Jack smiled sadly. How could I forget? he thought. That philosophy had kept him going throughout his time in Japan. But with only a picture to go on, what chance did they have of finding his sister in a city the size of London? How could they even be sure she was still in the city and still alive?

Out of the corner of his eye he noticed Rowland edging away. With a snap of his arm, the steel tip of his katana was back at the artist’s throat. ‘You must remember something useful,’ he insisted.

Rowland froze where he stood, the katana poised over his main artery. ‘I-I-I do recall the girl and the old woman talking about going to Stratford-upon-Avon … how she wasn’t happy about it … but had no choice …’

‘Stratford? Are you sure?’ questioned Jack.

Rowland nodded and swallowed nervously. ‘Now, be a good lad, and let me go.’ He offered a grovelling smile. ‘I rightfully should charge you for that unpaid locket … but in light of our, er, discussions here I’m willing to write off the debt …’

Jack lowered his sword once more. Taking that as his cue, Rowland bolted and fled through the backstage curtains. After a moment’s hush, the whole of the audience burst into thunderous applause and shouts of ‘BRAVO! BRAVO!’

Jack gazed in disbelief round the theatre, at the whooping and cheering crowd.

They all thought it was the first act of the play!

‘Stratford?’ Jack pondered as they trailed out of the theatre. ‘What would she be doing in Stratford-upon-Avon?’

Rose shrugged. ‘Only one way to find out.’

‘Is it far?’ asked Akiko.

‘It’ll take us about a week to walk there,’ replied Rose, ‘less if we had horses –’

‘Fletcher! Is that you?’ boomed a voice.

Jack turned to see a portly gentleman with a pointed white beard hurrying out of the theatre after them. He wore a thick padded-velvet doublet and a gold chain round his neck, and a rapier hung loosely at his hip.

‘Sorry, do I know you?’ asked Jack.

‘John, I know it’s been a long time,’ replied the man good-naturedly, waddling over, ‘but surely you haven’t forgotten me?’

Jack smiled politely as the man approached. ‘I think you’re confusing me with my father, John Fletcher, the pilot. I’m Jack Fletcher.’

The gentleman peered closer at Jack’s face. ‘Zounds! Why, I can see that now. My eyesight ain’t what it used to be, but you’re the spitting image of your father!’ He shook Jack firmly by the hand. ‘I’m Sir Henry Wilkes, a good friend of John’s. When did you get back? Is John here too?’ He looked around eagerly.

Jack bowed his head, the weight of grief upon him once more. ‘I’m sorry to say, my father was killed by Japanese wako pirates. By a ninja, in fact.’