Sweetly, Sweetly Flows The Thames

A short story on the dark side of 19th century London

This is an early version of a tale that I later adapted as a chapter in my novel. The later version doesn’t have the crime sorted so neatly and quickly — and is probably better for it. Neither did it require the same amount of exposition that I load onto this version. However, I retain a soft spot for this standalone story. Partly because it’s an early appearance of my poor, long suffering character, James Hood.

Hood tramped over the filth and fury of the cobbled streets. As always, the cold was biting into his leg, making his limp more pronounced than usual. He muttered a curse under his breath. The musket ball was a part of him now, but every winter it made its presence known. The surgeon had wanted to saw the leg off and it was only Hood’s bayonet, prodding at the doctor’s throat, that had altered his clinical opinion. He grimaced at the memory. Butchers, the bloody lot of them. At least he still had his leg - and his pain. The familiar charnel stench from around Newgate had got into his nose and throat and he made a coughing, retching sound as if attempting to void it all from his insides. A cart groaning high with timber struggled by, the man scolding his old nag to move faster. As Hood watched, a ragged rat-faced boy piled into him.