‘You what?’ said Nicholas. ‘Mr Punch? I think you must have had one too many. Get thee to a lushery. ’

‘You wanted my help last night,’ I said.

‘Did I?’ asked Nicholas. ‘But that would make me a blower and a slag, and ain’t nobody ever said that Nicholas Wallpenny ever put the jack on a cove, lest he get a visit from the punishers.’ He gave me a significant look. A ‘blower’ was old London slang for an informer, and ‘punishers’ were likewise slang for men hired to beat people up – presumably for ‘blowing’.

‘That’s a relief,’ I said. ‘How’s … death treating you?’

‘Fair enough,’ said Nicholas. ‘Can’t complain. Certainly a lot less crowded than it once was. This being the Actor’s Church and all, we’re never short of an evening’s entertainment. We’ve even had the occasional guest artiste for our further edification. We had that famous Henry Pyke – that’s Pyke with a Y – mind you, he’s very particular. He’s popular with the ladies on account of his long nose.’

I didn’t like the way Nicholas looked; tense, nervous and as if he would be sweating if he could still sweat. I considered backing off, but the cruel fact is that informants, dead or alive, are there to be used if necessary.

‘This … Henry Pyke, is he planning a long run?’ I asked.

‘Best to say that he’s bought the theatre,’ said Nicholas.

‘Sounds good,’ I said. ‘Any chance of me catching a show?’

‘Well, Constable, I wouldn’t be so damned keen to get on the bill if I was you,’ said Nicholas. ‘Mr Pyke can be strangely hard on his co-stars, and I daresay he’s got a role in mind for you.’

‘Still, I wouldn’t mind getting to meet …’ I said, but suddenly Nicholas was gone.

The pentagram was empty, with just my werelight burning at its centre. Before I could snuff it out I felt something grab me by the head and try to drag me bodily into the pentagram. I panicked, pulling and twisting frantically to try and escape. Nightingale had been emphatic about not stepping into the pentagram, and I had no intention of finding out why. I yanked my head back, but I felt my heels scrape in the turf as I was dragged forward – towards the pentagram. Then I saw it. Below my own werelight, in the centre of the pentagram, was a dark shadow like the mouth of a pit dug into the earth. I could see the roots of the grass and the worms frantically trying to burrow back into the sides, the layers of topsoil and London clay fading into the darkness.