Even though he’d shared a coach with him for what seemed like endless hours, Peter Skillen had learnt very little of use from Seth Hooper. The man was too cowed by the situation to say more than a few words. It was only at one of the stops along the way that the brush-maker briefly found his voice. David Mellanby was very different. When they travelled towards Nottingham in the curricle, he was an absolute fountain of information. It spurted out of him in an endless stream. Peter learnt things about the relationships in the family that explained why Mellanby’s three children saw so little of each other. It was a source of great bitterness to David that neither of his siblings had ever attended his church to hear him preach. With her first child due in a matter of months, his sister, Judith, had not even approached him with regard to the baptism. That would take place elsewhere.

‘What about your father?’ asked Peter. ‘Did he come to your church?’

‘Oh, yes – but only out of necessity.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘It was a case of noblesse oblige. Father had to be seen. There are a number of people in my congregation who voted for him. They expected him to exchange pleasantries with them on a Sunday.’

‘Was he not a religious man?’

‘Only fitfully, I fear.’

‘Your brother seems to take after him.’

‘Edmund is far worse, believe me.’

‘Why do you say that?’

It was almost the last thing that Peter had the opportunity of saying because his companion launched into what was an extended sermon. As the youngest in the family, David had been the whipping boy almost from birth and there was an element of something akin to joy in his martyrdom. He simultaneously resented and wallowed in it. When he’d taken Holy Orders, he’d hoped that it would bring him closer to the rest of the family, but it had done just the reverse. Only his mother approved of his choice of profession. His brother teased him mercilessly and his sister more or less ignored him. Each lived in worlds from which David was deliberately excluded.

When they reached Nottingham, Peter asked him if he could be driven to the Black Horse, the public house where Seth Hooper and his friends held their meetings. David duly brought the horse to a halt outside the premises.

‘I can’t thank you enough,’ said Peter. ‘Being offered a lift was a godsend but your honesty about your family was the real bonus. Without Mr Oxley looking over your shoulder, you were able to speak much more freely.’