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the corpse door in the far transept opened. A figure stood against the light, a fearsome spectre, his cloak fanning out like the wings of a bat.
    ‘Who are you?’ Roseblood caught his breath. Something about this stranger frightened him, as if he exuded a miasma of fear.
    ‘Amadeus Sevigny. Clerk and henchman of His Grace, Richard, Duke of York, special envoy to Sir Philip Malpas, sheriff of London, now his adviser on certain, how shall I say, delicate issues.’ Sevigny approached and extended a hand. Roseblood did not grasp it; he just raised his own as if in greeting and let it drop.
    ‘As you wish,’ Sevigny murmured. He jabbed a finger, ‘You sir, must be Master Simon Roseblood, alderman.’ He waved a hand. ‘Et cetera, et cetera. And you have just signalled to your constant shadow, the deaf-mute Ignacio, not to do anything foolish, which makes me think that both of you are wise men.’ He paused as the corpse door opened and a small, fat-faced man waddled into the nave. ‘This,’ Sevigny didn’t even turn, ‘is Walter Ramler, city official and personal scribe to Sir Philip Malpas.’
    ‘I know who he is,’ Roseblood retorted. He was wary of Sevigny. A raven, he concluded, darkly garbed, be it his boots, hose, padded doublet or cloak; the only relief was the collar and cuffs of the white cambric shirt beneath. Sevigny’s face was saturnine, sallow and lean, his black hair closely cropped. He was tall, slender and wiry. A handsome man, though his full lips seemed ready to sneer and those clever eyes eager to mock.
    ‘Ignacio is here, Master Roseblood?’
    ‘Very close.’
    ‘Italian, is he not?’
    ‘Castilian. Captured as a child by the Moors, trained as a Janissary. Rescued by me when—’
    ‘The late but not so lamented Duke of Somerset’s war cog intercepted a galley near the Pillars of Hercules, close to the entrance to the Middle Seas. He was chained, was he not? The galley was capsizing; you were on its fighting platform. You could not bear to see a chained man drown.’
    ‘He pleaded with his eyes,’ Roseblood answered. ‘You seem to know a great deal about me.’
    ‘Oh, I do, I do.’ Sevigny peeled off his leather gloves.
    ‘And your business?’
    ‘In a while, Master Roseblood, though I suspect you already suspect why I am here, which makes us all highly suspicious. Oh, by the way, I must inform you: like your good self and Master Ignacio, I know the sign language you learnt from the Carthusians, that unspoken tongue they use during their Magnum Silentium, the Great Silence.’ Sevigny was now so close, Roseblood could smell the clerk’s fragrant perfume whilst also noting the healed scars on that clever face.
    ‘A good cook, Ignacio.’ Sevigny raised his eyebrows. ‘Or so I understand. He buys well. He can tell an ancient hen or pheasant by its sunken eyes or the stink of its beak. A clean cook, who insists the spit be regularly scrubbed with sand and water. His speciality is a chine of beef or a fresh young capon—’
    ‘Master Sevigny, why are you here?’
    ‘The Chantry Chapel of the Doom? The place where your late departed brother—’
    ‘Murdered brother!’
    ‘Where your late brother lies buried.’ Sevigny spread his hands. ‘I would like to pay my respects.’
    Roseblood stared at this sinister clerk, then led him into the darkness. He paused and stared down the nave, glimpsing a shadow deeper than the rest close to the baptismal font. Ignacio was watching. Roseblood nodded at Ramler, the scribe, and led Sevigny towards the side chapel that had been transformed into a chantry dedicated to his dead brother’s memory. Here, behind the ornately sculpted gleaming oak screen, with its carved bosses and geometric shapes, mass was offered for the repose of the soul of Edmund Roseblood, a daily occurrence just before the Angelus bell tolled.
    Roseblood pushed open the heavy elm-wood door. The chapel inside was an island of peace and light, the air fragrant with the