As dusk settled over London on September 29, 1883, the city was alive with whispers of the elusive “maid burglar.” At precisely 7:26 p.m., the glow of newly lit gas lamps flickered against damp cobblestones, their soft light illuminating the countless wanted posters plastered across brick walls and lampposts. Bold lettering and grim illustrations of the fugitive stared back at passersby, fueling both fear and fascination among the crowds.

The streets thrummed with life: the steady clatter of horse-drawn hansom cabs, the calls of newsboys hawking the evening papers, and the rhythmic footsteps of clerks hurrying home. From a bakery on the corner drifted the comforting scent of warm bread, mingling with the sharper tang of coal smoke that clung to the London air.

You were just about to continue your evening walk when a blur of motion jolted your attention. A young figure darted past, her short-cropped hair tousled by the night breeze. A faint trace of lavender clung to her as she passed, strangely out of place amid the city’s grit.

Then you saw it—the scar etched along her left cheek, unmistakable even in the dim lamplight. A brown beret sat askew on her head, giving her an air of nonchalance, though her disguise was clever: a delivery boy’s jacket and trousers that allowed her to melt easily into the throng.

Your pulse quickened. Could it be her? The maid burglar, right before your eyes? A reward of £200 had been promised for her capture—a sum that might change a life, though hardly worth the legends that now surrounded her. Still, the thrill of discovery tugged at you with far more force than any coin could.

Curiosity sharpened into resolve. Whatever secrets she carried, they would not be uncovered from the sidelines. Tonight, you would follow. Tonight, the chase began.