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himself wondering how the hulking body fitted beneath. It was as though a monster had come to dine.
    The landlord watched in undisguised revulsion as the cloaked man forced down his third plate of gizzards. He didn’t seem to have the usual manners of the physician class. Despite his huge frame, the man attacked the food as though he were starved. He had already devoured the remains of a rabbit stew and a joint of meat which had been expected to last the week, along with two bottles of cheap Canary wine.
    The landlord had wanted to deny him entry but by law he was obliged to serve plague doctors. So he kept as far as possible from the monstrous guest, lest he breathe infected air. Besides, his alehouse was completely empty. He supposed he should be grateful for the custom.
    Working the tavern the landlord had become an expert in gauging background. As more food disappeared down the gullet of his ravenous customer the more convinced he became that the man was not of a medical kind. Perhaps he had stolen or bought the costume to earn money from unsuspecting dupes.
    And there was something . . . unwholesome about the way this man forced down plate after plate of food. As though he were feeding some demon as opposed to a grumbling stomach. The act of eating had greased the small exposed portion of his lower face with whitish sweat. And in his haste to despatch the gizzards he had missed his thick lips, smearing a daub of bloody entrails on the mask .
    The landlord suppressed an involuntary shudder and forced himself to pick up a flagon and approach the visitor.
    ‘Small beer?’ he hovered uncertainly.
    His attentions were rewarded with the wave of a bloated glove, strained to bursting point with its load of fat fingers. As he moved closer to the figure he noticed there was something unexpectedly solid about the shape. From the size of him the landlord had imagined rolls of fat, but now he was closer he could see the bull-like neck was muscular. There was a smell too. A strong musky scent emanating from the body which the man had evidently tried to mask with lavender. But instead of disguising the odour the cloying floral acted as a conduit, throwing the hot stench wider from the perspiring body. Turning his head away the landlord leaned in and filled the tankard.
    ‘Do you treat plague nearby?’ he asked.
    The head shook, but the mouth kept chewing.
    ‘These are dreadful times indeed,’ said the landlord conversation ally. ‘For nothing that is done in the city can seem to stem the tide.’
    The monster said nothing.
    ‘You must be right hungry,’ tried the landlord with a little high laugh, gesturing to the pile of empty plates. This time the iron mask swung so that the glittering crystal eyes were full on his face.
    ‘Before Cromwell won the Civil War I was a soldier,’ came the voice in a rumbling growl. ‘They held us under siege for three long months and we starved to yellow skeletons. Since the horrors of that time I have a healthy appetite.’
    The landlord swallowed, wishing he hadn’t raised the issue. He had heard enough tales of Civil War atrocities to last a lifetime.
    ‘Shall I take these for now or should I take a name and charge you later?’ He pointed to the empty plates.
    ‘How much?’ The response was grunting, begrudging.
    ‘Six shillings,’ said the landlord. It was the most he’d charged for a single guest’s meal in quite some time.
    ‘I will pay half now. Send for the rest.’
    The doctor withdrew a fat purse but to the landlord’s dismay it was only filled with small coins. This did not bode well for extending credit. Three shillings in groats were counted out in neat rows and the mask turned up expectantly.
    ‘What name?’ asked the landlord, extending his arm to pull the money towards him whilst keeping as far as possible from the plague doctor.
    ‘Thomas Malvern.’
    ‘That is your name?’ The landlord was confused. It sounded like an aristocrat’s surname. Commoners had