‘Kind sir, if you will assist me, I should be most grateful,’ I say, for I know how court men talk, and it is a steady game of good manners and pretended humbleness, but always with the courage of your convictions. ‘I can tell that seeing me here, before your very eyes, is a shock to you. But trust me, sir, waking up in my own coffin came as an even bigger shock to me and I am forced to throw myself at your mercy. I was indeed hanged this morning, in accordance with the law, and I make no complaint about that. But as you can see, I remain alive and what happens next is a matter not for you or I, but for the sheriffs.’

He stares at me with no emotion, so I continue. ‘I think it is imperative a physician is brought to check my health, for I have not eaten since my last meal yesterday, which I could barely manage, sir, but I make no complaint about that either, only to ask that the physician comes quite swiftly and perhaps I am offered a cup of clean water and mibbie a rum to revive me – whisky if you have no rum. Oh, and a bit of meat too. And to ask that the sheriffs are summoned from their victuals at the White Hart Inn, sooner rather than later, to make comment on this predicament I have been left in.’

The man is frowning now, but listening, quite intently. I take another deep breath and talk through the burning hoarseness in my throat. ‘You see, aside from my own discomfort at not knowing what is what, my poor family outside do not know what to do with themselves: mourn or celebrate. And I am afeared that if they carry on standing out there, it is only a matter of time before they are noticed, and the balladeers and newspaper men get to hear about my revival and come rushing to this courthouse with their quills, asking my family all sorts of questions. And that would not reflect well on anyone.’

For a lass with a near-broken neck, it is quite the speech, but I want a swift decision from the sheriffs. And for good reason: they will have been eating their veal collops and mussels, and drinking their wine, since the hour before my drop, as they are renowned to do on a Hanging Day. The White Hart Inn is near the gallows and the first-floor private room affords a fine view, with no danger of mixing with the unwashed. And as it’s now near three of the clock and the sheriffs opened their first bottle at eight, they will be drunk.

And that means I might just have the upper hand in arguing my case with them.