A native of Manchester, he was the son of Kenelm Kneebone, a staunch Catholic, and a sergeant of dragoons, who lost his legs and his life while fighting for James the Second at the battle of the Boyne, and who had little to bequeath his son except his laurels and his loyalty to the house of Stuart. He sat with folded arms and knitted brows, thinking intently. The popcorn dwindled to a half a bucket, his heart settled into its normal routine. He rested on one elbow. She infused menace into her voice. Yes—as he would have liked. ‘Aha,’ grunted Gerald with satisfaction, squinting up at the two open shutters on the second floor. Having ascertained that Thames was at his heels, he hurried with his ghastly burthen down Seacoal Lane.
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