His workshop was a swamp of shadow. Bulky coffins loomed on every side. Their dim shapes didn’t trouble him: he’d spent his working life among the dead. The ones out here were empty, but the four in the back room were freshly filled. A quartet of Italian girls, their ripe young bodies pierced by shot and ball.

He’d washed them carefully, not enjoying the feel of their cool flesh. That wasn’t due to scruples but to fear of who was picking up the bill. A woman in a widow’s veil had brought the girls to him. Her shrouded stare had chilled him to the bone.

So he’d folded each girl’s arms across the plump mounds of her breasts and left the foursome to their sulky dreams. The trollops whom they’d died with had already been disposed of: their naked bodies wrapped in shrouds and dumped together in a pauper’s grave. The thought of their entangled limbs was something he could dwell on. Taking a last look round his shop, he turned towards the stairs.

A sudden knocking sound came from behind him.

His heart leaped up, despite himself. He realised there was someone at the door. At this ungodly hour, despite the rainstorm. He wavered, and the knocking came again.

Reluctantly he went through to the lobby. The candle quivered as he lifted it. The front door opened with a creak. The night smelled of wet earth. A pair of girls were waiting on the porch.

"Forgive the lateness of the hour," said one of them politely. "We had to come and pay our last respects."

She was dark-haired and slightly built. Her dripping greatcoat looked a size too large. The candle lit a pretty face, made mischievous by kohl-rimmed hazel eyes. Her companion was a handsome blonde with a cloak draped round her shoulders. Both girls wore three-cornered hats, but their hair was damp and straggling in the rain.

Pierre took a step backwards and they sauntered in like cats. The brunette’s greatcoat was undone, her midriff bare beneath a knotted shirt. The blonde girl’s eyes were frosty blue. Her smile was wry and mocking. She closed the door behind them, and it sounded like a coffin being shut.

The old man glanced from one face to the other. The pair of them looked very young, but their poise bespoke a feline ruthlessness. They made his fine hairs prickle, like the veiled woman had. He glimpsed a pistol in the first girl’s belt.

A blaze of lightning sliced between the shutters. Martine’s dark eyes stayed focused on Pierre.

"Tomorrow you’ll be burying a lady of this parish. I’d like to see her body one more time."

She ran her tongue around her mouth. The undertaker almost dropped his candle. Thunder cracked above them and Nell glanced towards the ceiling. A hank of hair was plastered to her cheek.

The old man led them through into the parlour, where a single open coffin was laid out. The woman had paid for this one, too. The box was lined with velvet. A blonde girl in a nightgown lay inside.

The candle cast its dusky glow on Sarah’s bloodless face. Her eyes were closed, her lips sealed in a pout. Martine could see the outline of her nipples through the gown. She bent to stroke the dead girl’s icy cheek.

"You won’t be lonely in the ground," she promised. "The graveyard will be full up when I’m done."

* * *

The church bell started tolling as the hearse and carriage came up to the gates. The solemn knell hung over the green fields. The rain had passed, but the day was cool and cloudy. The mutes climbed down onto the muddy road.

The country churchyard lay in isolation. The only congregation was its raucous rookery. But several figures stood around like guards amid the tombstones. All of them were female. All were armed.

The pallbearers were nervous, but knew better than to stare. They gathered dutifully behind the hearse. The coffin bore a wreath of white carnations. It didn’t do to wonder why a lady was being buried with such haste.

The carriage parked behind the hearse was every bit as sombre, with panelling in ebony and curtains of black lace. The two women inside it were both wearing black as well. For one, it was her mourning dress. The other wore it like a witch’s cat.

Genevieve sniffed and dabbed her eyes. They shone like polished sapphires through her tears. She was blonde like her late sister, with a spoilt, haughty look. A trollop to her fingertips, she wore a low-cut bodice even now.

The other woman waited, smiling faintly. She was older, in her thirties, with a sensual, smooth face and big dark eyes. Her calm had something predatory about it. Her name was Monica, and she was mistress of the black-clad sisterhood.

Genevieve felt threatened by her presence: the Sicilian woman seemed about to pounce. She almost cursed her sister for abandoning her here. "I don’t know what I’m going to do," she sniffed.

"You mustn’t fret," purred Monica. "You’ll soon have new girls and a grander house. I’m happy with a half share of the business … but now your poor sister’s dead, perhaps you’d better sell me hers as well."

Genevieve blinked tearfully. "We can’t talk business at a time like this!"

"Alas, we must," said Monica. "Your country’s on the brink of civil war. Bordellos are like silver mines: they never lose their value. But you’re upset. We’ll speak this afternoon."

Genevieve looked petulant but helpless. Monica’s full lips formed a smile, but her eyes remained opaque as polished wood. The French girl wilted visibly, and then the door was opened. She bit her lip and gathered up her skirts.

One of the pallbearers helped her down. The Sicilian leaned forward in her seat. Her own dress tightened round her ample figure. "One more thing," she said. "I want the next consignment ready in a week."

Genevieve steeled herself against a shudder. She glanced over her shoulder. "Yes, I’ll see to it," she snapped. "And promise me one thing, Madame. When you catch that bitch Martine, make sure she stays alive until I get there."

She clasped her lace-gloved hands and turned towards the waiting hearse. And from the bell tower, Nell watched every move.

The English girl had climbed up to belfry before dawn. It had been a long, cold wait, and she was hungry. But now she had a hawk’s eye view over the cemetery. The heavy bell had ceased to toll. Relieved, she took the wadding from her ears.

Her woollen cloak fell open on the red coat underneath. A shabby soldier’s cast-off, like the bayonet that dangled by her side. But that wasn’t all she had to show for being an army whore. The girls had taught her how to fight. An officer had taught her how to shoot.

She felt at ease with rifles like the one she lifted now. A long gun with a walnut stock: it came from the old chateau, Martine’s lair. As she checked the priming, she heard voices down below. Somebody was talking to the sexton and the priest.

The bandit girls had searched the church but failed to check the belfry. The speaker came back out onto the steps. Over by the gate, the men were taking up their burden. Nell cocked the rifle, staring at the blonde in the black dress.

The bearers had the coffin on their shoulders. Genevieve stood waiting with a posy in her hands. Monica smiled thinly, then leaned forward once again. Two girls were lounging by the carriage door.

One was a Sicilian in a sombre suit of clothes. Her name was Anna, and she oozed disdain. She wore a black cocked hat and cape, but her colouring was fair, bespeaking north Italian ancestry. Her blue eyes didn’t waver as she crunched on a green apple. She wore a silver-mounted sword and a navy pistol with a brass-shod butt.

The other girl wore leather breeches and a ruffled shirt, with a tight embroidered corset over that. Her chestnut hair cascaded round her shoulders and framed a finely-chiselled, sultry face. A cutlass was slung across her thigh. Her hand curled round the hilt. "I hope the little slut shows up," she said. "I’ll skin her like a hare."

Catrina was the leader of the local Gypsy clan. She had four of her sisters to avenge, so Monica had offered her a deal. From now on the Sicilians would pay for her allegiance. Poor Genevieve had too much on her mind ...

The coffin went in through the gate. The guards among the tombstones scanned the yard. Sicilian girls in long black coats with blunderbusses cocked, and Gypsies with their swords and pistols ready to be grasped. Genevieve came plodding at the heels of the cortege. Up in the tower, Nell raised her rifle, breathing shallowly as she took aim.

Genevieve was thinking of the girls whom she’d despoiled. The ones she’d sold to Monica, condemning them to an appalling fate. But the suffering of guttersnipes had never bothered her. She only wished Martine could share it too.

As she nursed that bitter thought, she heard the coffin creaking. She raised her eyes and saw the lid kicked off. A girl in a blue frock-coat sat bolt upright in the box and twisted round to glare at Genevieve.

Martine brought a shotgun to her shoulder: a fowling-piece by Thonon with the barrels sawn in half. She squeezed the forward trigger as the bearers lurched beneath her, and blasted Genevieve’s attractive chest.

The blonde was vain enough to flaunt her cleavage even here. The buckshot thudded into her plump breasts. The wounds appeared like crimson blooms, as if to mock her posy. Genevieve threw back her head and screamed with pain, then slumped.

The pallbearers were stumbling. They began to drop the coffin. As it slithered sideways, Martine vaulted out of it. She landed awkwardly and rolled. The box fell with a crash. The undertaker’s men took off like startled, flapping crows.

The sentinels were dumbstruck for a moment. Then they swung their guns towards the path. Martine came up out of her roll and fired the second barrel. The nearest bandit squawked as she was hit. Half a dozen bloody punctures stained her well-filled waistcoat. The impact flipped her over and she crumpled like a pheasant in mid-air.

Martine dropped the shotgun and rolled into the long grass. Another black-clad girl came after her. Martine grasped her pistol; the Sicilian aimed a musket. Then an unexpected shot drove through the bandit’s chest.

Nell had fired with both eyes open, just like she’d been taught. The heavy ball burst the Sicilian’s heart. She spun around and fell against a brooding marble angel, splashing it with scarlet as she clung to it, then slithered to its feet.

The crack of the rifle echoed round the churchyard. A cloud of white smoke mushroomed on the breeze. "Another one up in the tower!" yelled Anna from the gateway. She gestured for her girls to rush the church.

Martine crouched beside a tomb, one pistol in her hand, the other tucked against her naked stomach. Her dark eyes blazed excitedly. Her bosom heaved beneath her knotted shirt. She heard the scuff of running feet and swung around the grave. A Gypsy girl was bearing down on her. She had big earrings and big tits, and carried two horse-pistols. Before she could level either gun, Martine had put a ball into her gut.

The dark girl doubled forward with a whoop of agony. She dropped to her knees, still clutching both her guns. Martine lunged and struck her with the empty pistol’s butt, a backhand blow that skewed her head around. The Gypsy girl spat blood and slumped, and Martine hurdled her. She dropped the smoking gun and drew its twin.

"You bitch!" another bandit squealed and raised her blunderbuss. The French girl had no time to cock her pistol. She simply held the trigger down and slapped the crested lock. The flint sprang forward, striking sparks, and the gun discharged at the Sicilian’s chest.

"Ough!" the stricken girl cried out and arched beneath the impact. She toppled back into an open grave. The pit had just been dug for Sarah’s coffin. Martine dived for cover by the mound of fresh-turned earth.

Up in the belfry, Nell was ramming home another load. She glimpsed a girl below her taking aim. She shied away, around the bell. The musket ball glanced off it with a clang. The bronze was still vibrating as she leaned round to fire back. The bandit spun and flopped like a shot hare.

The redcoat dropped into a crouch and quickly started drawing up the bell rope. There was no time to reload again. She could hear the creak of wooden stairs below. When she peered down through the hatch, somebody shot at her. The discharge filled the tower with dirty smoke.

Nell had glimpsed her enemy, and didn’t hesitate. The bitches thought they had her trapped up here. She looped the rope round her left arm and drew her bayonet. Then she dropped down through the hatch and plummeted until the rope jerked taut.

The bell began to toll again. She swung across the tower. The bandit on the steps was still half-blinded by the smoke. Nell cannoned into her and thrust the bayonet in deep. The black-clad girl cried out in misery. The weapon had a makeshift wooden handle. Nell wrenched it, and the dying girl convulsed.

The eighteen-inch-long blade ripped free. The drooping bandit toppled from the stairs. Nell sheathed the bloody bayonet and scrambled down the bell rope after her.

The girl had landed in a heap. There was a second pistol in her belt. Nell drew it with her left hand, and hauled out her own Twigg pistol with her right. She shouldered through a door into the body of the church. Another pair of girls were waiting there.

She fired her borrowed pistol at the one in the black coat. The smoothbore muzzle had been charged with shot. The young Sicilian wailed as pellets riddled her firm breasts. She somersaulted back across the pews.

The other girl, a Gypsy, brought her blunderbuss to bear. Nell dragged at both the triggers of her Twigg. The double blast blew twin holes in the Gypsy’s half-laced bodice. The girl grimaced and flopped into the uncurtained confessional behind her.

"Ten Hail Marys," murmured Nell. The dead girl slithered down inside the box. The redcoat dropped the empty gun and cocked the lower barrels of the Twigg.

Out in the churchyard, Martine was still struggling to reload. She heard a rush of feet and squirmed around. A Gypsy with cascading curls came at her like a cat, a vicious-looking cutlass in her hands.

Martine scrambled back over the crumbled pile of earth. The slashing cutlass missed her by an inch. Catrina hissed, her eyes ablaze, and pressed home her attack. The French girl almost slid into the grave. The diggers’ tools were still embedded in the heap of soil. Martine snatched up a pickaxe as she crabbed away around the open pit.

Catrina lunged at her again. Martine sprang to her feet. She blocked the cutlass with the pickaxe haft. The Gypsy aimed beneath her guard. Again the blow was thwarted. Martine retreated, breathing hard – then swung the heavy pickaxe round and up. Catrina had begun to pounce, betrayed by her own instincts. Before she could recoil, the pickaxe struck her midriff just below the ribs.

Martine gave the haft a jerk. The pick carved up towards the Gypsy’s heart. Catrina’s body jack-knifed with a sob of agony. She spat blood over Martine’s muddy boots.

The French girl let her slump, and picked a fallen pistol up. She swung the weapon round towards the gate. The carriage was just moving off. She fired, and blasted splinters from the wood. Anna hung out of the door, one boot braced on the step as she shot back.

Martine ducked and darted forward, scooping up another dead girl’s gun. She fired, and heard the sound of breaking glass. But the carriage clattered down the road and disappeared beyond the churchyard wall.

Martine came to a halt and stood there, panting. She dropped the empty pistol and looked round. Powder smoke was lingering like mist among the tombs. The corpses bled into the summer weeds.

Genevieve lay nearby, her startled mouth agape. Her sapphire eyes stared blankly at the sky. Her gloved hands were still clutching at her posy. Her bosom was a bloodier bouquet.

Nell was standing by the church door, listening to the silence. The crack of guns had scared the rooks away. She’d seen the carriage disappear and Martine try to stop it. She joined her friend and glanced towards the gate.

"I guess this wasn’t just about the sisters. Whoever was in that carriage was the person you were really out to get."

"That’s Monica," the French girl spat. "They call her the Black Widow. You know what her real business is? To sell our virgins into slavery."

Her hazel eyes were hot with rage. They softened as she looked at Nell again. "They snatch the daughters of the poor, and sell them to the Moors of Barbary. The brothel here was just a front – a foothold. She wants to spin her spider-web from Sicily to France."

The redcoat gave her a shrewd look. "I’d wager this was something personal."

"Vendetta is the word they use," said Martine with a shrug. "But let’s just say I’m settling a debt."

She picked her scattered weapons up and started to reload. Nell watched her thoughtfully, then glanced around. The rooks had started calling from the clump of trees again. The angel next to her looked on, its marble features streaked with tears of blood.