He clenched his teeth and willed courage to come back to him. If Joseph Bishop were guilty of the murder of Mr Elmore, he wanted to see him arrested and convicted. He stayed very still, watching the approach of the man. He strained his ears, but the ground was soft, oozing with filth, and no footstep could be heard. ‘Out late.’ Joseph Bishop had a hoarse, croaking voice, like the noise of a rusty inn sign creaking in the wind. ‘What you got in that sack of yours?’ Alfie had not survived in the hard world of the slums of London without having quick wits and these worked well now. ‘Clay,’ he said. Rapidly he threw a handful on the ground between himself and the man. Perhaps he would stop and examine the clay. But Joseph Bishop kept coming. Alfie felt paralysed with fear. This was the man that everyone dreaded. Even the hardened men of St Giles drew aside when he passed them on the street. A collector of dead bodies, a murderer of children: that was Joseph Bishop’s reputation.
