“There"s nothing ladylike about Mother Riley,” Scuddamore said as they headed west, ignoring the traffic as they crossed the roads and barely acknowledging the greetings from the uniformed beat policemen.
“I"ve never met the lady,” Watters admitted. “I only know her by reputation.”
The Little Close was undoubtedly a horrible place, Watters decided, as he paused at the entrance. It was a dingy and airless passage, unbearably hot in summer when a thousand flies swarmed around the heaps of dung, slippery with lingering frost in winter. In the 1830s, a family named the Nicolls had controlled the close, terrorising the neighbours and attacking anybody sufficiently brave, or foolish, who walked here. Now Mother Riley and her children were an even worse pest to the locality. As soon as they nea
