together.
Temperance continued to point out the rich and famous, and Chaloner listened with half an ear, more interested in studying the postal clerks who surrounded O’Neill. After a while, he became aware that he was not the only one watching them. So was a tall, thin man with very dark hair and an unusually white face. However, it was the fellow’s eyes that were his most arresting feature. They were jet black and oddly shiny.
A memory from Chaloner’s childhoodsurfaced with such sudden clarity that it made him start. One of his sisters had owned a doll that had looked just like the man, right down to its chalky face and glinting eyes. It had given them both nightmares, so their father had put it on the fire, where it had released the most diabolical of shrieks as the flames had consumed it. The entire family had been disconcerted, while the servants had muttered darkly about witchcraft.
‘Clement Oxenbridge,’ whispered Temperance, following the direction of his gaze.
‘A client from the club?’
‘No, thank God,’ replied Temperance with a shudder. ‘He is said to be a very dangerous person, and I should not like to think of him around my girls.’
Chaloner was thoughtful: Knight had said that a man named Clement Oxenbridge was involved in something sinister at the Post Office. ‘Do you think he set the explosion?’
‘It is possible. No one knows anything about him – he just appears out of nowhere when there is mischief afoot. I am not surprised to see him here. He probably smelled the blood.’
The blast must have deprived Chaloner of his wits, because her words sent a cold shiver down his spine. He was not usually unsettled by remarks that were patently ridiculous, but there was something about Oxenbridge that was decidedly disconcerting.
‘Actually, he is here because he was posting a letter,’ countered Wiseman, rejoining them and overhearing the remark. ‘He was in front of me in the queue, sending greetings to his mother.’
‘His mother?’ echoed Temperance incredulously. ‘He will not have one of those.’
Wiseman shot her an amused glance. ‘Of course he will. How else would he have been born?’
‘Through the devil,’ replied Temperance promptly. ‘Oxenbridge is evil, Richard, and if he tries to approach you, I want you to run away.’
‘Run away?’ laughed Wiseman. ‘I most certainly shall not!’
‘But you must,’ insistedTemperance earnestly. ‘Not only is he the most deadly villain ever to set foot in London, but he is said to have been friends with John Fry. Do you remember him?’
Wiseman nodded, and explained when he saw Chaloner’s blank look. ‘Fry was a man made famous by his controversial opinions during the Commonwealth. He penned all manner of inflammatory tracts and letters, including some that urged a rebellion against Cromwell.’
‘A Royalist, then,’ surmised Chaloner.
‘No, but not a Parliamentarian either,’ replied Wiseman. ‘He thought the country should be a republic, and his defiant words won him a lot of supporters. He died eight years ago, and there were rumours that he was murdered.’
‘A very dangerous man,’ elaborated Temperance, ‘only ever happy when Britain was in flames. However, he was not murdered because he never died – he arranged his own funeral, so he could continue his poisonous work unimpeded.’
‘You heard that in the club?’ asked Wiseman, a little sceptically.
Temperance nodded. ‘I also heard that he is in London at this very moment. Doubtless Oxenbridge intends to help him with whatever nasty plan he is fomenting.’
Wiseman opened his mouth to argue, but then thought better of it: Temperance was not easily dissuaded once she had made up her mind, and it was neither the time nor the place for a debate. ‘You are shivering, my dear,’ he said instead, kindly solicitous. ‘And Chaloner is very pale. I suggest we repair to the Crown tavern for some hot ale.’
‘Why not the Antwerp?’
Temperance continued to point out the rich and famous, and Chaloner listened with half an ear, more interested in studying the postal clerks who surrounded O’Neill. After a while, he became aware that he was not the only one watching them. So was a tall, thin man with very dark hair and an unusually white face. However, it was the fellow’s eyes that were his most arresting feature. They were jet black and oddly shiny.
A memory from Chaloner’s childhoodsurfaced with such sudden clarity that it made him start. One of his sisters had owned a doll that had looked just like the man, right down to its chalky face and glinting eyes. It had given them both nightmares, so their father had put it on the fire, where it had released the most diabolical of shrieks as the flames had consumed it. The entire family had been disconcerted, while the servants had muttered darkly about witchcraft.
‘Clement Oxenbridge,’ whispered Temperance, following the direction of his gaze.
‘A client from the club?’
‘No, thank God,’ replied Temperance with a shudder. ‘He is said to be a very dangerous person, and I should not like to think of him around my girls.’
Chaloner was thoughtful: Knight had said that a man named Clement Oxenbridge was involved in something sinister at the Post Office. ‘Do you think he set the explosion?’
‘It is possible. No one knows anything about him – he just appears out of nowhere when there is mischief afoot. I am not surprised to see him here. He probably smelled the blood.’
The blast must have deprived Chaloner of his wits, because her words sent a cold shiver down his spine. He was not usually unsettled by remarks that were patently ridiculous, but there was something about Oxenbridge that was decidedly disconcerting.
‘Actually, he is here because he was posting a letter,’ countered Wiseman, rejoining them and overhearing the remark. ‘He was in front of me in the queue, sending greetings to his mother.’
‘His mother?’ echoed Temperance incredulously. ‘He will not have one of those.’
Wiseman shot her an amused glance. ‘Of course he will. How else would he have been born?’
‘Through the devil,’ replied Temperance promptly. ‘Oxenbridge is evil, Richard, and if he tries to approach you, I want you to run away.’
‘Run away?’ laughed Wiseman. ‘I most certainly shall not!’
‘But you must,’ insistedTemperance earnestly. ‘Not only is he the most deadly villain ever to set foot in London, but he is said to have been friends with John Fry. Do you remember him?’
Wiseman nodded, and explained when he saw Chaloner’s blank look. ‘Fry was a man made famous by his controversial opinions during the Commonwealth. He penned all manner of inflammatory tracts and letters, including some that urged a rebellion against Cromwell.’
‘A Royalist, then,’ surmised Chaloner.
‘No, but not a Parliamentarian either,’ replied Wiseman. ‘He thought the country should be a republic, and his defiant words won him a lot of supporters. He died eight years ago, and there were rumours that he was murdered.’
‘A very dangerous man,’ elaborated Temperance, ‘only ever happy when Britain was in flames. However, he was not murdered because he never died – he arranged his own funeral, so he could continue his poisonous work unimpeded.’
‘You heard that in the club?’ asked Wiseman, a little sceptically.
Temperance nodded. ‘I also heard that he is in London at this very moment. Doubtless Oxenbridge intends to help him with whatever nasty plan he is fomenting.’
Wiseman opened his mouth to argue, but then thought better of it: Temperance was not easily dissuaded once she had made up her mind, and it was neither the time nor the place for a debate. ‘You are shivering, my dear,’ he said instead, kindly solicitous. ‘And Chaloner is very pale. I suggest we repair to the Crown tavern for some hot ale.’
‘Why not the Antwerp?’
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