At the end of his speech, Peter was taken aback by a round of applause. He went off to sit at the very back of the room, allowing Hooper to step forward and take charge. Having been told that the brush-maker was a good speaker, he’d been looking forward to seeing him in action. Peter was disappointed. Hooper obviously had fire in his belly and the gestures of a born orator, but he was curiously halting. He stumbled over his words and had to repeat himself more than once. There was a general murmur of discontent. The men there were used to hearing Hooper in full flow. It didn’t take Peter long to realise that he was the problem. In front of his friends and neighbours, Hooper was completely at ease. The presence of a stranger – a well-dressed, highly educated man from London – made him nervous. Peter decided that the kindest thing he could do was to slip out of the room so that the speaker could regain his confidence.

The Black Horse was an ancient inn with half-timbering, low ceilings and an abundance of spiders. It also had undulating floorboards with gaps between them. As he walked towards his room on the first floor, Peter could just make out the sound of Hooper’s voice. When he reached the end of the passageway, there was far more clarity. The speaker was fluent, assured and in command of his audience. Since the door opposite his own room was slightly ajar, Peter looked in and saw that it was empty, so he went in. He was now directly above the bar in which Hooper was speaking and could hear every word clearly.

A distinctive aroma wafted into his nostrils. It was the lingering smell of tobacco. Only minutes before, someone had been smoking a pipe in the room. Tobacco ash had been left in the fireplace. Locking the door for the meeting had been a wise precaution but it was not enough. Whoever had been in the room had heard every word of what was said below. While he listened, the spy had enjoyed a pipe.