry for it. You gentlemen have mocked me quite enough but now I must ask for your verdict. Will you turn me in, or will you show mercy?”

“I have one further question,” said Holmes. He was clearly very unsettled by what I had just shown him but determined not to let it show. “How came the stone into the goose, and the goose into the open market? Tell us the truth; it is your only hope of safety. And cover yourself, please.”

I arranged my dress and helped myself to a measure of brandy to steady my nerves. With more than a little embarrassment I explained the farcical blunder which had cost me the diamond.

Afterwards, there was a long silence. Holmes sat drumming his fingers against the arm of his chair, lost in thought. Finally, he rose and threw open the door.

“Get out,” said he.

“What?”

“No more words. Get out!”

I stood looking at both of them, searching their faces to make absolutely sure that I understood.

“Thank you,” I said quietly and sincerely.

I walked through the open door and hurriedly descended the stairs. The relief was blissful but I was so embarrassed by my childish behaviour and so confused by my feelings that I could hardly think.

Then, as I was about to let myself out I heard hurried footsteps descend the stairs. I turned and looked up into the earnest face of Sherlock Holmes.

“That was your only chance, do you understand?” I said. “I will never throw myself at you again in such a childish and pathetic manner. I have dignity.”

I stood very close to him, our bodies almost touching. His expression was impossible to read. He reached out and took my hand. My heart banged in my chest, my breathing suddenly erratic. His hand was warm, his skin felt soft against my own. Into my hand he placed a small porcelain jar.

“From Doctor Watson, it’s for the bruising.” His eyes did not leave my own. “Use twice daily.”

“Why have you let me go?”

“I am not retained by the police to supply their deficiencies. Horner is not innocent, I understand that now. Justice has been done. I do not want to make you a jail-bird for life. I hope that I am saving a soul. Besides, it is the season of good-will.”

“I fear it is too late for my soul Mr Holmes.”

I paused and looked down at the little pot in my hand. I gave his hand a gentle squeeze. “But, thank you for trying.”

And then I disappeared into the night.

Chapter Four

I walked through the winding corridors of our mansion to my private suite and resolved that I would continue with the pregnancy regardless of the professor’s displeasure.

I lay in bed and placed my hand upon my stomach. Beneath it was the miracle of life. It was growing, its heart was beating and I felt such an unexpected bond. This was truly mine, something I had created that would be a part of me forever.

With the sudden rush of maternal feelings I drifted off into a deep, contented sleep only to be troubled by an alarming sensation. I started to struggle but couldn’t wake, feeling like I was falling deeper into water and unable to swim back to the surface. I surrendered, and remember nothing until I awoke to see shafts of morning light through a break in the curtains.

I rolled to get out of bed but a searing pain shot across my lower belly, forcing me back onto my mattress in agony. I realised I was wearing a nightgown, which was perplexing as I had fallen asleep fully clothed. Then I noticed that it was splattered with blood.

I frantically clawed at the gown and saw that I, too, was covered in blood - my blood and that of my child, flushed from my womb in a murderous act ordered by my husband, as meaningless to him as removing a pip from an apple.

A rage possessed me, allied with frustration that there was absolutely nothing I could do to reverse the situation. It was too late, his will had been done and my innocent child had been the victim.

My own wants had been ignored as if they were nothing more than a minor annoyance. I was powerless, humiliated and strangely empty. Clutching my stomach in pain, I took out my Webley revolver. The pain eased as adrenalin coursed through my body.

I stormed from my bedroom and stumbled along the grand corridors towards my husband’s quarters. It was still very early in the morning but a few servants were about, carrying out their errands. However, as they passed by me, their eyes could not stay fixed to the ground as per my usual instructions. The site of their mistress tripping and hobbling along the corridor in a white, blood-soaked nightgown was too strange to go unnoticed.

I rushed past the two guards beside the oak doors which marked the entrance to my husband’s vast personal quarters, impressive stately rooms full of exquisite furniture and priceless works of art.

He wished only to surround himself with objects of excellence and beauty. I was regarded by him in the same way. I was a possession, a beautiful work of art he had commissioned and which had been sculpted by tutors and trainers to ensure an optimum level of physical perfection and mental agility.

As I fell into his reception rooms, the array of paintings and elegant furniture made me feel even angrier. To him a child would seem imperfect, out of place in his organised world, something beyond his control. Something that would cry and scream; be untidy, dirty and clumsy. It would make me imperfect too, fat and physically less capable. Such a situation would be completely intolerable to him and would undo all the work he had lavished on me. I realised how stupid I had been to think that he would allow this to happen.

I burst into his bedroom, bathed in darkness as the thick, richly embroidered curtains blocked out the morning light. I hurled myself at the bed and thrust the barrel of my revolver against his lined forehead.

Two guards ran in and turned up the gas under the lamps on the wall. A pale orange glow filled the room. They rushed towards me; two men who had served under me as part of my own team many times. I put my finger on the trigger ready to shoot. My husband’s eyes flicked open, clouded momentarily by fear. Both guards now pointed their guns at me. But I didn’t care.

I raged at him, screaming incoherently, demanding to know how he could do such a thing, denouncing him as a murderer, shouting that I would kill him. I ground the gun against his head but he simply remained silent until my rant subsided. Then, staring into my pained blue eyes, he said:

“Go on, I dare you.”

Meanwhile, the guards had readied their own weapons. They were quite prepared to shoot me to save their true master. For the first time, I appreciated my precarious position. I stared into the cold depths of my husband’s evil unflinching eyes and saw nothing but darkness.

An uncontrollable swell of pain welled up in my stomach and wracked my whole body. My Webley began to tremble in my hand, the pain became intolerable and I could do nothing save surrender to unconsciousness.

I fell heavily to the floor, overwhelmed by the events of that terrible night and by the realisation that my life was out of my control. He knew I wouldn’t dare.

My command of the Dean Street gang was continuing successfully. Wiggins was long gone and I had recovered from my botched attempt to steal from the Countess of Morcar.

I controlled all the gang’s finances and with my sharp mathematical mind was able to organise the funds in such a way that no-one went short. Money was stored for emergencies, expenses and bribes. We were able to hire specialists such as locksmiths and forgers, people who always resented being hired by a girl so I had to be tougher than ever before to gain their respect and co-operation.

We moved from the slum house and into a warehouse at Shadwell Dock owned by one of the shipping companies. We rented it cheaply on account of the sexual favours I performed for the perverted Greek shipping owner. He was so happy to have found a woman willing to indulge his extreme fantasies that he turned a blind eye to the stolen goods piled up inside.

The Greek provided us with weapons smuggled in with other contraband hidden among his legitimate cargo.

Life was good for Jude and me, but I resented the constant need to prove myself and longed to develop my abilities yet further. I was restless, hungry for more.

As is often the way in life, the answer presented itself almost a year later, when I was least expecting it.

We had spent the year stealing and fighting our way all over London filling our little warehouse with money and goods which we bartered for our every need. Eventually though, change was in the air and many of the boys were growing too old for the game. They were turning into young men with sweethearts who wanted them to get legitimate work in factories and service.

One of the boys even impregnated some poor girl and had to leave London in fear of her irate father. A couple got arrested and Sherlock Holmes, of all people, finally caught out the Greek for his smuggling operations. He shot himself to escape the humiliation of capture.

Ownership of the warehouse passed to his son. He was abhorrent to the idea of maintaining the method of payment I had with his father on account of his homosexual preferences. Therefore, he demanded that we leave as soon as possible.

I, Jude and the remaining gang members needed a new base. We argued over the best possible solutions and many simmering tensions between us erupted into petty disagreements and squabbles. We had simply outgrown each other.

Jude and I still loved the thrill and excitement of managing our little criminal enterprise and remained a strong partnership. For me, this way of life had become my career and I was an experienced professional by now. I didn’t need the rest of them anymore and Jude and I were almost relieved when we woke one morning to find everyone else had gone. They had taken all the money we had saved but left the stock.

I was furious about the money but the stock was worth far more and the liberty priceless. We opened a bottle of Scotch and drank to our future, ignorant of what it would hold but full of anticipation.

“So, what shall we do with all this stuff?” asked Jude, sitting astride a crate. I shrugged and took another drink from the fast-emptying bottle. I passed it over to him.

“We’ll sell it to the Greek. We need the money. If it means he’ll be rid of us quicker, I’m sure he’ll negotiate.”

“And the stolen money? Surely you won’t let them get away with it?”

I took back the bottle, smiled and took a large gulp.

“I have better things to do with my time.”

The Greek agreed, as I knew he would, to take all our stock for what he thought was a reasonable figure. In reality, most of the jewellery was fake and worthless. I had pawned the originals before our negotiations and bought good replicas for a fraction of the price to fool our little friend.

He visited us to conclude the sale and scurried around the warehouse examining the stock, clearly with no idea of its lack of worth. He had not inherited his father’s keen criminal ways, instead was spoilt and naïve.

“I will be at sea for the next few weeks and will take possession of all this on my return,” he told us. “I will pay you one hundred pounds for everything. You will get your money when I return on the first of next month. You must leave this building tonight and return only to collect your money.”

“How can we possibly leave when these items are all we have in the world? No, we don’t go anywhere without half the money today. If you don’t agree...” I pulled my favourite Snider-Enfield out from behind my back, “I’ll blow holes through the whole damn lot, right now, because I can easily steal plenty more but you won’t have another chance to buy so much this cheaply again.”

I fingered the trigger and then turned the weapon onto the quivering Greek who clearly did not share his father’s taste for danger.

Jude stepped forward wearing an unconvincing smile.

“Of course, we could always leave tonight just as you wish and go straight to that pretty little wife of yours and present her with these...” he said, pulling out some hand-written letters. We had acquired them from a very young sailor who had once enjoyed being an object of infatuation for the Greek.

Jude cleared his throat in a mock theatrical fashion.

“My darling boy,” he read out in over-dramatic tones, “how I long to see you again, how my heart aches and yearns for...”

“Stop please, return those to me,” the Greek interjected, running towards Jude. I fired at two ornamental porcelain vases shattering them into thousands of fragments. He stopped and watched in horror as I took aim at other items of which I knew he was fond.

“Fifty pounds now, right now,” he cried, “but I must have the letters straight away.”

He took a large pile of notes from his pocket, clearly more than fifty pounds, and began counting.

“No, that’s a pittance! The letters are worth far more as you well know. We want fifty now towards the stock and fifty for the letters then a hundred when you return on the first of the month. Then you can take your filthy pathetic letters and we will leave tonight. If not, I keep shooting until everything is destroyed and the letters are taken straight to your wife. And your beloved widowed mother. I’m sure they will be shocked to know that you are even more perverted than your dirty old man. And Lord knows he was bad enough.”

Our negotiations were extremely profitable and our victim reluctantly paid up.

Jude and I were alone in the world again save for one hundred pound and a few personal possessions.

As we gathered up our things and prepared to go out into the unknown, the chain of events which would lead to the next phase of my life began.

The notorious Colonel Sebastian Moran strode into the warehouse just as we were about to leave.

He was a strange sight to behold, straight-backed and pompous with the air of someone who had once been very important and capable but was now jaded and completely past their prime. He had a huge bushy moustache, blue eyes like my own and a sinister expression upon his face.

Moran’s gambling addiction was almost as legendary as his need for liquor. His only saving grace was that he was still an excellent marksman with specialist knowledge of air guns. His close association with the powerful, revered criminal mastermind Professor James Moriarty assured him continued status.

Years previously, when Jude and I escaped the workhouse, it was only a matter of days before we heard mention of the professor. He was a strangely mythical figure that no-one had ever seen but everyone feared.

We were told that the man I had murdered, the house manager, was actually in the pay of the professor. He sent money which the house made from our labours to him via a complicated network of associates. Stupidly, the manager had started to take funds for himself and the professor had put a price on his life. I had actually done Moriarty a great favour, without even knowing, and often wondered whether he was aware of me. I admit that I found the very thought exciting.