It was a Friday, when mail left for the United Provinces, the German states and the Baltic, so people were arriving with letters to be carried overseas. However, it was much quieter than on Tuesdays, Thursdays and Saturdays, when inland collections were made. Chaloner walked to the crater, joining the score or so spectators who ringed it. An image of the cart was etched vividly in his mind, but everything else remained frustratingly hazy. He tried again to recall the musician, but nothing came other than a vague sense of height and mediocre talent. ‘Did anyone here actually witness the blast?’ Vanderhuyden was enquiring. ‘I heard it from the Post Office, but there was nothing to see except debris and smoke by the time I came out.’ ‘I did,’ replied one man softly. It was Roger Palmer, the Earl of Castlemaine, holding a bundle of letters. Small cuts on his hands and face told of his close brush with the incident. ‘What happened?’ asked Dorislaus with brazenly ghoulish curiosity.
