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names like Tanner, or Fisher or Goldsmith after their family trade.
    ‘It is an old family name,’ said the man. ‘But our house and lands were confiscated by Cromwell after the Civil War.’
    The landlord nodded, only half hearing. It was a familiar enough story. Those who had fought on the side of the old King were mostly aristocrats. When Cromwell won he had first beheaded King Charles senior. Then he had rewarded his own followers with the lands and titles of the old aristocratic order who had fought against him.
    The landlord put down a slate for the man to scratch his address and was surprised to see the hand write a local residence. He didn’t know any plague doctors who lived nearby.
    ‘Will you take anything else?’ By now the landlord was willing the guest to depart, although heaven knew he could do with the extra money with the city emptying out by the day.
    In his discomfort the landlord picked up the flagon too quickly, spilling a little beer on the costume.
    ‘Here, I will make amends,’ he said, unthinkingly grabbing for the canvas to prevent the liquid soaking into it further. Thomas grasped for the cloak and as he did so the mask shifted to reveal his face .
    The landlord’s face registered dawning recognition and then horror.
    Their eyes locked, and the landlord felt a surge of fear.
    The doctor clamped the disguise back down again but the landlord had already seen. It was a face he knew well.
    ‘ You .’ As the words sprang unwittingly from his mouth he knew he was a dead man. Whatever the reason for travelling in disguise and under a false name, this man should not want his secret known.
    ‘I did not think you were permitted to practice as a physician,’ gabbled the landlord, fear making his speech into nonsense.
    ‘I am not permitted to do anything much at all.’
    The landlord nodded as he retreated to the further side of the inn. He feigned turning one of the barrels whilst he rummaged for the loaded pistol he kept hidden.
    He heard the scrape of a sword being drawn but he didn’t have time to turn. The heavy butt of the handle splintered the side of his skull, felling him in a single blow.
    Thomas leaned over the twitching body to assure himself the life’s light had gone out of his erstwhile host.
    He returned to his seat on the rough bench and unfurled a map of the City. Then taking a stick of charcoal he made a careful cross on the alehouse where he currently sat.
    The charcoal paused for a moment, as Thomas noted with pleasure the other crosses.
    Pleased with his progress he drew the remaining dish of food towards him. And with a shovelling stoicism, he finished his plate of gizzards.

Chapter Eight
     
    Charlie’s gaze was fixed on the shrouded shape of the corpse. It lay on a plain cot-bed, atop a straw mattress. Blood had leaked through the rust spattered straw, forming a dark pool on the floorboards below.
    The girl’s body had been wrapped in a winding sheet, gathered in a crown of linen at the head. The winding sheet covered almost all of the face, leaving the eyes, set in their slice of death-pale skin, all that was visible of the dead girl’s features.
    Downstairs a door closed, but he hardly heard it.
    His mind had already ticked into thief taker mode and had been framing possibilities as the blood-stained bedroom had come into view.
    The floorboards were poorly fixed and afforded ample sound and light to travel up from below.
    The murderer must have been able to hear the family below, as he worked. Committing the crime with her family downstairs suggested he was brutally callous, as well as calculating.
    Charlie returned his attention to the girl’s remains.
    The dead face lay bloodless and pale. It seemed to be taking up the whole room.
    Two silver groats weighed down her eyes, giving the face an inhuman quality.
    Charlie guessed some mutilation must have been made to the lower face and was now respectfully concealed.
    He took a step nearer the corpse and a choking