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nothing. I could still hear the woman sobbing, but that was all. Couldn’t see the back of the church neither, only a black hole behind the font. I thought about staying there all night, but it was too cold. I stood up straight and made a dash for the door. Ran right into him, didn’t I? Should have heard me shout!’ He paused with his hand on his heart and his mouth wide open as if he were reliving the moment.
    ‘Then what happened?’
    ‘Well, all I could see was the shape of him and that hat. I thought he’d make a grab for me, but he didn’t. He just stood back and opened the door, held it open for me. Couldn’t believe my luck – din’t stop running ’til London Bridge!’
    ‘Folks say you had blood dripping from your hands.’
    Crossing his arms Joyce sat back again. ‘Folks say all sorts of things. That’s all I can tell you. Believe it or not. I don’t hold out much hope for myself, so you can stop looking at me like I’m an idiot fool from Bedlam.’
    It was a fanciful story, yet much to my dismay I recognised it as truth. Dowling too, judging by the look on his face. Joyce looked up at us both sadly. I regretted my harsh words, my selfish joy upon first hearing he was captured. I mumbled a useless farewell and wandered out. Dowling offered him some biblical platitude and was quickly at my side. We looked at each other – nothing to say.
    On the way out we stopped to talk with the gaolers. The one that Dowling had punched sat sullen, staring out from beneath his single black eyebrow with beady little eyes. Dowling attempted to repair the damage by handing over thevast sum of ten shillings in exchange for fire, food, water and a new set of clothes. My ten shillings. Yet we didn’t hold out much hope that he wouldn’t be back down in the stone hold soon as we’d gone.
    Once we were ten paces down the road I took off my coat and held it cautiously to my nose. It stank.
    ‘It is little different to the alehouses you usually frequent.’ Dowling watched me in grim amusement. ‘Small damp rooms full of sinners, bathing in the foul odours of all that is sinful.’
    I glared at him with teeth clamped hard upon my green tongue. Righteousness dripped from the corners of his curt smile. I kept my mouth shut and concentrated on forgiving him.
    Heading back towards Cheapside in a foul temper, this affair was beginning to worm beneath my skin. If Joyce didn’t do it – and my heart said he didn’t – then who did? Looked like I’d have to go to Epsom after all. Then Cocksmouth. Dowling could stay behind and play with his chops.

Chapter Five
    Dioscoridis his Milk-tare
    The short pod of this plant contains the seed which is similar to the shape of a heart that is drawn in love letters!
    No one had invited me to Anne Giles’s funeral, of course, but since she was my cousin I supposed that none would overly object to my appearance, and if she wasn’t my cousin, an assertion which still didn’t feel snug with me, then I could pretend to be simple in the head. I had met plenty of folks whose behaviours I could mimic to that effect these last couple of days.
    It was a long and unpleasant journey and cost two pounds for the privilege. The coach lurched and rocked over frozen ruts and I felt very ill – in need of some Epsom waters! Some men would drive all the way from London to Epsom Common, drink a pot or two from the well and then run off into the bushes to pass a stool. I reckon you can achieve the same effect by drinking two mugs of ale from any tavern on the Southbank. Much quicker, twice as reliable and save you the hell of the journey.
    When at last we got to Epsom we stopped at the King’s Head, a large inn sat in the middle of the high street. Little though I craved being welcomed to the Ormonde bosom, still I felt obliged to have a wash and sprinkle on some more of that lavender oil before showing my face. It was also an opportunity to ask a few questions of the locals about my newly unearthed