Days passed, and the date of the Locksmiths’ trial approached, with no word of a pardon for them. “Run down to the kitchen,” he would say from time to time. “I am certain I heard the front door slam. Find out if the constable is visiting again, and if he is, pray stretch those voluminous ears of yours and try to catch a word or two. And . . . hurry straight back.”

And Mosca would slip down the corridor and huddle behind the kitchen door, ready to dodge away if she heard steps. Usually there would be no sound but the clatter of plates as the Cakes made cakes, while singing a snatch of something that sounded very much like Clent’s ballad to Captain Blythe. Sometimes Mosca would feel a draft and realize that the front door was open, and hear the Cakes’s voice as she haggled with a hawker from the ragman’s raft.

Mosca spent hours tucked into the window, watching the parade of nervous, drunken, or excitable couples approach the door. Some of the brides looked rather round-bellied, though they usually tried to hide the fact under their cloaks.

“Run down to the chapel,” Clent would say, when the door was opened to another pair, “and see if any of them keep their gloves on even to the exchanging of the rings,” and Mosca knew that he was afraid of the Locksmiths coming after him.

But one day, when she had been sent down for the thirteenth time to listen at the kitchen door, Mosca did indeed hear the constable’s voice, asking questions about strangers in the marriage house.

“Oh, some folks come to the door to ask after nuptials,” the Cakes was explaining, “but no one gets into the house without they’re gettin’ married. An’ the back rooms, they’re all for happy couples to stay in after the ceremony.” She clearly thought this the most romantic thing imaginable. “All their names are safe down in the register, an’ you can be sure that no one else has been in the house ’cept Mr. Bockerby and me.”

“And your regular lodgers,” the constable added.

“Oh yes, ’cept them.” There was a silky, slopping sound, as if the Cakes was whipping up a syllabub for her guest.

“Tell me . . . these guests of yours, do they have a goose?”

“Why yes, that they do, a fine, white, fat one. I never seen one so big. Why?”

“We’ve had a bit of excitement this morning, that’s all. Did you ever hear the pair of ’em mention a man called Partridge?”