Every gibbet at Tyburn and Hounslow appeared to have been plundered of its charnel spoil to enrich the adjoining cabinet, so well was it stored with skulls and bones, all purporting to be the relics of highwaymen famous in their day. No doubt he knew enough of his world to recognise that he stood little chance against the word of a major of militia. Edward Bribble stood between them with an open book. What he did not know was this: Ruth surrendered these little secrets because the doctor had warned her that the patient must be amused and interested. He looked at his port wine as though that tawny ruby contained the solution of the matter. ‘What the devil for?’ ‘Messenger,’ Gerald explained. ‘She is constantly thinking of you,’ I said.
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