Blood on the Strand

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Matthew Webb was cold, wet and angry. The rain, which had started as an unpleasant, misty drizzle, was now the kind of drenching downpour that was likely to last all night. Fuming, he adjusted his hat in the hope of stopping water from seeping down the back of his neck, but the material was sodden, and fiddling only made matters worse. Cheapside was pitch dark at that late hour, and he could not see where he was putting his feet, so it was only a matter of time before he stepped in a deep puddle that shot a foul-smelling sludge up the back of his legs. He ground his teeth in impotent rage, and when the bells of St Mary-le-Bow chimed midnight, he felt like smashing them.

It was a long walk from African House on Throgmorton Street to his handsome residence on The Strand, and he should have been relaxing in the luxury of his personal carriage, not stumbling along the city’s potholed, rain-swept streets like a beggar. He cursed his wife for her abrupt announcement that she had had enough of the riotous Guinea Company dinner and was going home early. And how dare she forget to send the vehicle back for him once it had delivered her safe and dry to Webb Hall!

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