‘I couldn’t agree more. They were passed by a mean-spirited Parliament of landowners who couldn’t bear the idea that the price of bread would go down at the end of the war. To maintain their high profits, they banned the import of wheat. The result is that, all over this country, people are dying of hunger because they can’t afford to buy bread at exorbitant prices. Lord Liverpool and his iniquitous Tory government do nothing whatsoever to relieve their distress. On the contrary,’ said Golightly, wagging a finger, ‘they intensify it by bringing in repressive laws and − worst of all − by suspending the Habeas Corpus Act.’

‘It’s shameful.’

‘Sir Roger was much more eloquent on the subject than I am.’

‘That eloquence may have cost him his life.’

‘I fear that may be true, Skillen. Hampden Clubs were established in major cities so that people had a forum for debate. The Tories are already claiming that they exist solely to foment rebellion. That’s an arrant lie. Freedom of speech must be allowed, surely. It’s a basic right. That was always Sir Roger’s battle cry.’

‘It obviously inspired a lot of people.’

‘I know. I’m one of them.’

‘Look at it from the point of view of the government,’ said Paul. ‘If they felt that he was becoming too effective as a rabble-rouser, who would give the order to have him dealt with?’

‘It would be Sidmouth – the Home Secretary.’

It was well after midnight when they finally arrived in Nottingham. As the four passengers took it in turns to alight from the coach, they were stiff, aching in every bone and grateful that the journey was finally over. They waited for their luggage to be passed down from the roof of the vehicle. Peter had planned to stay at the coaching inn where they’d just arrived but he didn’t wish to refuse Hooper’s invitation. The more time he spent with the man, he reasoned, the more he could glean about the character and political life of Sir Roger Mellanby. Again, the brush-maker would talk much more freely in his own home than he could in front of strangers in the confines of a mail coach.

The house was no more than a few hundred yards away and, as they trudged through the streets, Peter took a first look at Nottingham in silhouette. Children bawled in crowded bedrooms. Cats stalked in the shadows and dogs barked incessantly. Accustomed to the abiding stench of the capital, Peter found the air less of an assault on his nostrils. In the last census, the population had been recorded as just over thirty-four thousand, making it huge in comparison with the surrounding villages but small when measured against London’s million and more citizens.

‘Have you always lived here?’ asked Peter.

Hooper nodded. ‘I were born in a cottage down by the river.’

‘Do you like Nottingham?’