Peter Skillen was glad that he’d attended the church service. It had been a moving occasion and given him the opportunity for a lengthy private conversation with David Mellanby. The death of his father meant that there would be a shift in power within the family that wouldn’t advantage the youngest member in any way. All that Peter could offer him was his sympathy. Notwithstanding his clash with Barrington Oxley, he couldn’t believe for a moment that the lawyer was in any way linked to the murder. Apart from anything else, Oxley had nothing to gain. By clinging to Sir Roger’s coat tails, he’d been given a fleeting eminence that he’d never have achieved elsewhere. He’d masterminded elections, been taken to London on a regular basis and become an auxiliary member of the family. He would now return to being no more than a humble lawyer in Nottingham. Even if Edmund Mellanby replaced his father in Parliament, Oxley’s glory days were over. His grip on the family was effectively broken.

Since he’d found no evidence in the area of a plot to silence the Radical Dandy, Peter decided that he’d leave Nottingham that evening, travelling overnight so that the journey could be faster over largely unoccupied roads. What he’d learnt on his trip was valuable but the search for the full facts of the assassination had now to be moved back to London.

It was some time since Paul had been into the Golden Crown but he was nevertheless given a cheery greeting by the landlord. The place was quite full and his arrival caused some interest. Those who’d never seen him before were on their guard at once, fearing that he was an actor likely to be given parts in preference to them. All that Paul got from them were hard stares and cold sneers. Those aware of his identity as the companion of Hannah Granville were green with envy because he had a role that every man coveted. As he looked around, he saw a dignified old man with a white beard seated familiarly at a table in the corner as if he owned the tavern. Since he’d bought drinks for Simeon Howlett before, Paul knew exactly what his preference was.

‘Dear boy!’ said Howlett as the glass was placed in front of him. ‘This is a true act of kindness. Please do sit down.’

‘Thank you,’ said Paul, doing as he was bidden. ‘How are you?’

‘I am still lying fallow, alas. Though I have more talent than anyone here, I am constantly undervalued and cruelly overlooked. I tell you, Mr Skillen, there is no justice in the theatre unless it comes from the mouth of Portia in The Merchant of Venice.’