She had looked forward to an explanation. “I think you are getting to understand me better. The smells of skewered fennel, roast chicken, and broiled pheasant saturated the air, and she could smell other wonderful aromas about them. Hidden menace; a prescience of something dreadful about to happen. Presently, two carriages dashed down the hill, and drew up before it. Last night there had been no time. That good woman, although astonished to hear of Martha’s conversion to Catholicism and embracing of a religious sisterhood, responded with the news of Jarvis Remenham’s death. A minute pressure inwards showed him that it was not locked.
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