‘I saw them.’ He had already clapped a hand to his purse, grasping his sword hilt with the other. We looked directly at the children and, realizing we had guessed their intent, they ran off to one side instead of crowding round us. One shouted, ‘Crookback devil!’, another, ‘Carrot-head clerk!’ At that Nicholas turned and took a step towards them. I put a hand on his arm. He shook his head and said sadly, ‘People were right to warn me; London is a wild sea, full of dangerous rocks.’

‘That it is. In more ways than one. When I first came to London I, too, had to learn things for myself. I am not sure I have ever got used to the city; I sometimes dream of retiring to the country, but distractions will keep coming.’ I looked at him. ‘One thing I should tell you. The murdered man and his friends were religious radicals. I take it dealing with such people will not be a problem for you.’

‘I worship only as the King requires,’ Nicholas said, repeating the formula of those who would be safe. He looked at me. ‘In such matters I wish only to be left in peace.’

‘Good,’ I said. ‘Now, turn up here, we are going to visit the constable first, in Ave Maria Lane.’

AVE MARIA LANE was a long narrow street of three-storey buildings, a muddle of shops, houses and tenements, all with overhanging eaves. I noticed a couple of booksellers’ shops, their publications laid out on a table in front, watched over by blue-coated apprentices with wooden clubs to deter thieves. Most of the books were aimed at the upper end of the market – Latin classics and French works – but among them there was also a copy of Becon’s new Christian State of Matrimony, which urged women to quiet and obedience. Had it not been so expensive I might have bought a copy for Barak as a jest; Tamasin would throw it at his head. I wished I had not had to dissemble with him earlier.

‘The constable is called Edward Fletcher,’ I told Nicholas. ‘He lives at the sign of the Red Dragon. Look, there it is. If he is not at home we shall have to try and find him about his business.’

The door was answered by a servant, who told us Master Fletcher was in and ushered us into a little parlour, with a desk and chairs all heaped with papers. Behind the desk sat a thin man of about fifty in the red doublet and cap of a city constable. He looked tired, on edge. I recognized him; he had been one of the constables who carried the faggots to the fires the day before.

‘God give you good morrow, Master Fletcher,’ I said.

‘And you, sir.’ He spoke deferentially, impressed no doubt by my robe. He stood and bowed. ‘How may I help you?’