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them; they turned into Billiter Street, patting the flanks of the horses as they dodged between them, and strode into the welcome warmth of the Billiter Inn, where the low murmur of voices and the sweet smell of porter surrounded them. They found a booth, and flung themselves into it. Benjamin skipped over to the counter. At times like this Charles felt himself to be a deeply historical personage. Every movement and gesture he made had already been endlessly repeated in this place. The low murmur and the sweet smell of drink were the past itself, covering him and laying claim to him. He could say nothing that had not been uttered before. “I weep at cradles and I smile at graves. Your good health, Ben.” He took the pewter mug from his colleague and swallowed a great draught of ale. “I drink this in the line of duty.”
    “Of course.” Tom Coates raised his mug. “Sheer necessity. No pleasure to be found in it.”
    “I salute my fate.” Benjamin joined his mug with theirs.
    “Ah yes. The Fates. The sisters. Hail, Atropos!” Charles finished the drink, and looked around for the waiter. He was always known as “Uncle,” a solemn old man who still wore knee-breeches and worsted stockings. “Your finest, Uncle, when you are free.”
    “Anon, sir. Anon.”
    “That will be put on his gravestone,” Charles murmured to the others. “Anon, sir. Anon. God will give up on him.”
    The three sat drinking for an hour or more. They would not have been able to remember what they said. It was the experience of talking together that enlivened and reassured them, the linking of voice with voice, the call and the response, the sympathy of feeling. Charles had forgotten that he was supposed to meet William Ireland that evening. Eventually he left them at the corner of Moorgate, where they walked north towards Islington; he turned towards Holborn and home.
    Then suddenly he was struck with a savage blow on the neck. “What have you got? Give it to me.” He heard the voice and turned, but he was struck again. He staggered against the wall, and felt someone rifling through his pockets. His watch was ripped from its chain and his purse lifted quickly, almost impatiently; then he heard the thief running away, his footsteps echoing down the tall sides of Ironmonger Lane. He leaned against the wall by the corner and, with a sigh, sat down upon the stones. He reached for his watch, and then remembered that it had been taken; he realised that he had suffered no serious injury, but suddenly he was very tired. He was exhausted. He had become one of the whole host who had been assaulted on the same spot—the corner of Ironmonger Lane and Cheapside—and who had decided to sit upon the ground. The echo of footsteps, running from the scene, could still be heard.

chapter three
    W ILLIAM IRELAND SAT WITH his father in the dining-room above the bookshop. Samuel Ireland’s companion, Rosa Ponting, sat with them. “That was a nice bit of perch,” she said. “Very soft with the butter.” She dipped her bread into the last remnants of the butter sauce. “I do believe it will rain. Sammy dear, will you pass me that potato? Did you know they came from Peru?”
    She had lived in this house for as long as William could remember; she was now in middle age, and had acquired an extra chin, but she had preserved her youthful manner. She had once been what was known as a “charmer,” and still exercised all her claims to that title. “You never will guess who stopped me in the street this morning. Why, it was Miss Morrison! I hadn’t seen her for an age, you know. And I swear it was the same bonnet. I really do.” Samuel Ireland was staring ahead of him, lost in some troubled thought. His son could barely conceal his impatience. “She invited me to tea on Tuesday week.” She sounded defiant. She had a right to speak, did she not? “Now, William, I see you wish to leave the table. Please do.”
    He looked at his father, who made no sign.