The street was busy but he might as well have been alone. He turned on to Kirkgate, passed the jail and the Parish Church, the tip of his stick tapping lightly on the road as he walked. He stopped at Timble Bridge to watch the water flow until his temper had cooled. Finally he made his way up to the house on Marsh Lane. A pot of water was steaming over the fire. Mary was working in the kitchen, sleeves pushed up as she washed the linen, her skin a deep, blushing pink from the heat, the air filled with the harsh smell of lye. He stood still and quiet, watching her for a long moment until some sense made her look around. ‘Richard,’ she said, the word full of panic and fear. What—’ ‘I’m fine,’ he assured her quickly. ‘I needed a few minutes away.’ ‘Why? What’s happened?’ She dried her hands on a square of cloth. ‘I can tell something’s wrong, it’s all over your face.’ She’d known him too well, too long. He couldn’t hide anything from her. But in all their years together, he could count on one hand the number of times he’d discussed his work with her.
