The sound as it hit his head was horrible, something like breaking china. He slumped forward on to the bed, his face into the blankets, and a thin red line of blood popped up on the back of his head and ran down to his neck.

She gasped, afraid she’d killed him, but although that was shocking, because she hadn’t intended to go that far, she knew she couldn’t wait to find out.

Quick as a flash, she moved round to where her shoes, coat, handbag and suitcase were still grouped together on the floor. She put her coat on, tucked her shoes under her arm and then, picking up her handbag and case, she made for the stairs.

She wanted to fly down them, to get out as fast as she could, but she controlled the urge and crept softly so no one would hear her and come to stop her.

There were sounds coming from behind most of the doors she passed – grunting, bedsprings creaking and the occasional yelp or moan, reminding her what had been in store for her, but when she got down to Dora’s door there was silence.

Creeping, her heart hammering with terror, her legs like jelly and threatening to give way at any minute, she finally reached the last flight of stairs and got out on to the street.

It was only when the cold wind hit her that it dawned on her she’d been drugged. She had felt strange after drinking the sherry, and she remembered that Dora had supported her as she went up the stairs because she was wobbling as if she were drunk. But one small glass of sherry would never have had that effect on her.

What a naïve idiot she’d been to think that two complete strangers like Dora and Seb would help her just because they were kind people. Dora had clearly drugged her to make her compliant, and she was fairly sure the man she’d just hit over the head had paid Dora for her. That made her feel sick.

She had no idea what time it was – it had to be the early hours of the morning – but Greek Street was still busy with people, and she could hear music coming from several different places. All at once it was clear why people said Soho was dangerous, and passing through it in the middle of the night carrying a suitcase was virtually advertising that she was homeless. She was afraid that someone could be lurking in a doorway, ready to pounce on her.

Tears threatened, but she bit them back, remembering that Seb had spoken to her because he’d seen her crying. She picked up her suitcase and made herself walk purposefully down the street. She knew she had to get out of Soho and into a safer area.

Several men accosted her as she walked. One asked her how much; another asked if she wanted a bed for the night; and the others said things she didn’t understand but knew by their tone of voice and their expression they were bad. She was growing more and more scared, so much so, she was struggling to breathe.

Finally, she came to a crossroads, and across the road she saw the blue light of a police station. She hurried towards it, hoping against hope there would be a policeman like George on duty who would be sympathetic to her plight.

Molly noted, once she was in the police station, that it was Bow Street, and she recalled her teacher telling the class about the Bow Street Runners, the first policemen in London. A middle-aged police sergeant called Simmons with a saggy face like a bloodhound took her into a small interview room. He got her a cup of tea, commiserated with her about her swollen cheek, and seemed full of sympathy as she related what had happened to her.

But when she finished with how she’d run from the place in Greek Street, he looked at her very sternly. ‘You hit this man over the head with a pole and left the house without checking he was still alive?’

Molly had thought the sergeant was totally in sympathy with her up to that point, but the way he spoke now suggested that he thought she was a potential murderess. She wanted to cry with frustration.

‘Would you have expected me to stay till he came round?’ she said with some indignation. ‘He got what he deserved. Look! That woman Dora drugged me. Sebastian, the man who took me there, must have known what would happen to me. The only thing I did wrong was being stupid enough to think they were kind people putting me up for the night.’

‘The address where it took place?’ he asked curtly.

‘Greek Street. I don’t know the number, but there was a barber’s shop beneath it. The woman was called Dora and the man who took me there was called Seb, short for Sebastian.’

‘Dora, you say? Mid-forties, a buxom redhead?’

‘Yes, that’s her,’ Molly said. ‘Can’t you go round there now and arrest her and the fat man?’

‘Unless you killed the fat man, he’ll be long gone now,’ the sergeant said wearily. ‘And it’s just your word against Dora’s that you were ever there. She’ll deny it, of course.’

Molly couldn’t hold back her tears any longer. She could hardly believe that, twice in one day, she wasn’t being believed.

‘Come now, don’t cry,’ the policeman said, his tone softer now. ‘I can appreciate you’ve had a really bad scare and a hard time of it today. But it’s not the end of the world.’

‘A hard time?’ she snapped back at him. ‘I get accused of stealing at my job and get thrown out on my ear. I’ve got nowhere to go, and the one person who is understanding and kind turns out to want to force me into prostitution. If all that happened to you in one day, I think you’d cry, too.’

‘Yes, I expect I would, Miss Heywood.’ He sighed. ‘But it’s two in the morning now, and I don’t really know what to do with you. All I can offer at this time of night is a bed in a cell. They aren’t very nice, and there’re a few drunks down there, too, but it’s better than being out on the street in the cold.’

‘Oh, thank you, but I’d happily sleep on the floor here,’ she said gratefully.

‘I couldn’t let you do that. But I’ll send someone round to Greek Street, just to check you haven’t left a man dying in that room. And we’ll read Dora the riot act while we’re at it. By the time it’s daylight, you might be able to think of someone you can turn to for help.’

‘There isn’t anyone.’ Molly dried her eyes and blew her nose.

‘Well. I’ll put my thinking cap on, too,’ he said gently, and smiled at her. ‘Maybe one of the churches round here has contacts with people who can help those in your position. Now come with me and we’ll get some blankets and try to make you comfortable in a cell.’

An hour later, as Molly lay on the narrow bench in the cell covered by a blanket that smelled of feet and vomit, she wept again, this time in utter despair. She could hear a drunk shouting and singing further along the passageway, and every now and then another man would shout at him to shut up.

It seemed that she had no choice but to go home and throw herself on her father’s mercy. Was his nastiness any worse than walking the streets with nowhere to go? Were his clouts as bad as attempted rape or being accused of theft? She didn’t think he’d believe that she’d stolen any gloves; after all, she’d never stolen anything from him. But she would have to put up with an endless litany of ‘I said you wouldn’t be able to cope with London.’ How he was going to enjoy that!

Molly woke with a start to find the sergeant shaking her shoulder. ‘Come upstairs with me for a little chat,’ he said. ‘I’ve got to go off duty soon, and these cells are no place for a lady when the other occupants start to wake up.’

He led her back into the same small room where they’d been the night before. He told her to sit down while he got her a cup of tea.

‘Have you had any more thoughts about someone you could go to?’ he asked when he got back, putting a mug of tea and a couple of ginger biscuits in front of her. ‘Surely you know someone in London?’

Molly was just about to tell him she’d decided she had no choice but to go home when she suddenly thought of Constance.