"Fortunately or unfortunately," replied Lady Brayle, taking up a handbag from the chest of drawers, "no. I am driving tonight to visit some friends at Priory Hill, and I shall not return until the afternoon. Then there will be the fair."
"The fair?"
"Has Jennifer told you nothing of the fair?"
Martin drew his hand down over his face. "She did say something…"
"Among my records," Lady Brayle informed him triumphantly, "there is a document dated 1662. By permission of the King, an annual fair may be held within the park of Brayle Manor.
The town-council," she shook her shoulders, "have opposed this project I have informed them that I will sue them for five thousand pounds if one of their representatives sets foot inside the park.
"Cromwell, by which I mean the vile Oliver, sought to suppress these fine old wholesome English customs. Doubtless there will be grinning-matches through horse-collars, and quarterstaff bouts; perhaps even a Maypole."
Lady Brayle, having reached the door, spoke as though she were addressing a public meeting. Then her face seemed to close up; to retreat
"Now," she said, "you must excuse me. My friends at Priory Hill wish to hear the details of a — of a most unpleasant affair at Pentecost Prison this morning."
"The bell!" exclaimed Martin.