‘A door from the street, one big room with tables inside, a serving hatch with the kitchen behind. They serve food as well as drink. There’s a door to a little garden at the rear, with more tables.’

‘There’ll be one to the kitchens too,’ Barak said. ‘Where are they sitting?’

‘At a table in an alcove by the window.’

‘Good,’ Nicholas said. ‘Then we can surround them, cut off any escape.’

Barak nodded approvingly. ‘Well done, boy.’

‘My swordsmanship teacher was a soldier in the French wars in the twenties. He always said, knowing the ground is essential in a fight.’

‘He was right.’

Okedene looked at Barak curiously. ‘You have much knowledge of such matters for a law clerk.’

Barak glanced at me. ‘Wasn’t always a law clerk, was I?’

We arrived at the Bacchus. It was one of the respectable London taverns where travellers stayed, and families of the middling sort sometimes went for weekend meals or celebrations. Through the open shutters we could see two men sitting at a big round table in the window, heads together, deep in conversation. As Okedene had said, they answered Huffkyn’s description exactly. Both wore good clothes, slashed doublets and shirts, lace collars showing. Like Stice at the first attack on Greening, these two had pretended to be poor men when they went out set on murder.

It was a slack time of day, with only a few other people sitting at tables – tradesmen discussing business, by the look of them.

‘Are you sure it’s them?’ I asked Okedene.

‘Huffkyn’s description is etched in my mind.’

Barak said, ‘Did you notice if they have swords?’

‘I didn’t see. I didn’t like to watch too long. They could have them under the table.’

‘They’re wearing gentlemen’s clothes,’ Nicholas said. ‘They’re entitled to carry swords.’

Barak looked at him seriously. ‘Then you may need to use yours, Nicky boy. And these fellows may dress well now, but they won’t act like young gentlemen in combat. You ready?’

‘Ready and able,’ he answered haughtily.

‘I doubt the clientele will interfere,’ Barak said. ‘They’ll all be scared shitless.’

I took a deep breath, fingering the knife at my belt. ‘Come on, then.’

WE STEPPED OVER THE THRESHOLD, into a smell of beer and pottage. One or two people glanced at my lawyer’s robe, which I had kept on to lend our group an air of authority. We walked straight to the table where the two young men sat in the alcove, still talking intently. My heart pounded. Both, I saw, indeed had swords in their scabbards, lying on the benches beside them. As we approached I thought I heard the bald man mention the name Bertano.