‘He recently made a proclamation forbidding ownership of certain books. I had some, and that was what I burned. In the garden, that day.’

‘I – I didn’t know they were forbidden, sir.’

Standing there, the boy looked pathetic. And the thought came to me, he is but thirteen, and thirteen-year-olds are nosy. I asked, very quietly, ‘Who did you tell, Timothy?’

He hung his head. ‘Nobody, sir, nobody. Only when Master and Mistress Brocket came back, Mistress Brocket said something had been burned in her vegetable garden, it looked like papers. Master Brocket went and stirred them round, brought back a few unburned pieces. I was in the kitchen. I saw him. He knew I had been alone here that afternoon, sir, and he asked who had been burning papers. He said he would strike me if I lied, so I told him it was you.’

‘Martin,’ I said heavily. So, Josephine had been right about him all along. And he was not just a thief, he meant to do me harm. ‘You let me down, Timothy,’ I said sternly. ‘I shall talk with you again. But first,’ I added grimly, ‘I must speak to Martin.’

He called after me, ‘I didn’t mean for anything to happen to you, sir, I swear. If I had known you might be arrested – ’ His voice rose to a howl behind me as I walked away to the house.

MARTIN BROCKET was in the dining room, polishing the silver, running a cloth round a large dish which had belonged to my father. He regarded me, as usual, with cold eyes and a humble smile. ‘God give you good afternoon, sir.’ Evidently he had decided, with deferential tact, not to refer to my arrest at all.

‘Put that down, Martin,’ I said coldly. The shadow of an emotion, perhaps fear, crossed his face as he laid the silver dish back on the table. ‘I have been talking to Timothy. Apparently the boy told you he saw me burning books in the garden.’

I discerned only the slightest hesitation, then Martin answered smoothly, ‘Yes, sir. Agnes saw the burned papers and I asked Timothy about it. I thought he might have been up to mischief.’

‘Somebody has,’ I answered flatly. ‘I was questioned about those burned books at the Privy Council this morning.’

He stood stock-still, the cloth still in his hands. I continued, ‘Nobody knew what I had done, save the friend who was questioned with me.’ Still Martin stood like a statue. He had no answer. ‘Who did you tell?’ I asked sharply. ‘Who did you betray me to? And why?’

He laid the cloth on the buffet with a hand that had suddenly begun to tremble. His face had paled. He asked, ‘May I sit down?’

‘Yes,’ I answered curtly.

‘I have always been a faithful servant to my employers,’ he said quietly. ‘Stewardship is an honourable calling. But my son – ’ his face worked for a moment – ‘he is in gaol.’