Chapter ElevenThe mist returned that afternoon, thickening as it ghosted in from the Channel until by night-time it was a real pea-souper and our customers came in hunched and dripping, to take off their hats and beat them dry against the flanks of their coats or the legs of their breeches and complain about the weather. Of course after enduring the fog they needed something to fortify them and my mother was always willing to oblige.
There were a dozen men and not many less women clustered in the tap room when Mr Howard entered and not a single one stopped to even offer him a nod. Well, I knew he was a Frenchman and therefore an enemy of our blood and as such should be hanged or shot or otherwise disposed of, but that was no excuse for downright rudeness.
'Good evening Mr Howard,' I call
