Nursing a gin and trying not to be noticed, Jane Prentice sat in the darkest corner of the noisy candle-lit inn. She picked up a newspaper and glanced at the date – 20 January 1778.
A black hat rested neatly on top of the large cloth bag next to her on the bench. Her dark green cloak hid a vibrant yellow dress and loose white bodice that wrapped her slender body.
Jane had never been to this part of south London before. When she had entered the King George earlier it had been quiet. However, as night had fallen, the straw-covered floorboards had been increasingly shaken by the boots of the regular locals.
Outside, the rain had turned to sleet. Now, every time the alehouse door opened, an icy blast chilled the bones of the wretched patrons. It took a few moments for their body heat to warm the place up again.
‘The landlord’s made good provision of light with his candles,’ said a grubby man in his twenties who had made
