The big man filled the doorway of The Smack Inn, blocking out the insistent daylight. ‘Samuel Root?’ he boomed into the gloom.
A wiry little figure leapt up from a table in the depths of the room and scurried forward, hand outstretched. ‘Ned Polley?’ The other grunted. ‘Welcome. How was the journey?’
‘Long. Hard on the arse.’
‘Ale will see to that.’ Root waved and slopping tankards appeared. ‘Parents well?’
‘Mother same as ever. Father won’t see fifty again but good for a few years yet.’
‘Sorry about your uncle.’
‘Took me an age to read your letter.’
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