Free Blood on the Strand by Susanna Gregory Page A

overseas, but since then I have heard nothing. I thought perhaps you were never coming back.’
    ‘You did not recognise me, and yet you invited me in?’
    Temperance laughed again. ‘Only because you looked too old to cause any trouble.’
    He had no idea what that was supposed to mean, and when he made no reply, she took his arm and led him into a warm, steamy
     kitchen at the rear of the house. As he passed the large room that overlooked the courtyard, his eyes watered at the fug of
     stale tobacco smoke. Dirty goblets and empty decanters were strewn everywhere, andspilled food had been crushed into the rugs. He glimpsed a furtive movement on the stairs, and glanced up to see a half-clad
     woman. Other voices told him she was not the only female in residence. Gradually, it began to dawn on him that Temperance’s
     plans for her new life had revolved around establishing some sort of bawdy house. He was not usually slow on the uptake, but
     Temperance hailed from a deeply devout family that believed even innocent pleasures like reading or singing were sinful, and
     the abrupt transformation was unexpected, to say the least.
    ‘Have you come to collect the shirts I offered to mend before you left?’ she asked, directing him to sit at the table. Pots
     and pans were everywhere, and there was a mouth-watering scent of baking pastry. Piles of plates sat washed and draining near
     a stone sink, and a heavy, comfortable matron sat next to a roaring fire, toasting bread on the end of a poker. ‘I confess
     I put them away when you disappeared, but I shall see to them today.’
    ‘Leave them to me,’ said the older woman, whose powerful arms and strong hands gave her the appearance of a milkmaid. She
     leered at Chaloner. ‘And I shall lace them, too. You are sadly dowdy, and in desperate need of a lady’s touch. I shall add
     so much lace to your collar, sleeves and cuffs that the King himself will ask where you purchased such magnificent garments.’
    Chaloner did not recall the shirts, and did not like the sound of the ‘improvements’, either. ‘That is not necessary, ma’am.’
    ‘It is no trouble,’ she said, fluffing her hair as she winked at him.
    There was a merry twinkle in Temperance’s eyes. ‘Were he to remove his beard and wig, you would see he is fartoo young to warrant your interest, Maude. I harboured an affection for him once, until I realised life is more enjoyable
     without a man telling me what to do. What husband would permit the kind of civilised evenings
we
have enjoyed these last few weeks?’
    Chaloner did not try to hide his concern. ‘This is a respectable neighbourhood, Temperance, and if your … your
enterprise
is too brazen, you may find yourself in trouble.’
    ‘We are always quiet, so do not fret,’ said Temperance, making a dismissive gesture with her hand. ‘Would you like some coffee?
     Maude knows how to make it.’
    Maude heaved her bulk out of the chair, and set about heating water for the beverage that was fast becoming popular in London.
     While she was waiting for the pan to boil, she took some roasted beans and pounded them vigorously with a pestle and mortar.
     She tossed the resulting powder into a jug, along with a vast quantity of dark sugar, and added hot water. A sharp, burned
     aroma filled the kitchen when she poured her brew into three dishes. It was black, syrupy, and tasted like medicine. After
     a few moments, Chaloner felt his heart begin to pound, and he set it down half finished. It was too strong, although Temperance
     and Maude did not seem to be affected.
    ‘Are you going to chapel?’ he asked, recalling how Temperance had never missed morning prayers when they had been neighbours.
     ‘Perhaps I can escort you there?’
    She shook her head after Maude, taking the hint, grabbed a basket and muttered something about going to the market for eggs.
     ‘I do not hold with all that any more – I go to St Dunstan’s on Sundays, and that is enough. It