"He was called Smith and was twelve years old. Which, in itself, was a marvel; for it seemed as if the smallpox, the consumption, brain-fever and even the hangman's rope had given him a wide berth for fear of catching something. Or else they weren't quick enough.

"Smith had a turn of speed that was remarkable, and a neatness in nipping down an alley or vanishing in a court that had to be seen to be believed. Not that it was often seen, for Smith was rather a sooty spirit of the violent and ramshackle Town, and inhabited the tumbledown mazes about fat St Paul's like the subtle air itself. A rat was like a snail beside Smith, and the most his thousand victims ever got of him was the powerful whiff of his passing and a cold draught in their dextrously emptied pockets."

Smith was a 12-year-old pickpocket - a very accomplished one, and when he was witness to a dastardly murder, he didn't know that his troubles were only just beginning. His pickpocketing was to lead him into a sinister and dangerous web of murder, intrigue and betrayal.