"I think you've got something there." Anthony grinned. "The key is here in my pocket.
"You still have it, then?"
"Always, darling." He reached into his pocket and brought it out. It was a heavy, iron-cast thing, with detailing surprisingly articulate for the little tool which opens doors. Like a golden idol, it shone with strange purpose. "Are you sure you'd like to do this? We're up a creek, Johanna, there's no turning back now."
"There's trouble on the streets tonight," Johanna said. "The judge's house is a safe haven. There's not a soul in it. Even the maids are all gone home by this hour. Besides, it's not breaking and entering unless someone lives there to report it."
"It'll give you time to pack," Anthony said. "And it's a sound place to stay."
"There are things there what are ours for the taking. We can fix up your arm."
"It's settled, then. We'll go quick and quiet, we have no other choice." Anthony bent and picked up the sailor's cap used to conceal Johanna's hair. "Here, get your cap on."
Anthony grabbed Johanna's hand, and dashed up the bake-house stairs, holding her close. Johanna clutched her lover's hand tightly, and the pistol he had given her in her other fist.
The two danced breathlessly through havoc, charging the plague-ridden streets. To Kearney's Lane and safety or die trying!
The streets were a nightmare for Anthony. Every face he whisked past was Todd's; every bloody, manic laugh was Lovett's. It was Johanna who kept him going. In every frantic, desperate step was the soft grip of Johanna's hand.
Two blocks left. The screaming of madmen. An old beggar woman stared into Johanna's face. "Harlot!" she screamed, causing heads to turn. A dirty hand reached out and pulled the cap from Johanna's head, her yellow curls tumbling down her back.
One block. A band of constables thundered through the cobblestone havoc, rounding up the innocent and the guilty. A throng of beggars hid in an alley.
"Come along, girlie," a constable shouted, grabbing Johanna's wrist. She wrenched away and took off running, leaving one of Anthony's boots behind. The constable followed in hot pursuit.
The two turned the corner, ducked into the alleyway and watched as the constable rode past them.
Now they stood before the judge's house! Only a gate stood between the lovers and their safety, and that was quickly remedied with a key.
Inside the house, a fire was made in the hearth. Clothes began to dry, stories were told. Anthon's arm was bandaged and kisses were long with very short pauses in between. Midnight fell upon England as sleep blessed Anthony and Johanna at last.
Outside, a policeman watched the house in silence. He had seen the young people flee the bakehouse. He had seen the carnage, too, and he suspected one man- the sailor boy.
The sailor boy must have stolen Turpin's ward, as the Beadle had earlier warned the police force he may. Turpin was dead, as was the barber and presumably the baker. Had the mad sailor slaughtered them all as witnesses of his abduction? Surely his bloodlust would not be satisfied until he could kill Johanna! And then go on the run, apprehending and disposing of good lawmen like himself! What to do? "A sacrifice must be made," Inspector Goodwin thought. He knew immediately what he would do. He was as mad as the mob in the street. Amid the havoc, he would burn the judge's house to the ground.