‘No,’ I said, shook my rag, turned back to my cleaning. ‘Me neither.’

She laughed, and leaned towards me, with such a warm sweetness on her breath, whispered right into my ear: ‘Faith, as you say, there’s small choice in rotten apples.’

CHARLES PRUITT, manservant of Mr George Benham, sworn

A. Mrs Benham was always gadding. I said nothing, while she lived. But it can make no difference to her now. Gaming halls. Unsavoury places, you know. She disguised herself. Breeches, jacket, flat cap. No, I wasn’t comfortable about it. There were times I wondered should I say something to the master.

Q. Did you?

A. I was caught between the two of them, you could say. I conveyed her, and brought her back, and any more than that was not my business. I ‒

Q. Yes?

A. It’s just ‒ I did once take the pair of them, the prisoner and the mistress, to a gathering of blacks, in some tap-room off Fleet Street. I heard talk that it was Radicals the mistress was mixing with, towards the end, though I can’t say yea or nay to it. Also, I did at one time convey her to an address on Gant Street to meet a Mr Cambridge, Laddie Lightning he called himself. The pugilist? I’m only sorry I did not say something to the master after all, seeing how things turned out.

Chapter Fourteen

February weather drove us down to the kitchen like rats to a hole. Two Saturdays after I arrived, Linux made a fruit cake with raisins for Benham and allowed us a small piece each, and then Mr Casterwick said he would bring his fiddle out, and Pru and Charles set a row of lighted candles down the table, which made it seem festive, though we were just as worn from that day’s labours as any other, and the room was musty and dim, and still reeked of salt and old mutton fat. The cake made up for it. Golden and sweet, and no matter that I knew only too well how the sugar was made, I couldn’t resist it. I’d drawn my own chair near the door, where I could watch Charles and Pru bicker and carry on, and I let a raisin melt sweet on my tongue, rested my head against the wall. I felt that small measure of ease you get from music, the same as from reading, and the flames flickered low under the stove, giving off a good warmth.

Then, Mr Casterwick’s bow scuffled, came to a stop. When I looked up, I saw Madame, hands flat on the door frame on either side.

‘Mr Casterwick, you play? I didn’t know. I didn’t know.’ The French way she said it sounded like, No. I didn’t no. No, no, no.

Linux thumped down her sherry. ‘Were we disturbing you, Madame?’

‘Oh, no! Non. Not at all! Not at all! It’s . . . My father . . . he plays the violin. Played. Please.’