Priss led the way quickly from the smoky taproom of the Blue Bell, out to where the courtyards and twisting tenements pressed down on them in shadows of dark sepia, blocking out the sky. A faint foul miasma rose through the warm night air from the direction of the river. Rubbish, piled in damp corners, sent out sweetly rotting vapours; rats scuttled in the darkness. There were figures moving in the shadows, prostitutes, pickpockets, waiting for the unwary. A carriage rattled along nearby Bedford Street, its iron wheels jarring in the cobbles; from somewhere close by came a sharp muffled laugh ....