Nathaniel Crabtree

Nathaniel Crabtree is 41 and writes down, hour by hour, who comes in and out of one of the most heavily guarded fortresses in the kingdom. Born in Deptford, the son of a caulker and a fishwife, his face scarred by smallpox at 6, he enlisted at 18 in the king's guard. For twelve years he has been at the gate and considers the entry book the only document worth more than an oath.

He lives in a two-room house in Southwark, across the river, on a street of mud and low roofs. In the kitchen there is a small hearth, a pot always on the fire and a pewter plate at the center of the table. The red guard's coat hangs behind the door, brushed every night, and the ink of the household account book is the same as the gate quill's. He sleeps little, eats fast and grumbles on rainy days.

He is robust, with a red, pockmarked face, small tired eyes and a poorly trimmed brown beard. He wears the red coat with brass buttons and the black band, the wide-brimmed hat, and carries the ring of big keys on his belt, which bumps his thigh at every step. He is grumpy, proud of his post, and speaks of regulations as if he had written them, always with a raised finger.

About his post, he says he has been at the gate for twelve years and that whoever enters or leaves passes through his quill, hour by hour. About the jewel room, he says old Fothergill's key hangs from his neck and that his daughter carries a spare in her apron pocket, to clean the velvet, which he always thought imprudent. He insists the book is complete and that the gate, in twelve years, has never been in a thief's hands.

Nathaniel knows the guard who writes the book is best placed to erase a line. When the detective says he let the thieves through for a coin, he taps a finger against the black band on his coat, his voice thickens and he orders him to take back what he said. The pride of a soldier who thinks himself honest to a fault, or an offense voiced early so as not to hear the rest: the finger taps to the same rhythm.