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– too dangerous, as I am sure you agree – but I do have some items of value, one in particular, which I could sell you for a promissory note. In the case of one item, a silver jug, I know someone who wants it for their collection and who has often made me an offer for it. If we were to take it to them tonight … well, they may have that kind of money to hand.’ There was a tiny chuckle from above the candlelight. ‘Not everyone is as prudent as we are, eh, Sir Avery?’
    ‘If you could arrange it, Master …?’ Sir Avery waited but there was no reply. ‘If you could arrange it, that would be wonderful. And the promissory note?’
    ‘Will come due in one hundred days. Time enough for you to get some rents in, that kind of thing.’
    The Knight of the Shire closed his eyes and appeared to be adding on his fingers. His host sighed; with arithmetical prowess at this low level, no wonder he was knocking on dubious doors at midnight and past.
    ‘Well?’ How long could a simple calculation take?
    ‘That is acceptable,’ the man said, with a sigh. ‘That takes us past the next quarter day and I will be able to repay you then. I am so grateful to you, Master …?’ But again, there was silence. ‘I will write the note right now. Oh, before I do, may I see the merchandise that is worth forty pounds?’
    ‘Well, thirty-five pounds, shall we say. A man must live, Sir Avery. I will fetch it while you write the note,’ the man said. ‘Oh, don’t worry. You needn’t sign until you have seen it.’ He indicated parchment and ink on the desk. ‘You know the wording, I expect.’ He pre-empted the next question. ‘And just leave a space for my name. I will fill it in later.’ Leaving the candle behind, he left the room.
    Left on his own, Sir Avery dipped the quill in the ink and began to write: ‘
I, Sir Avery Ambrose, promise to pay
–’ he left a long space, not knowing what name might have to fit in it – ‘
the sum of forty pounds, not more than one hundred days from the date below
.’ He waited for the merchandise to be brought in before signing. He may be profligate, but he wasn’t born yesterday.
    His host returned on silent feet, carrying a silver jug, with gargoyle heads at each corner and some rather unsettling engravings on its sides. He looked for long enough to establish its quality, then said, ‘It’s an ugly great thing, isn’t it? Who would want to buy it for forty pounds?’
    ‘Er … thirty-five, but I see your point. But fortunately for you, one man’s ugly old jug is another man’s prized possession. Have you signed?’ Sir Avery shook his head. ‘Do so, I beg of you. Or it will be too late. Even I baulk at knocking people up at gone one in the morning. London is crawling with footpads, you know.’
    The man signed, dated and added his address to the note, which the moneylender snatched as soon as he lifted the quill and locked away in a drawer of the desk. In his absence to fetch the jug he had added stockings, shoes and a doublet to the shirt and breeches and now he reached down a cloak from behind the door, pulling the hood well down before he turned again to the beleaguered borrower. He tucked the jug under his arm.
    ‘Shall we?’ he said, ushering the man out with a flourish. ‘It isn’t far.’
    On the brisk walk through streets which still saw the occasional passerby, both men kept to the shadows, one through prudence, one through shame. There was no conversation; what was there to say? After a few twists and turns which Sir Avery could have never reproduced, they arrived at a house in a row, all of which had seen better days. The moneylender rapped on the door, in what seemed like a random pattern but which was in fact a complex code. After a pause, the door creaked open just a hairsbreadth.
    ‘Yes?’
    It was hard to identify, but to Sir Avery it sounded like a woman. Surely, this transaction would be a man’s work. His companion put his mouth to the crack and whispered