Spinning round, Jack followed the line of her finger to a tall man with a thin face, pinched mouth and a large white ruff round his scrawny neck. A bright red ostrich feather stuck out proudly from the front of his black velvet hat. He had a dandyish air about him and held a lace handkerchief to his nose. Ignoring the mutterings and complaints of his fellow groundlings, Jack barged his way to the front row, his friends trailing in his wake.

‘Mr Bodley?’ he asked hopefully.

‘Yes,’ replied the man in a high shrill voice. ‘And who might be enquiring?’

‘Jack Fletcher. I believe you’re an apprentice of Nicholas Holme.’

‘Was,’ replied Rowland Bodley, peering down his long nose at Jack, ‘but I’m now an artist in my own right.’

‘Why, of course,’ said Jack, sensing the man’s obvious pride. ‘That’s the very reason I wish to seek your opinion on this …’

His ego flattered, Rowland condescended to look at the locket in Jack’s hand. His eyes widened in both recognition and what appeared to be … alarm. ‘Who sent you?’ he demanded.

‘No one sent us, but Nathan Holme told us where you might be,’ replied Jack.

Rowland glanced down at the swords on Jack’s hip, then smiled nervously at him. ‘Oh, look!’ he cried. ‘The play’s about to start.’ As soon as Jack turned his head, Rowland bolted and disappeared into the crowd.

15: Confession

‘Where did he go?’ shouted Jack, looking round the theatre pit in fury.

Rose pointed to the tip of a red feather weaving its way through the crush of spectators. ‘He’s heading for the main door!’

‘I’ll stop him,’ said Akiko. Nimbly mounting the stage in spite of her two petticoats, she sprinted to the edge and leapt for the nearest gallery. There was a gasp of amazement from the audience as she flew through the air and caught hold of the upper gallery’s balustrade. Then she dropped down on to the lower gallery’s rail and, with the agility of an acrobat, ran round its circumference to the theatre’s entrance.

Fighting his way against the tide of incoming theatre-goers, Rowland spotted Akiko and, realizing that she’d get there first, turned on his heel and headed in the opposite direction. Jack could see the red feather bobbing along as the artist zigzagged across the pit like a pheasant fleeing the huntsman.

Jack pushed through the crowd, shouldering people aside in an effort to cut the man off. Not looking where he was going, he bounced off a prodigious beer belly.

‘Oi! Watch it!’ growled its heavily bearded owner as ale slopped from his bottle.