Harold listened attentively as Yori told him of the Six Perfections of Generosity, Virtue, Patience, Diligence, Contemplation and Wisdom. Harold glanced at Jack. ‘And there I was thinking England was the font of all knowledge!’ He let out a good-natured laugh. ‘So what’s your story, Jack? How come you’ve been to the Japans?’

‘You’re certainly full of questions,’ said Jack, becoming mindful of Sir Henry’s warning not to trust anyone on the road.

Harold gave a nonchalant shrug. ‘Well, he who asks a question is a fool for a minute; he who does not remains a fool forever. Isn’t that right, Yori?’

Yori nodded approvingly at such wise words. Harold took a sip from his pewter wine goblet, then, sensing Jack’s reluctance to open up, jutted his chin in the direction of the richly dressed couple in their own private booth. ‘There appear to be a lot of fine people on the road this evening. That’s Lord Robert Percival and his wife, Lady Catherine, don’t you know.’

Jack glanced over at the silver-haired man and his elegant wife, who was younger than her husband. ‘I’ve never heard of them,’ he said.

Harold’s mouth fell open in shock at this admission. ‘Lord Robert Percival’s a member of the Privy Council – a very important man, an adviser to the King himself!’

Jack studied the elderly man again. Attired in red velvet robes and seated ramrod straight in his booth, Lord Percival certainly carried an air of authority as he talked with his wife; the two manservants hovering close by at his beck and call.

Harold leant in and whispered, ‘Lady Catherine is … French.’ He took another swig from his wine goblet and sat back. ‘I presume you’ve ridden up from London today? I bet you’re glad to be out of the city, what with those plague doctors wreaking havoc!’

Jack looked up suddenly at Harold. ‘What are you talking about? What plague doctors?’

Putting aside his goblet, Harold lowered his voice once more, his expression turning grave. ‘You ain’t heard? It’s as if the four horsemen of the Apocalypse have descended. They appear only at night – dark as shadows – leaving death in their wake.’

Jack felt a chill run through him. Plague doctors conjured up nightmarish images in his head, but it was Harold’s mention of shadows that really troubled him.

‘Yet it’s not the plague that kills,’ Harold went on. ‘It’s the doctors themselves. I heard some poor soul was found with his right eye pierced straight through with a red ostrich feather after they visited him!’

Jack’s mouth went dry as a bone. The victim could only be one person – Rowland Bodley.