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the cobbles. For a while I stood and cursed, screaming at the landlord to open up. At last he replied, flinging open a window and spilling out the dirty contents of a nightjar which narrowly escaped me.
    'Be gone!' he cursed. 'You're infected yourself. You'll find all your possessions there!'
    I called him Satan's spawn and every other filthy name I could muster. At last, exhausted, I opened the chest. I took out my saddlebags and headed for the reeking alleyways and runnels of Whitefriars to seek out Dr Quicksilver.
    I found him in his shabby tenement on the corner of Stinking Lane. He was just sitting down to sup. He greeted me as if I was the prodigal son and he the loving father.
    "Roger, Roger, come and dine with me.' He took my saddlebags from my shoulder, weighing them carefully in his hands. 'More medicines, Roger, for the great Dr Mirabilis’
    'It's because of Dr Mirabilis,' I snapped back, that I’m in London! The Great Mouth found me out: I need lodgings.'
    Quicksilver put my saddlebags down and spread his hands. ‘Roger, this is your home. All that I have is thine.' Aye,' I replied, 'and all I have is mine!'
    Quicksilver smiled. 'Come, come, Roger.' He peered at me. 'Why lodgings here?' The city is rotting,' I replied. Ah yes, the sweating sickness.'
    Quicksilver's eyes wandered back to my saddlebags. He broke a piece of chicken he was eating and pushed it across the table. He then gave me a battered cup from a shelf, filled it with wine and insisted we finish our meal. I told him about the Poppletons, my journey to Swaffham, then the sights I had seen travelling around London.
    The whole world has gone mad,' Quicksilver retorted. 'Our elixirs and potions have no effect on the sweating sickness. All we can do, Roger, is eat, drink and be merry'
    I studied that seamed, cunning face, those wisps of hair, those eyes reeking of wickedness, the black soiled doublet and cloak. I gazed round the shabby parlour. There were shelves on the walls, one bore pewter cups and plates, the other a row of skulls. Quicksilver followed my gaze.
    They all died at Tyburn,' he declared. 'It gives my little domain a certain aura, an atmosphere.'
    I saw a rat peep out from beneath the broken wainscoting and was forced to agree. The rest of the parlour was taken up with tawdry chests, trunks and coffers. A table stood in one corner, covered with scraps of greasy parchment, but there were no tapestries or hangings against the wall. The stone floor was bare and looked as if it had not been cleaned or scrubbed for months.
    After the meal, Quicksilver took me on a tour of his domain. Along dank passageways and up rickety, twisting stairs. The place reeked of death and decay. Shabby, dirty rooms, beds covered with filthy coverlets and sheets. I was given a chamber on the second floor; the bolster was dirty, the drapes round the bed tattered, and the blankets moth-eaten and stained. There was no glass in the windows. These were simply covered by cracked boards, though there was a chest for my belongings, a table and stool, a nightjar and a thick yellow tallow candle fixed in an iron spigot. Now I should have been grateful, but instead I became uneasy. A slight jolting of Shallot's stomach, a pricking at the back of the neck. I gazed over my shoulder at Quicksilver standing near the door. His face looked yellow and more skeletal. I abruptly realised he was not one of those jolly rogues, but a man I hardly knew. I recalled the stories about him: whispers that he was a warlock, a lord of the shadows, a wizard who had renounced Christ and dabbled in the black arts. He must have caught my unease. He gave me that death's-head grin and invited me back to the parlour, to share what he called the best flagon of wine out of Bordeaux.
    He was right, the wine was delicious, and the more Quicksilver drank, the more loquacious he became: jovial and filling my cup at every opportunity. Oh, how he babbled!
    'I have seen the days,' he declared, cradling his