‘My brothers, many of you know something of my story . . . for I have recounted it to some here, whom I number among my most intimate acquaintance. Before I came to reside in France, my father and I were engaged in the business of the import of paper to America. For some years we lived between London, Amsterdam and Brussels, and during this time I met the prisoner. She was then an actress upon the stage in London and consented to become my mistress.’

Hungrily, I awaited each word as it fell from Allenham’s mouth, for I could see there was some scheme at work. He seemed to weave a tapestry from strands of truth and deceit.

‘We passed for man and wife and, for all intents, lived in that capacity, but for the blessing of the Church, which we discounted as an irrelevance and a superstitious affectation of an old order. Citizeness Lightfoot accompanied me upon my travels to Brussels and to other parts . . . and bore me a child . . . who died shortly thereafter.’

Allenham lowered his head as he spoke those words. Although he believed them to be mere embellishment designed to heighten the emotion of his tale, they carried a certain truth unknown to him. To hear him speak of our son, the child about whom I had never told him, caused my eyes to grow instantly hot and sore with tears.

There was silence in the courtroom. I had scarcely noticed it until that moment. The howling from the gallery had ceased. Those who had, not moments before, been crying for my death were suddenly transported. They appeared tamed, enraptured. The men stood with folded arms, contemplatively smoking their pipes; the women sat transfixed, the babes in their arms uttering not so much as a mew. As I wiped the tears which now fell with abandon down my cheeks, I heard from across the room slight sniffles and sounds of weeping and looked to see three or four among these strangers partaking of my sorrows.

‘It was in Brussels, not a month after this event that I, in an act of great callousness and cruelty, abandoned this fine woman, this sister and patriot, who was as dear to me as life itself.’

There was a jeer from the gallery, and then another.