The cloud had disappeared during the afternoon and the sun was out again, setting now, casting long shadows on the row of apothecaries’ shops. Although Guy had come originally from Spain and qualified as a physician in the great French university of Louvain, his status as a foreigner – a Moor – and a former monk, had meant a long struggle for acceptance as a member of the College of Physicians. Before qualifying, he had practised as an apothecary and, although he now had a large practice and the status of an English denizen and could have moved to a good-sized house, he preferred to stay here; partly because of his old monkish vow of poverty, and because he was getting old and preferred the familiar.

As I dismounted and tied Genesis to the rail outside his house, I reflected that, apart from Guy, all my friends and contacts now were either reformers or people who preferred to keep out of the religious struggles. But I knew there were plenty in London, and many more in the countryside, who would welcome a return to the Catholic church.

Francis Sybrant, the plump, grey-haired man of sixty who served as Guy’s general assistant these days, answered my knock. I liked Francis; he had worked for a neighbouring apothecary and when the man’s business failed last year had come to work for Guy. He was grateful to have found a new berth at his age. A cheerful fellow, he was a good counter to Guy’s habitual melancholy.

‘Master Shardlake.’ He bowed.

‘God give you good evening, Francis. Is Master Guy at home?’

‘In his study. Working with his books as usual of an evening.’ He led me down the narrow hall, knocking gently on the door of Guy’s study. Guy was sitting at his desk, reading his copy of Vesalius, with its gruesome anatomical diagrams, using the light of a candle to compare what was on the page with a human thigh bone he held up. He put it down carefully and stood. ‘Matthew. This is a surprise.’

‘I hope I am not interrupting you.’

‘No. My eyes are getting tired.’ He pinched the bridge of his nose. ‘Francis says I should get spectacles, but I cannot face the thought somehow.’

‘I am sorry I had to leave you so suddenly on Friday. After we – ’ I hesitated – ‘disagreed.’

He smiled sadly. ‘That argument resounds all over England, does it not?’

‘I was not myself that day.’

‘I understand. You still look tired. A glass of hippocras?’

‘That would be welcome. I have been working hard.’

Guy called to Francis, who fetched two mugs of warm spiced wine. I sat looking into mine then said, ‘My old foe Stephen Bealknap is dead. A growth in his guts.’

Guy crossed himself. ‘God pardon him.’