He had his caliver slung over his back and his cutlass at his belt. He was not going unarmed again. Disembarking at St Katharine’s Dock, a mile downstream from the bridge, he made his way slowly and carefully along the narrow lanes to the Burning Prow. At the end of the street, not fifty yards from the bawdy house, he found a spot in the shade of a tree where he sat down and lit his pipe of tobacco. The smoke was rich and heady and went some way to ease the aches of his beating. He had a good view of the entrance to the whorehouse, but the evening was still early and business was quiet. A few men came and either stayed to carouse or left with a woman to one of the rooms they used for their work. He was hoping the one called Em would turn up, but by nine o’clock there was no sign of her. The other whore – Aggy, the scabby, ill-favoured one he had tried to engage in conversation – came out from the alehouse on the arm of a grizzled mariner. They sauntered northwards. Boltfoot put away his pipe, rose slowly from his place by the tree and followed them.
