He had no idea how long he had slept when he felt himself being shaken violently.

'Cap'n, sir! Cap'n! Wake ye up, d'ye hear! Wake up!'

Snatched from the depths of slumber Drinkwater was at first uncertain of his whereabouts, but then, suddenly alarmed, he thrust Davey aside to reach for his pistol. 'What the devil is it, Davey? Damn it, take your hands off me!'

"Tis him, sir, Fagan ... !'

Drinkwater was on his feet in an instant and had crossed the room to stare out over the dark gutway of the alley. No light betrayed any new arrival over the pie shop opposite. There were noises from the ginnel below, but there always were as the patrons of the adjacent bordello came and went.

'He's next door, sir, in Mrs Hockley's establishment, Cap'n.'

'How the deuce d'you know?' asked Drinkwater, drawing on the borrowed boots.

'She sent word, Cap'n. She keeps her ears and eyes open when I asks her.'

'You didn't mention me?' Drinkwater asked, relieved when Davey shook his head.

He wondered how many other people knew that Fagan was expected in the Alsatia of Wapping. It was too late for speculation now. His moment had come and he must act without hesitation. He pulled on his coat and took a swig of the watered gin, swilling it round his mouth and spitting it out again, allowing some of it to dribble on to his soiled neckcloth.

'I wouldn't take your pistol, Cap'n, Ma Hockley don't allow even the gentry to carry arms in her house ... here, take the cane.'

Drinkwater took the proffered malacca, twisted the silver knob to check the blade was loose inside, clapped his hat on his head and left the darkened room. 'Obliged to you, Mr Davey,' he said over his shoulder as he clattered down the stairs with Davey behind him. Davey pushed past him at their foot and led him through the store, opening the street door with a jangle of keys and tumbling of locks.