‘In fact, the Anabaptists were besieged in Münster, the Protestant Prince allying with Catholic forces to take the city. That was the real cause of the bloodshed. Though I have heard that yes, the Anabaptists’ rule inside the city had become violent. But afterwards most of them renounced violence. They were run out of Germany and Flanders, too; a few from Flanders came here across the North Sea. The King burned those he could find.’

‘But there could still be others?’

‘So it is said. If they exist they have been forced underground as the Lollards were. Anyone with a Dutch name is looked at askance these days.’

‘Like that friend of Greening’s the constable mentioned? Vandersteyn?’

‘Yes.’

Nicholas’s brow furrowed. ‘So the Anabaptists have renounced violence, but not the belief that rulers must be put down?’

‘So it is said.’

‘Then they remain a great danger,’ he said seriously.

‘They are a useful bogey.’ I looked at Nicholas. ‘Well, now you have seen what a murder enquiry begins to look like. It is seldom an easy thing to investigate, nor safe.’

He smiled. ‘I am not afraid.’

I grunted. ‘Fear keeps you on your toes. Remember that.’

ALL THE SHOPS and printworks in Paternoster Row had little signs outside: an angel, a golden ball, a red cockerel. The sign of the White Lion, crudely painted on a board, hung outside a one-storey wooden building which was made to seem all the poorer by the fine-looking house which stood next to it. That must be the neighbour, Okedene’s. I used the key to open the padlock the constable had fixed to the splintered door, and pushed it open. It was dim within. There was a second door at the side of the shed, with a key in the lock, and I got Nicholas to open it. It gave onto a weed-strewn patch of ground. I looked round the shed. The single room was dominated by a large printing press in the centre, the press itself raised on its screw, the tray of paper empty. Nailed to the walls, cheap shelves held paper, ink and solutions in bottles, and blocks of type in boxes. A harsh smell permeated the place.

In one corner was a pile of printed pages, and others had been hung on lines to dry. I looked at the top page: A Goodly French Primer. I glanced at the pages hanging to dry: Je suis un gentilhomme de l’Angleterre. J’habite à Londres . . . I remembered such stuff from my schooldays. Greening had been printing a schoolbook for children. There was a straw bed in a corner, a blanket and pillow. Beside the bed was a knife and plate with some stale bread and mouldy cheese. Greening’s last meal.